Author's Note: The following drabbles were my submissions for the Last Drabble Writer Standing: Tropes competition. Each week had a specific trope and maximum word count. I hope you enjoy!
Week 1: Muggle AU - 350 words
He didn't know where he was going.
Draco Malfoy had never been particularly fond of London. The noise played havoc with his careful sensibilities, there were too many tourists, and the streets crawled with disorder that frayed the edges of his patience. More so, he hated the underground, and typically only deigned to board one of the blasted, unhygienic-as-hell tubes when he didn't have the option of a car and driver.
Today, he cared only that it wasn't Wiltshire.
The white walls of the manor, closing in on him, asphyxiating, too much and too little all at once.
His mind had spiraled for hours on end; all he could hear was the judge's sentence at his father's trial, a resounding echo in the back of his mind. Guilty.
Years spent at odds with his father; now it all felt inconsequential.
The steady hum of the subway, its persistent rattle as it roared along the tracks, was soothing in a way he couldn't comprehend. He slouched in his seat, head in hand, elbow propped against the interior wall.
A girl sat across the compartment, a tattered paperback clutched in her hands as her eyes darted side to side, fixated, enraptured.
She was unconventionally pretty, face encompassed by a mass of chaotic curls frazzled from the afternoon's showers, intense focus on her brow.
Twice, her gaze flickered towards him. And in those large, dark eyes, he caught a spark of warmth, of life that he almost didn't recognise anymore. She gave him a mild, consolatory sort of smile; not unkind, but of the brand offered to a stranger down on their luck.
Draco bristled at the thought.
But then a laugh burst from her lips at whatever she had read, and her unreserved mirth drew Draco's attention.
Her smile softened, self-deprecating, secretive as she caught his eye. He wondered how it must feel, to express oneself so freely.
Heart racing, he swallowed his pride, gathered the shrapnel that remained of his courage, and with a mingled fluttering of nerves and hope in his chest, asked, "What are you reading?"
Week 2: Fake Dating - 400 words
6:17 pm. Cocktail hour.
Sipping a gin martini, hold the martini, Theo bites his tongue for the twelfth time in the past half hour, feeling very much like the convoluted babysitter of two individuals who are at once profusely stubborn and old enough to know better. The tension is so thick he could drown himself in it―and a part of him thinks he might try.
When Draco and Hermione announced they were dating, he'd laughed. At their identical blank stares, he'd released a string of curses.
Now, Theo's the only one who doesn't believe their false smiles spread throughout a room full of stuffy Ministry types. But Hermione has too much reputation to gain and, Draco, too much to lose. So they've attended together. The urge niggles again to tell them to justbangalready.
7:49 pm. Alsace Riesling, 1995.
An excellent vintage. Not that anyone would know, because Theo's consumed most of the table's share. The tension between Draco and Hermione on their inaugural "date" threatens the lives of everyone within the blast radius, and Theo feels sympathy for those who will be caught unawares.
"Pass the salt," requests Draco.
Hermione folds her arms and sniffs, "You've got long arms."
"For fuck's sake," Theo huffs, and slams the shaker down between them.
9:25 pm. Ogden's.
The whisky's smooth but not nearly enough to block out the full-on bickering. Theo's frequent and exaggerated sighs of impatience haven't been enough to quell the unrest, and he wonders if they realise they aren't doing themselves―or their attempts to garner good press―any favours.
"If you could just walk faster," Draco's saying, waving a hand in frustration.
"I'm sorry," hisses Hermione in return, "some of us aren't twelve feet tall and in a perpetual bloody rush!"
Theo wonders why he's still bothering with them―but he feeds on the drama and doesn't want to miss the imminent chaos.
10:53 pm. Some sort of cocktail.
"Here's an idea," Theo announces, cringing at his sickeningly sweet beverage, "if you want people to believe you're happy and in love, you could try dancing."
Draco and Hermione stare at one another with lust or irritation―probably both―and, begrudgingly, they vanish.
11:36 pm. Ale?
Last Theo saw, Hermione was dragging Draco towards an alcove by his tie, his mouth latched onto her neck.
Thank Merlin. Theo sighs in relief and clinks his two drinks together.
12:17 am. Tequila.
Fuck it. He's earned this.
Week 3: One Bed - 450 words
This wasn't what Draco had envisioned when Granger offered him a place to sleep.
It wasn't the first time the rest of the eighth years had gone overboard with the spiked punch in the Heads' common room. Nor was it the first time anyone had commandeered his private dorm for their own purposes.
But Draco had always been an opportunist. So the idea of sharing Granger's bed―given the way they had steadily shifted towards something he felt in his bones through the year―had been too enticing to pass up.
He had not expected a third wheel.
A large orange, fluffy, judgemental third wheel.
Granger's cat sat perched on the pillow beside his head, its squashed face scowling, unblinking, irritable.
"So," he hedged into the silence as Granger prepared for sleep and slipped into the other side of the bed. This might have been a memorable night, the next step of his efforts to get to know the witch better, but yet... "Does your cat always sleep... right here?"
Draco swiped at a cat hair that clung to his eyelashes.
She tittered. "Crooks can be a bit of a pain―sorry about that. He's a little protective."
Protective wasn't the descriptor he would have used.
The cat was so large and intrusive Draco could scarcely see around him to Granger on the other side, even despite her wild hair, and when she killed the lights with a wave of her wand, he tried to determine a course of action. He didn't think he had made up the mutual interest growing between them, but all at once, doubt began to creep in. Maybe he had misread the offer after all.
"Good party," he said into the quiet.
"It was. No surprise Blaise got half the room drunk again." Granger rolled towards him, the sheets rustling, and her knee briefly grazed his own. His heart leapt at the innocuous contact.
Still, her cat glared at him; Draco wasn't certain it was even blinking.
"Not at all," he returned, fixing his gaze on the ceiling. "Thanks for the place to sleep."
"Of course."
At his side, Granger's presence was visceral, and his heart pounded, every nerve flaring with awareness. He considered initiating some sort of accidentally-on-purpose contact. As though reading his thoughts, the cat hissed; Draco released an irritable breath through his nose.
"You know, you can just tell him to move," Granger said, softer; he wished he could see her face around the orange monstrosity. She nudged the cat, who scowled but vacated his spot at last. Then she added, eyes landing on his, "And you're welcome to sleep here any time," before she leaned in and caught his mouth in a kiss.
Week 4: Eighth Year - 500 words
The air is cold.
It's dark, and the empty dish from his evening gruel sits by the door. Draco marks another notch into the rotted wood of his threadbare cot and makes his best attempt at rest.
Sometimes, Draco tries to remember the comforts he once knew. The rich, swelling crescendo of piano keys beneath his fingertips. The delectable melt of chocolate on his tongue.
Warmth.
He knows only silence, brutality, the punctuation of haunted screams. The persistent draft through cracked walls, cold as the moonbeams in the dead of night, stabbing through the window high above his cell.
All he can hear, an echo, resounding in his mind every waking moment, is the judge's somber sentence. All he can process are the mistakes, the regrets, the multiplicity of ways in which he wishes things had been different.
He thinks―sometimes, when he wants to suffer―of his classmates. If his estimates are close enough, it's just past yule, and he's already missed half of what might have been his eighth year.
In another time, another place―if he had made another decision. He longs now for the simplicity of classes and schoolwork.
He can still remember arriving at Azkaban, numb with fear, cold with shock. Six months have passed, and he feels depleted.
Spent.
He has another two and a half years before he'll breathe fresh air, and Draco fears there might be nothing left of him.
At first he tried harder to keep himself going, mentally and physically; to keep the spark of hope alive. But over time, he's felt it wane, dissolving into the murky depths of his soul. His tears are long spent, curses grit through his teeth for the diviners of his life who have forsaken him.
It's too much, and he doesn't know how much longer he can hang on.
He's both surprised and suspicious when, one day, he's given a sandwich. He hasn't tasted flavour in so long that it upsets his stomach, but he can't help himself.
The next week, a disgruntled guard tosses him a pillow, and Draco can hardly believe the indulgence when he manages a full night's sleep. He doesn't know who's looking out for him, or why. Tears sting his eyes at the thought.
Then he's forced through a cold shower and a mediocre shave; his heart clamours at the effort. Worn robes hang from his form, and he's haunted by the desolation in his own eyes.
When he's shoved through a door, he's startled, dead in his tracks, to see the familiar face of Hermione Granger. Sadness tugs at her brow as she peers at him, shaking her head.
"You," she whispers, "have been incredibly difficult to get out of here."
Draco can't wrap his head around it, but a response stalls in his throat, dry from disuse.
Emotion flits across her face, and she offers a smile; he can't remember kindness. "Come on. You're late for eighth year. Or don't you want to complete your NEWTs?"
Week 5: War AU - 100 words
A lingering flash of green seared Draco's eyelids, stifling his hopes and doubts, rending his heart.
Already, Hermione's skin felt cool; tangled curls caught on his fingers.
Playing spy had its drawbacks; this was his worst nightmare incarnate.
The long nights, her bright smile, the ways he had once dreamed of something more for them―one day, beyond, far away. It all tasted like ash on his tongue.
His eyes stung.
He brushed a kiss to her brow; murmured words against her skin. "I'll see you soon."
Sliding his mask into place, anguished fury in his veins, he drew his wand.
Week 6: Roommates - 500 words
September
"No, thank you. Respectfully, I'll stay in Gryffindor Tower."
At Granger's emphatic proclamation, Draco offered a half-hearted sneer. Not to be outdone, he rolled his eyes and drawled, "I'd rather remain in the dungeons than live here."
The stern furrow in McGonagall's brow was almost enough to cause him contrition. But he certainly wasn't going to make the effort if she wasn't.
The woman released an arduous sigh. "Very well, then."
And the Head Boy and Girl dorms sat empty.
November
The upside of the matter was that the Head commons provided a quiet and peaceful place to work. All too often, Granger had the same idea.
Unfortunately, when she studied, chaos ensued, and Draco usually found himself relegated to one corner of the table.
But for too long, he'd felt alone―and every so often, he didn't mind the company.
January
"I'm sorry, you know. For... everything, honestly." The list was exhausting in its entirety, and the full extent of it had kept him awake more than a few nights. As had the memory of her screams.
Silence haunted the space between them long enough for Draco to regret opening his mouth. He shifted in his seat, fighting the urge to take it back.
At last, the tension dissolved from her shoulders. She breathed, "I know. But it wasn't your fault. I forgive you." Something like a smile―or at least, the most sincere he'd seen from her―lifted her lips and warmed her eyes. He found himself momentarily without breath. "I'm sorry, too, Draco."
He didn't sleep at all that night, the soft lilt of his name from her tongue reverberating a constant echo through his mind.
March
"Must you constantly use all of the teacups?" Her annoyance was a force to be reckoned with.
"I drink a lot of tea."
For a long moment, they scowled at one another. Draco took a sip of tea. Then the tension broke, and Granger rolled her eyes. Draco's lips twitched with a smirk.
May
Granger's eyes were red-rimmed despite her best effort to hide her tears, whilst simultaneously, Draco's stomach twisted with nausea. An entire year had passed.
"I can't hear about the war anymore," she breathed at the end of the day, slumped on the sofa, large, beseeching eyes on him. "Please... can we talk about anything else?"
When he wrapped an arm around her shoulders, she sagged into him, pliant and soft; Draco could feel her fatigue and his chest clenched tight.
"Of course," Draco said. "Whatever you like."
June
"You know," Granger breathed, eyes alight with warmth. "Living with you this year hasn't been as bad as I expected."
It was their last night in the Heads' dorms, and Draco wasn't certain how he felt.
"Not that bad," he agreed with a grin. "I might even miss you."
She leaned in closer; her breath mingled with his, warm and enticing. "You won't be rid of me that easily."
"Good." He dragged her mouth to his.