Judgmental Golden Trio And The Twins! Love Them All🥰

rb with your most common recurring theme in your nightmares. mine is pregnancy

So many people who love generative AI don't have a creative bone in their body and can't imagine anyone actually enjoying the time and effort it takes to write something or draw something.

environmental storytelling

VIII. Crystal

<- previous

Turned out having breakfast with Harry Potter also meant having dinner with him.

The bastard eased Draco into it. “I’m making curry tonight, you want some?”

Spiraling out of his control, Draco went from rarely seeing Potter to twice a day. Potter’s cooking being just as good at night as it was in the morning was the only upside. 

The rising daylight was accompanied by, what Draco regrets to acknowledge, was amiable silence as they prepared for the arduous days ahead of them. The nighttime was accompanied by actual conversations. It start menially: a bunch of “how was your day?”s and “who do you think will win Quidditch?”. Then Potter would bring up a memory from their eight year and Draco would start gossiping about their old classmates.

On it went, from polite chatter to affable talk then friendly banter—or from an outside perspective: verbal war. 

“You almost murdered me once,” followed by: “Like you wouldn’t’ve.”

“You were a prick in school,” proceeded by: “You weren’t?”

One night they finished eating and Potter asked, “You want a drink?”

Draco, exhausted and always susceptible to alcoholic bribes, said yes.

Potter took out firewhisky from the liquor cabinet and poured it into two matching crystal cups.

Their conversations reached their inevitable climax: quasi-flirtation. Perhaps it was the heat from the liquor—the heat radiating off of Potter—but the air felt tight-knit with tension. It might have been Draco’s imagination warping the way Potter smirked around his glass. The light from the room refracted off the crystal somehow made his green eyes shine even brighter.

“Draco,” his name coming out of Potter’s lips sounded indecent, like intruding on a tender moment. “I’m glad you’re here.” 

Draco pretended he said it with sober fondness and not drunken impulse. He allowed himself this one thing.

next ->

prompt list previous days

A bad photoshop will always be funnier than an AI image no matter what

“I feel like I’ve forgotten something,” Ron says, patting his waistcoat down distractedly.

“It better not be the bloody ring,” Harry grits out, teeth clenched with anxiety, nerves coursing through him like electric currents as he bounces on the balls of his feet.

“Nah, mate,” Ron grins. “Don’t you fret.”

Harry gives a choked laugh. “Me? Never been calmer.”

“Picture of serenity,” Ron agrees.

“Exactly.” Harry takes some deep breaths, shaking out his hands. “Oh god. Why isn’t he here yet? I just want this to be done.”

“Wow. Romantic.”

“It is romantic,” Harry insists. “I want us to be married now. Or fucking yesterday.”

“Language!” Hermione whispers from the front row behind them, but she’s beaming and already crying a little, hands over Hugo’s little ears. Harry grins back, feeling so painfully excited. He’s a little worried he’s going to throw up from it. The thought of it makes him laugh, imagining Draco’s face if Harry was sick all over his custom-made white robes, spun from fucking unicorn hair or mermaid silk or whatever. God.

And then a hush falls over the crowd, and there he is, looking so fucking beautiful as he strides down the aisle, robes billowing behind him, sun gleaming in his hair, eyes fixed firmly on Harry. Jesus fuck. Harry's crying now too. He can't look away. Draco is a vision, glowing, his haughty, pointy, beloved face softened with something that looks like awe, disbelief. Harry can relate.

"Hey," he chokes out, when Draco reaches him.

"Hello," Draco murmurs, his mouth pulling into a grin. "My god, Harry, control yourself."

"I can't," Harry sobs. "Ugh. Fuck. I love you."

"We're not at that part yet," Draco reminds him, gripping his hands tight, radiant.

Ron puts a hand on Harry's shoulder, passing him a handkerchief. "Ready?"

"Yeah," Harry beams, wiping his eyes and looking back to Draco. "Are you?"

And Draco, grey eyes bright, nods.

Forgotten 💍 Day 11 of @peachydreamxx and @uncannycerulean’s prompts. Full collection on ao3.

I feel like pirating media that isn’t sold or offered anywhere legally anymore shouldn’t be called piracy. Girl thats archaeology

Putting together a mood board for this year's art new years reminders:

the enormity of desire

prompt-a-day may 2025 | day twenty-seven: grow | word count: 913 | daily prompts courtesy of @peachydreamxx & @uncannycerulean ⋆˙⟡ | warning: hanahaki-inspired/mild body horror

_ _ _

“Malfoy— alright?”

Draco glares up at him from the locker room bench. “What?”

Harry shrugs one shoulder, a noncommittal up-down. “You seem tired?”

“Fuck you,” he growls.

Harry laughs, which makes it worse. “Whatever,” he says, heading for the showers.

Draco walks out, a painstaking attempt at steady, starting for the dungeons, his dorm lavatory feeling kilometers away. The sensation of foliage, unfurling, catches in his abdomen, his esophagus.

They keep growing.

. . .

“Malfoy— alright?”

Draco’s holding himself against the bartop, handkerchief tucked hidden in his palm.

“Hm?” he says, aiming for haughty, disinterested.

“You keep coughing,” Harry answers, eyes narrowing in something like caution, something like concern.

“Doxie flu,” he lies. “The cough lasts for ages.”

“Shit,” Harry says. “You’ve already seen Madame Pomfrey?”

“Plenty,” Draco says, cheeky, (knowing it’s been yes, actually plenty), before breaking into another burst of hacking.

Harry’s hand is at his shoulder then, and Draco doubles forward, uncontrollable, wheezing unevenly.

“Gotta— go,” he manages, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes, face warm. He ducks from beneath Harry’s grasp.

“Hey—” Harry calls, but he can’t afford to look back, much less to stay. He slips through the exit of The Three Broomsticks and apparates with a Crack!

In his bed, he empties his cloak pockets, daisy petals and clover tumbling out by the dozens.

They keep growing.

. . .

“Malfoy— alright?”

They’re at the top of one of the myriad stairwells in the castle, Draco braced on the bannister, a bit too desperate to pay much mind to who is or isn’t watching. He swallows at the air, tugs helpless at his shirt-collar.

“You’re out of breath,” Harry says, and at a lack for words, Draco flicks him off.

“You need the infirmary,” Harry says, sounding more cross, more concerned by the second.

Draco flicks him off again. Unfortunately, it’s the most he can do, and just barely, it turns out, his legs suddenly giving way beneath him.

He lands on his knees hard, fingertips scrabbling at the railing, feels it jar up and into his teeth, feels it knock loose pollen in his windpipe. Harry is at his side, instantaneous, and Draco, furiously, can think of at least three other scenarios where he’d rather be on his knees in front of him.

Draco’s vision goes fuzzy, his hand scratching weakly at his neck.

Harry’s arm is at his back. “I’m going to pick you up now,” he says, scooping Draco upwards without waiting for an answer. Which is good, probably, since Draco couldn’t have given one.

He feels the vining expand in his ribcage, Harry’s heart hammering in his ear, his own heart hardly murmuring its response.

If he stops breathing, he isn’t awake to know it.

They keep growing.

. . .

He wakes in the infirmary with Poppy Pomfrey at his side, teary-eyed, and smiling down at him.

“Dearie, you’ve known how to fix this.” She wraps one of his hands in hers. “Please.”

Potter’s there, too, because of course he is. He’s asleep, his head cradled in his arms at the foot of the bed.

Draco pats Poppy’s hand, then gestures to Harry, resigned.

Madame Pomfrey gently shakes Harry by the shoulder, pointing him to Draco before wandering into the hall.

“Hey,” Harry says, pulling a chair to his side. “You’re awake.”

Draco rolls his eyes, jabs a finger into Harry’s arm.

Harry laughs, subdued. “Alright, yeah. I’m awake.” His face twists a bit then, his thumb running over the seam of the quilt on Draco’s lap. “Were you cursed?”

Draco nods, picking up a near-whole daffodil from the bedspread and twirling it between his fingers. He taps his throat, a cough burbling harshly out of him, petals slipping past the handkerchief he draws hastily to his mouth.

“There’s no cure?” Harry asks, brow troubled, green eyes glinting.

Draco leans back into the pillows, his gaze tracking the high ceiling, the cobwebs in the corners. He’s tired, and he can feel leaves tickling at his trachea, obstructive and insistent.

He doesn’t want to die. I’m spite of everything, he doesn’t.

He pulls Harry’s hand to him, palm up on the blanket. C, he traces with the tip of his finger.

“C,” Harry says. Draco nods, continues, Harry spelling softly aloud. “C. U. R. E.”

His eyes flicker to Draco’s, fingers curling lightly where they lay on his lap. “You do know the cure?”

Draco swallows, sharp and thorny, and nods, once. He presses a finger to Harry’s lips, a silent plea.

“Alright,” Harry whispers, falling quiet.

In his hand, Draco writes slow and deliberate, each letter drawn out against his will, each necessary to sustain him, each revealing and damning and precious.

I - L - O - V - E - Y - O - U

He keeps his eyes cast down, wraps his fingers around Harry’s once he’s finished.

“Malfoy,” Harry says, and Draco deigns to meet his gaze. “It’s alright.”

His eyes draw to Draco’s chest, and he untangles their fingers, placing his palm carefully over his heart.

“Take a breath,” he whispers.

Draco does, and he’s overcome by the scent of potions and antiseptics, the laundry detergent on the linens, pumpkin juice on Potter’s breath, spring air on his skin. He breathes in and in and in. He feels it then, the flora wilting, a slow recession, his heart thrumming a steadier song.

Harry grins at him, bright, waylaying.

He loves him.

(It keeps growing.)

for some reason, I have very specific head canons about the Malfoys’ Patronuses. Lucius probably isn’t competent enough to reliably produce one (and perhaps not happy enough either) but if he could it would be a Patronus. (But his happy thought is that he’s a Malfoy TM).

Narcissa absolutely can produce one and it’s a dragon. Both because while she may seem unassuming on the outside, she’s incredibly formidable, capable and fierce and because her motivating thought is always of her son Draco.

And Draco’s Patronus is a lion. Because of drarry. Because at his lowest the thought that keeps him going and the thought that finally lets him conjure Patronus in book 7 to drive away the Dementors around the school despite everything going on is that somewhere out there Harry Potter is still alive.