՞⸝⸝ᵒ̴̶̷ 𓈞 ᵒ̴̶̷⸝⸝՞

exactly

XIII. Beware

<- previous

Draco missed the writing in small script:

Beware to only add .05mml of bauldee extract at a time.

“Fuck,” is barely out of his mouth before the cauldron in front of him blew up.

“Draco?” Potter yelped as the crashing sounds of feet on wood descended towards the temporary lab. He stepped through the door, hair a mess, glasses nearly falling off, and chest heaving with each breath. “Are you okay?”

“I almost died again but it should be fine,” he replied nonchalantly.

“Draco!” Potter yelled once again and started moving forward.

“Stop!” Draco immediately shouted and Potter at once obeyed. “Vanish the potion vestiges, they’re lethal.”

“What the fuck,” he whispered but still complied all the same. “Everything’s good now?”

“It should be.” Draco brought a hand to his forehead—he hadn’t even noticed how sweaty he’d gotten—and continued moving it toward his hair, brushing it softly. When he pulled his hand back, locks of hair came with it.

“Shit.”

next ->

prompt list all entries

id tag game changer spoilers but what does that even mean at this point

XX. Reverie

This is part of a continuous story, you can read the first part here. Based off this prompt list by @peachydreamxx and @uncannycerulean

<- previous

Walking among muggles stopped feeling alien around Draco’s third visit to muggle London. It became outright dull by his tenth, and was only ever interesting when Harry came along. Not because the crowds shifted toward Harry Potter like in the wizarding world, but because spending time with Harry had simply turned enjoyable.

They started to make grocery runs with each other, brainstorming what they (Harry) would make for mealtimes. 

Draco felt himself decay with the candied reveries of mundane domestic life turned into reality.

Harry side-eyed him as he added another bag of bonbons to their cart. So what if he had a sweet tooth?

next ->

all entries ao3

environmental storytelling

Kreacher has been staring at Harry for weeks.

He opens the door to his bedroom each morning—Kreacher’s right there. Staring. The first two days, Harry shouts in surprise. By day three, he’s resigned to this strange new habit.

When he gets home from practice, Harry sheds his muddy trainers at the door and wanders down to the stone kitchen for lunch. Kreacher creeps after him down the hall, and every time Harry turns, the elf stops, staring.

“WHAT?” Harry bellows. Kreacher just stares harder.

Then he starts leaving weird shit around the house.

The first thing Harry finds is a little wooden box. The lid is etched with intricate carvings. Harry fires off five seperate cursebreaking spells that Bill had taught him after one too many fanatic mail incidents. The box is harmless.

Harry remains suspicious.

Next, it’s a finely crafted brooch. Harry has never seen it before in his life, and now it’s in the middle of the kitchen table: clearly intended to be some sort of message, although he’s got no fucking hope of decoding it.

The third item is a delicate golden ribbon, colour shifting as he picks it up. The fourth is a tiny dragon figurine of polished bronze.

“Kreacher,” he yells. “What does this mean?!”

Kreacher appears with a pop. Stares at him some more.

Harry gives up. He stuffs the dragon, ribbon, brooch and box into his coat pockets and apparates directly to Hermione’s poky little office, pushing the door open impatiently.

“Hermione, can house elves go senile?”

She looks up, bent over a large, complex looking tome. Malfoy, writing notes with an elegant grey quill beside her, does not. Harry still finds it weird that they work together. Every time he stops by, Malfoy ignores him, and today is evidently no different. Fine by Harry.

“Harry,” Hermione says exasperatedly. “Kreacher isn’t senile, he’s just—“

“Watching me like a weird creepy shadow? Leaving random shit around the house and refusing to tell me what it means? Look!” He pulls the items out of his pockets, chucking them on the desk one by one. “What the fuck is any of this shit?”

The little dragon lands in front of Malfoy, whose hand suddenly stills. He looks up, smirking, and meets Harry’s gaze. “Potter.”

Something clenches in Harry’s stomach.

“Your house elf is telling you it’s time for the Heir to the House of Black to start courting.”

Black ♣️ Day two of @peachydreamxx and @uncannycerulean’s unofficial microfic may challenge

Young Sirius.

Real men suck it in // Ginny Weasley

I’ve always been struck by Ginny’s transformation from a little girl who cried and laughed while waving goodbye to her brothers, to the hardened young woman described as rarely weepy.

Ginny tends to externalize her pain, her grief, her displeasure, her sadness, her insecurity, and her feelings of injustice through loud, forceful displays of emotion. She rages, she snarks, she screams, she hexes, she doesn’t cry.

This transmuting of any perceived weakness into an exhibition of power is a direct message to the world that she is unshakable, invulnerable. Because, to her, if she shows any vulnerability she loses her control.

A control that is dependent on the privacy of the inner world she likes to keep so nice and tucked away. When that becomes exposed then anyone, or anything, can take and take and take.

Real Men - Mitski

XVII. Waiting

This is part of a continuous story, you can read the first part here. Based off this prompt list by @peachydreamxx and @uncannycerulean

<- previous

Since the beginning of the year, Draco had been waiting for his appeal to go through.

It had been fine having limited access to his wand during his eighth year. It was horrible, but he could live with it. He still had a bit of magic.

Once his sentence was abruptly changed to a strict no magic regulation once he graduated, had it become unbearable. 

He had managed it though. Found simple solutions to his magical needs and learned to live like a muggle, but live he did. Still, he was going to get his magic back.

As soon as he got a reply.

all entries next ->