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Metamorphosis

When Draco awoke in the morning, he found that he was a beetle, and not a particularly dazzling one at that, with a dull black coat and ridged legs so brittle that he almost snapped one trying to get up.

“This was going to happen sooner or later,” Pansy said when she caught him scuttling down the hall toward the bathroom. When he made no word of response except to clack his claws together, she picked him up and asked, “What are you going to tell Potter?”

Potter was Draco’s parole officer, and he didn’t find it funny at all. He harangued Draco to “transform back” for five solid minutes before taking out his wand to cast Finite Incantatem over and over and over, as though it was sheer lack of will and not some bloody blood curse that confined Draco to his hard-bodied shell.

“I wish you’d say something,” Potter said an hour later, his throat dry.

Potter took him home that day, handing him off to Pansy before Flooing the rest of the way to his own home.

A week passed with no change. Pansy left out a bit of milk and bread for him every night. On Saturday, she asked if he couldn’t set her up with a weekly allowance from his vaults for his expenses. “Nothing big,” she said smoothly, presenting him with crisp scrolls fresh from Gringotts and an ink pad for him to press his forked claw into, to sign.

“How long is this going to last?” Potter asked Pansy when he dropped Draco off again the following week.

Pansy frowned. “What do you mean?”

“This — thing. This insect thing.”

“It’s a blood curse, Potter. It lasts forever,” Pansy tutted dismissively.

Draco rather agreed with Pansy’s assessment, but still, Potter came by, week after week, neverending with his questioning: “Black or Malfoy? Are there any records? What species—” as though Draco’s condition wasn’t so hopeless as long as he didn’t stop trying to change it. As though, after all these weeks and years, Draco could still change.

It filled Draco with an idiotic kind of hope.

—————–

For today’s @drarrymicrofic prompt, metamorphosis!

undertow

prompt-a-day may 2025 | day twenty: reverie | word count: 292 | daily prompts courtesy of @peachydreamxx & @uncannycerulean ⋆˙⟡

_ _ _

The sea swells like a symphony, and Harry finds himself tangled, untethered, in the reverie.

The tomb is here, he knows it, he knows it, but there’s no simple way beneath the surface, no path through the craggy caves, the harsh caps of them splitting the water like sentries.

There’s a sound over the wind, a sharp, singular tone among the roaring rip of the current. Harry listens again, the water pulling at his clothing— denim laden-down, his hoodie turned a vice.

The sound comes again, echoes off the cliffside, high and hollow. Harry strains toward it, as the deep strains toward him.

Then, clear, breaking: “Potter!”

It’s no small thing, to keep a broom steady in the gale that swirls over the sea. But there he is, upright, if not wind-blown. Draco.

Harry goes to call, but finds his throat raw, salted and aching. How long since he’d last spoken?

He raises his arm, as high as he can manage (half-mast, and flagging).

Enough— it’s enough. Draco dives for him, unflinching. His gloved hands snatch at him, pulling, lifting. The mechanics are dodgy, his grip precarious, but in the moment he pulls Harry over the broomstick, he begins their escape, coaxing the steadfast Nimbus skyward.

The ascent is slow, and speech near-indistinguishable, but Draco is undeterred.

“Idiot!” he cries, and Harry realizes then— exhaustion finally overcoming him as he slumps, boneless— that he may actually be crying.

He wraps his hand around Draco’s. Sorry, he thinks. I’m sorry.

“Yo— ne’er le—ve my si—,” Draco is shouting, the storm stealing half of it away. “Once I ge— you o— land, I— goi’ to toss y’ back i— the sea!”

Land, Harry thinks, sleepily. Land, and Draco.

Yes, he’s feeling rather better already.

Nothing drives this society more crazy than a woman who doesn't hate herself

prompt a day May - day 9, puzzle(d)

a continuous story! earlier parts here

It feels different; magic cast through Potter’s voice and Draco’s hand. Balmy. Somehow smoother. A sun-warmed pebble of a spell.

Draco holds his wand aloft, sending out the Lumos to upset the dark, but it only reveals a greater puzzle.

Grimmauld’s empty hallway, fashioned out of smoke, stretching into eternity.

when sam said "thats a point away from gianmarco",

i suddenly wanted him and vic to be in a gamechanger episode together

Man, we have got to stop treating art like it has an expiration date. That show stopped airing? Doesn’t mean it can’t haunt your every waking thought. Everybody’s into this album, but you don’t have the energy for new music right now? It’ll be waiting for you when you’re ready. That movie’s fifty years old and indie as shit? Incredible, you have the chance to share it with folks who might never otherwise feel that particular punch of delight. Books don’t go bad. Shows inspire fandoms decades after they’ve wrapped up. We’re still looking at cave paintings and statue work from ancient times and letting the joy of creation bring tears to our eyes. That’s the point of art. It’s as close to immortality as we ever get. Why try to give that magic a shelf life?

Once you start thinking about humans as a species in a biome, it affects your entire way of looking at normal things.

The other day I referred to female morning joggers as an 'indicator species' in that if you see women jogging in the dark it means that the environment provides migration pathways (sidewalks, clear signs) and doesn't have any known predators of female morning joggers (guy with knife, bear, BigTruck, male morning joggers).

Though, I think that people consider framing humans as animals reacting to their environment as rude.

abandoned wip, but I still find it cute (fem drarry)