izzy's playlists!
shark vs the universe
Aqua Utopia｜海の底で記憶を紡ぐ
No title available
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
Janaina Medeiros
we're not kids anymore.
★
Sweet Seals For You, Always
noise dept.
#extradirty
Kiana Khansmith
macklin celebrini has autism
Love Begins
styofa doing anything
⁂
Today's Document
Cosimo Galluzzi
trying on a metaphor
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
seen from United States
seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States
seen from Netherlands
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Switzerland
seen from United States
seen from India
seen from Türkiye
seen from Malaysia
seen from Saudi Arabia
seen from Switzerland
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
@howverydrarry
harry, barging into draco's compartment: WHAT
draco:
harry: I CAN'T BELIEVE THIS IS HAPPENING
draco: potter wha-
harry: this CAN'T BE REAL
draco:
harry: DID YOU FORGET TO BARGE IN MY COMPARTMENT LIKE YOU DO EVERY YEAR OR WAS IT SUPPOSED TO BE ME THIS TIME
pansy: he has a point you know
Always melancholic...
The day after the battle, Hermione Granger got up before the sun did. The Lake was covered in fog, and she was used to having somewhere urgent to go, to be, to fight.
She closed the tent flap up behind her. Hogwarts had something like enough beds, but Hermione hadn’t had it in her to climb those moving staircases, to step through the painting’s open frame and make her way to the Gryffindor girls’ seventh year dormitory. Her bed would have been there, months untouched except for the bras and scarves and bottles of sparkly purple nail polish Parvati and Lavender had strewn onto every open surface.
The fog rolled in off the Lake and Hermione stood at the damp shore and shivered until the sun rose and burned it all away.
-
The day after the battle, they buried their dead out on an island in the Lake, the day after the battle. Madame Pomfrey fretted and hovered, but every injured witch, wizard, and squib made it out to those conjured chairs. They might sit with assistance– with spells, with braces, with a friend’s shoulder– but they sat quiet and they listened to Flitwick read out the names.
-
The day after the battle, Ron Weasley stood on tiptoe when he stepped back into the Great Hall, looking over a sea of bent heads to find a cluster of red. They’d brought the tables back.
The cluster was only a tiny blip of three– Bill and their parents were flitting about, helping Flitwick float steaming bowls of pasta down onto each table. But Ginny and Percy were sitting on either side of George, keeping up a lively conversation about Gilderoy Lockhart’s hair.
Ginny was sitting half in Harry’s lap, like if she didn’t he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from getting up to help, or to pace the castle, or to walk out to the Forest and not come back. She was holding his hand, her freckled thumb running over the words written into his skin.
Ron thought about sitting with Luna, instead. Percy tried to laugh at one of Ginny’s jokes, and Ron didn’t know how to be kind like that. Ginny held Harry’s hand. Ron had thought for a long terrible stretch of heartbeats that he had lost two brothers yesterday.
He could sit with Dean. He could walk out to the Forest and punch Aragog in his ugly eyes, because normally when he walked away from everyone he loved it was because he was scared and maybe change was good for the soul.
Ron pushed his hands through his hair. He crossed the Great Hall, swung into a seat next to Harry, and filled his plate with lukewarm pasta.
-
The day after the battle, Luna Lovegood climbed up to the Astronomy Tower, because it was the furthest she could get away from everything. She laid on her back on the cold stone and cast balls of light and enchanted birds to chase each other across the ceiling until she felt like descending down to the ground again.
-
The day after the battle, Neville Longbottom went down to the greenhouses to see what the damage was there. He had sat all night and all morning in the infirmary, fetching water for Anthony Goldstein and holding Dennis Creevey’s hand and folding extra blankets down over Professor Sprout’s cold feet. Madame Pomfrey had banished him to go get a spot to eat and some sleep, so he walked down to the greenhouses to see what was salvageable.
Whole panes of greenish glass stood jagged and shattered. Protective spells had put out any fires, but stray blasts of magic had killed beds of vegetables and flowers and taken almost all the silver-green leaves off an olive tree that twisted in the corner of Greenhouse 4.
Neville went in through the door, even though there as a broken hole in the glass wall big enough for him, and almost fell back through it when Hannah Abbott stood up from the row of pots she’d been crouching behind. Dirt streaked every crease of her hands. “Hey,” he said, and let the door click shut behind him.
“Hey.” When she saw where he was heading, she added, “The olive’s still alive.”
The bark was rough under his hand, gnarled from decades of slow growth. He could hear the green magic whispering down its xylem.
“I was thinking I’d try to mend up the walls, close this place up again,” said Hannah. “But I wasn’t sure I could do it alone.“
“Alright,” said Neville. When Professor Sprout argued her way out of the infirmary and thumped downhill with the wind throwing her cloudy hair in her face, she found every pane of glass healed and Neville and Hannah asleep on the softest patch of moss in Greenhouse 2.
-
The day after the battle, Parvati Patil sent an owl to Lavender Brown’s parents.
-
The day after the end of it all, Hermione skipped lunch and found her favorite secluded corner of the library instead. The chairs stood silent and sober, all gouged dark wood. The high windows threw light gleaming across the polished table, catching on the dust motes drifting through the air above it.
She dumped her carry-all down on it and reached inside– up to her elbows, her shoulders. She tried not to feel like it was eating her alive and she pulled out protein bars and unicorn horn and crumpled wanted flyers.
She wasn’t sure when it had gotten so cluttered– sometime before the night in the ditch outside the little Scottish village with the awesome curry shop. Sometime after the time they hid out from a storm in an unknowing Muggle’s barn, wrinkling their noses at the itch of hay as they ate their dinner. Hermione had taken first watch, listening to the thunder roll over the shallow hills outside, and she’d gone through her bag pouch by endless pouch. Harry had twitched in his sleep with every flash of lightning, but everything in her bag had been where it was supposed to be.
She summoned a wastepaper bin to hover beside her and got to work. Quills and ballpoint pens went in a neat heap to her left. Books she stacked by subject matter around her, except for the ones she flew back to their homes on Hogwarts shelves. She checked potions ingredients for decay, tossed the bad ones and wrapped the good ones back up in their oiled cloth and ziplock bags.
She ate a protein bar while she piled duct tape and the radio and a travel-sized magnetic foldable Muggle chess set and a depleted first aid kit all up around her. She threw the wrapper away and wondered if the smell would ever come out of the bag’s insides, or if she should just buy another one.
-
The day after the battle, they started putting the stones of the castle back into place. They put bones back together, first, skin and knit muscle and tendons. McGonagall escorted every statue and suit of armor back to where it belonged.
Sue Li sat atop a pile of rubble and ate the biggest chocolate bar she’d ever seen her life. She thought she could still taste a film of Polyjuice on her tongue, but she told herself that was dumb. She dropped little pebbles down the ragged tumble of stones, counting their bounces and calculating averages, until Astoria Greengrass showed up with a glass of water and a pasty and put them down beside her.
Astoria got her hands dirty every chance she got, put her back into sweeping up glass shards or hauling bandages or Wingardium Leviosa-ing stone blocks the size of a horseless carriage. She would stay in the castle as long as she could, finding odd tasks and errands and corners to lurk in. When she finally went back to the Greengrass family estate, it would be to pack her bags, kiss the old house elf on the cheek, and steal her dog away with her.
-
The day after the battle, Ron went out to Hagrid’s cabin in the stubborn chill of the afternoon and sat in his pumpkin patch. He didn’t go knock on the rough-hewn door, and Hagrid didn’t come out, but after twenty minutes Fang trotted into the yard and patiently got slobber all over his shirt.
Ron watched the sway of the shadows beyond the Forest’s edge. Buckbeak’s old tying post stood among the twining squash vines and their giant fuzzy leaves, the metal ring hanging empty against weathered wood. He thought about Ginny brushing her thumb over Harry’s scars and wrapped his hands over the pale marks that curled around his wrists.
When the air started biting and the sky started darkening, Ron pulled himself back to his feet and climbed up to the library. He had never lived there, never really liked its labyrinth of stacks and dusty air, but he knew the way there better than he knew the way to the Quidditch pitch or the Room of Requirement or all those other places he liked so much more.
It was empty, except for Hermione, and he was glad. She squeezed her last book into her bag and looked up at him, shoving her hair back off her forehead.
“They doing dinner down there?” she said, her dry throat rasping on it.
He shrugged. “Mum’s organizing, I think. It– helps, I think.“
She nodded, looking down to do the clasps up slowly, one by one.
"I just wanted to go back to the tent,” said Ron. “Be alone. It’s quiet."
"I won’t get in your way,” she said. “It’s still pitched down there."
"I know,” he said. “With you, I meant.”
“That’s not alone,” she said. “I’m not quiet,” she said. She clasped and unclasped the bag.
“Words. Accuracy. I never claimed to be the clever one."
"But you are, Ron–"
"Hermione,” he said. “Come with me? You shouldn’t be sitting here alone. Come home.”
They went down the grass through chilling air. Ron could hear his mother in his head, telling him to take her bag and carry it for her, but he just reached out for her hand.
-
The day after the end of it all, Ron laid on the floor of the tent, counting stitches in the canvas, while Hermione read Hogwarts, A History like she didn’t have it memorized. She read her favorite parts aloud, stopping mid-sentence when the tent flap rustled and opened.
“Ginny’s sitting on Neville until he agrees to sleep in a real bed and not a pile of shrubbery,” Harry said, stepping inside and shutting it up behind him. “She got Luna to help because she says otherwise Luna will just fade into a corner and not come out for food.” He hunched his shoulders. “I’m not intruding, right?"
"Don’t be daft,” said Ron and patted a bit of floor next to him. “C'mon, join in, Hermione’s trying to bore me to sleep. I suspect it’s an act of caring concern.” Hermione threw a pillow at his head without looking up from the pages.
The day after the battle, they fell asleep in a tangle in the center of the tent that they had lugged across their country, across these long, cold days of the war. They had danced here to the radio, had chewed protein bars, played chess and bled and yelled at each other.
But the war was over and they were growing into it, slow, staying up too late as they leaned into each other and whispered on this threadbare rug. They meant to wobble to their feet and get to bed, but Harry was clinging to Hermione’s hand and none of them wanted to go.
They would get too old for this– hard floors and the way Harry’s neck was cricked up on Ron’s bony shoulder. Hermione’s snoring would get worse and Ron would have to sleep with four carefully arranged pillows to stop his back from aching in the mornings, but Harry would always have a place here. He had slept on Ron’s bedroom floor at fourteen, leaned on Hermione outside his parents’ broken home.
In the weeks after the battle, Hermione would track down her parents and move back home, and they would all help the Weasleys rebuild the Burrow. Harry would move in Andromeda Tonks’s spare room. “We’re almost like family, after all,” she’d say briskly, shooing him into the house and showing him where she kept the tea, Teddy’s diapers, and the whiskey. They’d come for visits and talk through the night in each of those homes, curled up under Molly’s quilts or out on the Granger’s back porch swing or over fingers of firewhiskey with Andromeda.
In the months after the war, he and Ron would get a flat while they went through Auror training and Hermione would crash there five nights out of seven. Her university textbooks would take over their countertops, shelves, tables, and floor and Harry wouldn’t tease them (too much) for how hilariously long they tried to pretend it was the couch Hermione slept on.
Every home Ron and Hermione lived in, for the rest of their lives, would have a place for Harry– a spare room or a patch of floor or an old sofa. He would know how Hermione took her coffee, and his favorite cereal and Ginny’s favorite oatmeal would always been in the cupboard, and their children would have giggly cousin-sleepovers in magical tents they pitched on the living room rug.
When the kids came shrieking in to wake them at absolutely unacceptable, ugly hours, Ginny would groan curse words they’d repeat gleefully among themselves, but Harry would let them grab his hands in their little sticky ones and pull him barefoot and messy-haired out into the morning.
*Eighth year*
Harry: let’s try to be friends this time Draco, feigning reluctance: fine Draco, on the inside:
“Well that was interesting,” Malfoy said, amused. “I’ve never been applauded for pulling before.”
“I’m going to murder all of them,” Harry said.
“After tonight, please,” Malfoy said, stepping close and sliding an arm around Harry’s waist. “I can’t fuck you if you’ve been arrested for murder.”
- You Were Crushed, Just Like Me by firethesound
can't believe jk rowling wrote 16 year old draco dramatically draping himself across pansy as she stroked his hair and expected people to read it as pansy having a crush on draco and not just a moment of gay/lesbian solidarity between two kids who love being the centre of attention
it’s halfblooded prince but malfoy tells the truth from the very beginning and they solve their problems together
(and some post war stuff)
harry, in his bed, opening the marauder’s map, looking for draco’s dot:
I've been thinking about drarry for some reason again, and I really like the idea of a "you feel your soulmate's pain" for them, because like. Little Draco carrying his soulnate's pain from abuse and being like "I Am The True Hreatest of the Purebloods Someday I Will Sweep My Soulmate Into Beautiful Malfoyland and they will NEVER HURT AGAIN" and of course that, does not happen, and he doesn't realize until second year when Harry goes through the OH SHIT MY BONES experience in public, that god. It's him. And he angsts about it but elects to ignore it.
Harry has felt about zero hand from his soulmate, except a strange pain to his face once around when Malloy got slapped, but then the sekesemkeptra thing happens and it's gross and ugly and they're both forced to admit it but they don't know what to say or how to say it because hoooo boooyyy they are on very different life paths now and it is too late to just go "eep! Soulmates! Let's hold hands!"
Draco feels Harry die during the battle of Hogwarts and it feels like having something ripped out of him, but it feels like having something out back into him once Harry comes back. After Narcissa pronounces Harry dead, the Malfoys nope into the sunset just as always.
A few years after the war has ended, when they're both messes who have no idea where their lives are going, they accidentally meet in a coffee shop and Draco like, accidentally spills hot coffee on himself and is like FUCK and Harry feels it and looks up and sees him. And he's like. Well. There's not ever gonna be a better time to try to talk this shit out. And so they try to
““I didn’t want the hype to begin with, you know. You probably don’t believe that.” “No, I do,” Draco says, and realises it’s true. “I used to believe you loved all the attention, but that was jealousy, I think. I can tell you don’t, these days.” Potter’s head is bent down toward his drawn-up knees, the back of his neck illuminated by the light above the door behind them. He’s rubbing his thumb against the side of his index finger, as if the tobacco has left traces he is trying to erase. “I think that’s all I’ll ever be, sometimes,” he says. “That I peaked at seventeen, on one very long night.” Draco watches the small, slender bone in Potter’s wrist jump, over and over, with the movement of his hand. He can observe all the minute details of Potter, the tiniest, everyday, extraordinary things, and never feel satisfied. Potter sounds so tired. “Work. Ginny— you know we broke up last year? Yeah, it was all over the damned papers. This house.” He throws a look over his shoulder, then turns back to the rather gloomy garden. “Sometimes it feels like the only thing I’ve done right is dying.” Draco sucks in an involuntary, unsteady breath. It’s hard to imagine, that Potter could see himself like that— in such a small sliver, so achingly distorted— but then maybe that’s the problem with being too close. It’s hard to make out the whole of yourself. “I very much doubt that, Potter. I feel sure your friends and family would disagree, too,” he says after a moment. He stares down at the toes of his own boots. “Anyway, you didn’t exactly do the whole death thing right, did you? Here you sit, very much alive.””
— How We Throw Our Shadows Down by @thistle-verse
Trope flip: Auror investigation
Harry started a broom company anonymously after Hogwarts. He spends all his time on it and has become a little bit of a recluse. The brand is wildly successful and grows like mad.
Draco spent the better part of a decade on his redemption arc and is now a Senior Auror. He’s sent to investigate claims that Orion Broom Co. is importing materials illegally, and maybe trafficking magical creatures. It takes him weeks to even get an address for the owner and he still doesn’t have a name.
He knocks on the door and Harry answers. Draco, ever the professional, hides his surprise and explains the situation. He’s good at this - always gets the suspects to believe he’s on their side. “Just a bit of paperwork and I’ll be out of your hair, Mr Potter.”
“Oh, is it Mister Potter now, Auror Malfoy?” Harry stands in the doorway, arms crossed.
Draco attempts to defuse the situation. He laughs, a very realistic-sounding chortle if he says so himself. “Ah, Potter. Like old times. Let’s catch up, shall we, after I do my little song and dance—”
“I’d rather not, actually,” says Harry. He moves back and starts to close the door.
Draco catches it. “Well, no problem. I do have to poke around and then I can leave you in peace. And of course, all of this is confidential, nothing with your name on—”
Harry barks a laugh. “You’re not coming in, Malfoy.”
“Look, Potter, if there’s a better time, I can come back,” Draco says, mentally calculating how many surveillance charms he’ll have to perform before he leaves the property.
“There’s not,” Harry responds with a smirk, “so kindly fuck off.”
Something clicks in Draco’s brain, a deep-seated little spark that’s been in holding for a long time. He feels a rush of fury. “One more chance. Let me in.”
Harry shuts the door.
—————
“MALFOY!” comes the bellow from down the hallway. Draco does not look up from the booking forms.
The floor vibrates as Robards stomps around the corner. His face is dark red. His eyes are black. Draco would know these things if he looked up, but he doesn’t. “Yes, sir?”
“Please, for the love of all that is holy, tell me you did not arrest Harry Bloody Potter.” Robards has now gone down to his whisper, arguably scarier than the yelling.
Draco takes a deep breath. “I should have notified you first, sir, given the sensitivity of the case—”
“Notified? What the fuck happened? I sent you to ask questions—take a look around—put some feelers out—and you—you—” Robards makes a sound like a tea kettle, then sits on the bench next to the booking desk. “Where’s his wand?”
“I’ve got it, sir. Didn’t think it would be a good idea to have it sitting in holding.”
Robards rubs his temples. “You’ll fucking kill me, Malfoy. One day. Quite soon, I imagine.”
Draco signs the last form and the parchment disappears. “Not intentionally, sir.”
“I’m releasing him to his home. And since you’re the twat who arrested him,” Robards glares at Draco, “you will be his personal monitor.”
“Personal—? But sir, I have other—”
“Your other cases will be reassigned. We cannot have the fucking Saviour in our cell. I would wager there’s already been a riot down there with him around. He’s a liability.”
Draco cringes. “I suppose.”
“I’ll give you 48 hours for this investigation, Malfoy. If you don’t find anything, we’re closing it. I’m not pushing Potter’s buttons. We’ll do our due diligence and leave it be.” Robards stands again. “And if Potter kills you before the weekend, I won’t stop him.”
“‘You won’t hurt me, Harry,’ he says, and there’s a hint of something dark and excited in his voice. 'I won’t be able to help myself,’ Harry says, his voice rising as he feels his teeth begin to sharpen in his mouth. 'Yes, you will,’ Malfoy says, looking him dead in the eye. Then he takes a step forward, leaning into Harry’s space and rubbing their cheeks together as he speaks in Harry’s ear, voice low and husky. 'Because if you kill me, you’ll never get to fuck me.’ Harry brings his hands up, almost against his will, to pull Malfoy against him. He groans as the thought of fucking Malfoy—of holding him down and filling him up—flashes into his mind. The wolf within him howls in pleasure at the image and the thought of it pushes him closer to losing control. He shoves Malfoy away and he stumbles back a step, a grin on his face that Harry wants to shake off him. 'You need to get out of here right now, Malfoy,’ Harry says and his voice is laced with desperation and a steadily-growing hunger. The moon rises above him and Harry can feel the exact moment it becomes impossible to resist. 'And for fucks sake,’ he closes his eyes for a second and takes a deep breath. He looks at Malfoy, cursing himself and Malfoy and every other fucking thing that had brought them here. 'Don’t run.’ Malfoy looks him dead in the eye and winks. And then he turns and runs.”
— Who we are in the shadows by anonymous (part of @hd-erised; authors will be revealed on January 10th!)
buckle up ‘cause the wizarding world has two badass bosses now
THIS!!!
How do you feel about use of the word 'baby' or other pet names in fic?
I love them (used sparingly, and appropriately within the scene)! I personally don't headcanon Harry and Draco as a couple who goes around calling each other pet names, and particularly not around other people. But I do think that sometimes during sex, when they're on sensory overload and their emotions are heightened, someone will call the other "baby". Or when one of them realizes how deep they're in it with the other, a helpless "sweetheart" (or several) will slip out.
And especially in those soft domestic moments -- such as when Harry, rumpled with his Auror robes unbuttoned and his t-shirt untucked, and Draco, tie-knot loosened and collar and waistcoat undone, will kick off their shoes, and Draco will lay atop Harry on the sofa, and they'll stay plastered to each other from head to foot, and one of them will call the other "love" and they'll let their hands wander as they recite the worst parts of their days in between soft, comforting kisses, during the hour this ritual sometimes lasts for before they get up to have dinner; such as how when Draco gets sick, Harry dotes on him and brings him eggs and tea and potions, and doesn't seem to realize he's called him nothing but "pet" every time he's asking if Draco wants a bath or checking for a fever (which might be why Draco always milks it for an extra day or two); such as when Harry's had a particularly crap day with the press, so Draco always makes the time to have his favorite takeaway ready when he steps out of their Floo, along with a glass of the good whisky, and coaxes Harry to rest his head in his lap so he can stroke through Harry's hair and murmur "darling" (and if it's slightly acerbic, "You're the hero of the whole bloody world, of course they're never going to give you a moment's peace, might help if you tried to look less dashing in those ugly robes, darling scarhead of mine" that makes it inexplicably better) -- those moments that mean the world to both of them, the ones they never let anyone see and have no idea how to explain when they're bitching about the other to their friends, and someone asks "WHY ARE YOU STILL WITH HIM, THEN?!" because it all feels somehow too personal and precious to share and who would believe it anyway, yes. Yes I think it happens, then.
And yes, I have a lot of ~feelings about the use of affectionate epithets.
I'm just not quite sure how to describe them. ❤
Cho: *tells Harry the next Hogsmeade visit in on valentines day*
Harry: hmm?? I wonder?? why she’s telling me this?????
I can’t stop laughing
Last night I asked y’all to send me palette choices for character studies and I got several folks asking for Renaissance, which thrilled me cause *GUH* it’s such a pretty set of colors.
So, here’s Draco, stressed the eff out, during the war. I have a slight obsession with him developing a smoking habit during those years. As always, I can never decide things so here’s him with two background options. Which one do you prefer?
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