Jennycriesalot

[jennycriesalot]

Hi!

Hi! I'm new here. I read a lot. Mostly hp fanfiction. Drarry is my otp, but I read all ships. I have an insta with the same name, but wanted to check this is out since some of my favourite writers are here.

Edit: I have now also started writing fanfiction.

Jennycriesalot | Archive of Our Own

[velvet4510]

Thoughts on the Elder Wand...

In canon, the Elder Wand transfers from master to master via disarming. We see this happen in several different ways; Grindelwald steals it, Dumbledore wins it in combat, Draco wins it in a victory of quick reflexes, and Harry obtains it by taking another wand from its master. This convoluted lore tends to create more questions than answers, and a few different possibilities arise in terms of technicality.

It could be that the lore about love as such a powerful magic in its own right applies to the Elder Wand as well. Though the in-world consensus is that only a forced disarming in combat can transfer ownership of it from one master to another, perhaps the opposite is also true. If the current master has enough love rather than hatred for the new master, perhaps that a part of them wants the new master to have it, then this could be why Dumbledore was able to defeat Grindelwald despite the latter apparently having the more powerful wand; Grindelwald did not want to kill the man he still loved and thus willingly yielded to prevent the duel from ending with death, relinquishing the wand to Dumbledore. And if you want to put on Drarry glasses, the fact that Harry just grabs Draco’s wand from him without much of a struggle implies Draco wants Harry to have it because he wants Harry to win this war, which may be motivated by romantic feelings, as well as his shifting morals and hatred of Voldemort. (The great Drarry fic 9 1/2 Days actually depicts Draco’s love for Harry as a sufficient transfer of Elder Wand ownership because of the importance of intent in magic.)

However there may be something else going on here. Out of all the known Elder Wand masters, only two did not master it via winning it in a duel or use of Expelliarmus in a confrontation — Grindelwald and Harry. Grindelwald obtains it by stealing it from Gregorovitch’s house. Harry obtains it by stealing Draco’s own wand, without him or Draco even touching the actual Elder Wand at that moment. So - if we throw out the love possibility and embrace the idea that winning the wand in a combat situation is THE bonafide way to become its new master - the technicalities seem to suggest neither Grindelwald nor Harry actually were its master. Voldemort proves that one does not need to be the Elder Wand’s master to use it somewhat sufficiently. If Gregorovitch was still technically its master by 1945, this could be the reason why Dumbledore was able to defeat Grindelwald at all; Grindelwald was not the master of the wand he was using. Same with Harry; with the lack of either actual physical contact with the Elder Wand itself or a proper magical disarming, Draco could very well have still been its master by the time of the Battle of Hogwarts. And Drarry or not, it’s a canon fact that Draco was disgusted with Voldemort and did not want him to win; he literally lied to cover for Harry, and only Crabbe and Goyle actually actively tried to harm Harry in the Fiendfyre scene whereas Draco just spoke likely empty words. So the Elder Wand’s refusal to kill Harry might not be a refusal to kill its true master, but rather an obedience to the wishes of its true master for Harry to not be harmed. Which falls right back into Drarry territory. It all comes back to Drarry…

[epiphainie]

slow burn where they're already having sex. such a beautiful combination i cannot put it into words

[eleadore]

seeing a lot of posts about fandom being an avenue to improve your craft and etc which is true but also you dont have to polish your work ever. no one NEEDS a beta. you dont even have to edit. you can just make stuff and its already worth sharing just because you made it.

[angeldog5]

beloved harry @drarrymicrofic | prompt: hesitate, history | tw: ambiguous ending

Draco's thirty-six and Harry's been gone nine years. Nines are significant numbers for Draco. Nine, the year he learned to fly a broom, and the last good one with his Father. Eighteen, accepted into the Aurors. Twenty-seven, his partner, Harry Potter, vanishes in the wind. This paints a nicer picture than the picture really is, but Draco gave up finding the right words a long time ago. 

He'd visualized extensively the moment of their reunion. Visualized Harry in a number of upsetting ways. Most often in these visualizations, Harry looked like Sirius, which Ron felt was likely to be the case. They went over his appearance at length, arguing back and forth. How long is his hair? How clumped? Or would he just shave it? The details were extremely important. When Draco saw Harry again, if he ever saw Harry again, there could be no hesitation. He would only have a second or two to cast. 

.

When they were twenty-seven, they'd had a couple bad cases. Draco didn't pay much mind. He'd had blinders on, just doing the next right thing. Being good was important to him, at the time, because of how he'd been raised. He didn't understand when Harry would rail about the uselessness of morality. He'd take Draco by the shoulders and press his burning gaze into Draco's—his eyes like green stars—say, "Don't let them use you. That's all that matters." 

Draco just thought Harry had a potions problem, which he did, but not the kind Draco imagined. When he allows himself to reflect back on it now, Draco's main conclusion is that he could've seen if he'd wanted to. It would've been so easy to see it. Harry left himself open to Draco in that way.

They'd been having sex since they were nineteen. The first time Harry cried afterward, these great quaking sobs. His body was a tree stripped by a violent, obliterating sandstorm. Draco held his hand and sat beside him. He'd felt that the most important thing was not to cage Harry. Not with arms, or expectant words. Just let him cry. 

Love came after that, and quickly. If there's such a thing as soulmates, then that's what they must be: getting to know Harry was like remembering him. Love is sort of lousy most of the time. It's not enough, toxic, or disappointing. Loving Harry was like a miracle, handed to Draco precisely because he was the least deserving of it. He'd tried to explain what they had to people, but no one ever understood. Draco didn't feel complete, or better in Harry's presence…he just loved Harry Potter, so, so much. 

If all the world and everything in it is a language, this language does not hold the word for their love. 

Hard then, when Harry came home one night, fidgeting with Draco's ring on his finger. "I have something to tell you," he began, looking quickly at Draco then away. "But it will change things between us."

Draco had pushed back from the table and stood, as if in some great rush. "Bed first," he said, shaky. Harry caught his gaze. For a heartbeat, he looked like a little wide-eyed kid again. Then he nodded, and they went upstairs and fell to bed. 

There was a ring of moonlight on Harry. He'd kissed Draco with all his strength, like he wanted to become him, and Draco returned this as it was given, and when Draco came his heart stopped because he knew his husband, everything about him. Though Harry had never said it before, Draco knew this was goodbye. 

"I killed some people," Harry admitted calmly as Draco held him in his arms. Draco made a hurt sound and squeezed him tighter. Buried his face in Harry's curls. The memory is blurred. He thinks he said some things like please no, oh no, my love no, no, no while Harry shared the gruesome details. 

The men Harry had killed weren't good men. If Draco were the judge, they deserved to die, but you can't just kill people. If he'd learned nothing else, Draco had learned that. He pushed Harry away from him, at some point, to the other side of the bed. They did not touch again.

With a bodybind twined carefully around Draco, Harry packed a bag. "I'm going to do some things," he said. "And you'll hate me. I know you will. But, there's rot in the world, Draco, do you—there's rot. And you must—" Harry wheeled around, holding a belt Draco had given him a couple Christmases past. They'd spent it with Theo and Luna, walking Hadrian's Wall. "You mustn't let them use you." 

.

Harry did some horrible things, after that, cutting out the rot. Bodies turned up in increasingly depraved states. Blood magic, dark magic, soul magic. One day Draco walked into the office to find a nine year old girl waiting for him. She'd died in one of those bad cases they'd had right before Harry left—yet here she was, like new. 

They knew Harry would come back for Draco one day. Harry knew they knew. Everyone knew everything and yet the world remained a terrible play with horrible roles that never changed. You can't get rid of rot, it's part of everything. 

Draco vowed not to hesitate. Harry wasn't Harry anymore. This is what Draco visualized: a person that only bore a passing resemblance to Harry Potter. 

.

But now he's thirty six, and Harry, nine years gone, is suddenly standing across a busy street from him in Rome. People pass between them, completely unaware of the monster in their midst, and his lover, across the way. Draco lifts his wand. Harry's lips twitch at the corners. He looks just the same. Wearing a jumper Draco bought him, glasses, hair, scar. Beloved Harry.

He'd let Draco kill him. Draco knows this. Harry knows he knows. He wants Draco to do it.

The din of the crowd fades to nothing, the passersby like shades. 

Nineteen: they'd gone skinny-dipping in a Muggle's above ground pool in Shoreditch at midnight. The moon caught in Harry's glasses, and he laughed like a little boy. Never been in a pool, he said, grabbing for Draco. Didn't matter which part of him. Arm, shoulder, waist, prick, they were all good with Harry. Drops of water sprayed in the air, catching the moon, catching the dark. The world felt like a crystal ball, full of good fortunes. I've never been much of anywhere. 

We'll fix that, Draco promised him. We'll fix everything. 

[coppercatbird]

Never again

@drarrymicrofic | prompt: butt | wc: 100

Harry’d been using magic, but the last one deserved his full attention. He crouched to pick up the cigarette, stubbed out days ago.

Everything had changed. 

Harry rolled the paper and foam between his fingers, remembering. Draco, sneaking into Harry’s garden at parties. Later, Harry following.

Harry sighed. Never again would he find Draco in that aristocratic slouch. Never again would he watch those lips purse as Draco cupped his hands round the tip. Never again would—

“I didn’t die, I quit, you maudlin freak,” Draco drawled, voice amused.

Harry dropped the cigarette into the bin, smiling.

Never again—forever.

[wordfather]

they're a problematic character TO YOU. they're problematic to me as well but I'm being weird and horny about it so it's different

[daddiesdrarryy]

Harry: You’re so annoying I wish you were gone, Malfoy

Draco: Are you flirting with me, Potter?

Draco: Because it’s working

[nsasquith]

@drarrymicrofic | prompt: But(t) | wc: 571 |

Unfortunately, Draco was very used to hearing but.

“Mr Malfoy, thank you for your Healer application. Your NEWT scores are exemplary, and we thoroughly enjoyed reading your dissertation. We would love to offer you a position at St Mungo’s, but we’ve decided to move forward with a candidate whose public profile is less complicated.” “Draco, I know our parents want us to get married, and whilst I think it wouldn’t be a terrible arrangement, I just can’t do it. You’re lovely and all, but I have to think of any children we might have. It would be so difficult for them to have a Death Eater as a father.” “Darling, you know I adore it when you visit. I really do live for them… but perhaps it would be easier if you came when it was dark out? So the press didn’t see you.” “You can work in the DMLE admin department, Malfoy. The pay is as shit as the hours, but it’s probably more than you deserve.”

So used to hearing but was Draco that he lived in a constant state of flight. One foot out the door. His heart tucked away safe and sound. It was easier to keep his guard up than risk the pain of letting someone close enough to wound him properly.

You would think, with so much practice, that his walls would be impenetrable. It took Harry Potter returning to England after years abroad for Draco to learn this was simply not true.

Polite smiles as they passed each other in the corridor became small talk in the cafeteria queue. Small talk became shared jokes over lunch. Shared jokes became Harry waiting by Draco’s desk at the end of the day, asking if he wanted to get a drink. One drink became two, became Harry’s hand on the small of Draco’s back, became trysts in the supply cupboard, nights at each other’s homes, weekends away, until somehow—impossibly—all of it became whispered promises between the sheets that Draco didn’t believe.

But gods, did he want to.

He wanted to believe so badly that, despite half his heart constantly bracing for the inevitability of but, the other half lived in hope of a full stop.

It came on a Wednesday evening. Harry and Draco stood side by side at the hob, both tired from work, both still in their shirtsleeves, cooking dinner together like they did most nights.

“You’re going to burn the garlic,” Draco said, reaching past Harry to turn down the heat. “Add the stock now.”

Harry did as he was told. “That enough?”

“Perfect. Add the rice and let it simmer for fifteen.” Draco glanced at the oven. “I think the chicken is almost done, you know—”

“I love you.”

So sudden it was that Draco froze. He braced himself, waiting for the but.

I love you, but this is difficult. I love you, but people will talk. I love you, but I don’t know if I can.

Only, it never came. Instead, Harry took his hand, threaded their fingers together, and stood so close that they were chest-to-chest, and Draco began to wonder.  

“I love you,” Harry said, softer this time. “That’s all.”

Draco swallowed. His heart was no longer tucked away safe and sound. It was right there in his throat, beating itself half to death because it was true.

“I love you too,” he said, his voice trembling.

[incognitoburritto]

Hypnotized

For @drarrymicrofic prompt: Butt. WC: 1092.

Landing back on British soil after almost three years away carried a sense of homecoming. 

That evening, he was interrupted as he unpacked his trunks by the pecking of an owl on his window.  He opened it, and the nondescript brown bird flew in to alight on the dresser, extending its leg for Draco to untie the parchment there. 

He offered the owl a treat, which it took, but it didn't fly away, which meant a reply was expected.

Unrolling the paper, he squinted at the messy scrawl.

Draco -

I heard you are back. I can't wait to see you and catch up. Come to pub night tomorrow. Please?

7p, The Drenched Duck 

P.S. My mobile number is below, but I've instructed Beatrice to wait for a reply in case you don't have a mobile.

Harry 

For several minutes, Draco just looked at the note, considering its implications. He'd been back only a few hours, and Harry already knew. Sure, they had become friendly before Draco had taken the position in America, even partnering on cases occasionally.  In truth, Draco's unrequited pining for the scrawny, messy-haired Gryffindor was one of the factors in Draco accepting the position with the American Auror force.

The change had been good for him. There, he'd been valued for his skills and knowledge without his past haunting him. He'd dated several men, one for several months. He'd been happy, but something was missing, time hadn't had the desired effect of wiping Harry from his mind. As that feeling grew, he knew, no matter the consequences, he had to come home.

So here was Harry Potter, inviting him to the pub on his first day back.

Before he could talk himself out of it, he pulled a blank sheet of paper from his desk and scribbled out a note.

Harry-

Thank you. I'll see you tomorrow at 7 then. 

Draco 

He tied the note to the owl's leg and set her on her way. Immediately picking up his mobile to text Pansy.  It turned out that Friday pub night was a tradition and was attended by many of their former classmates. 

Pansy: I think you'll quite enjoy yourself.

Draco: Why do you say that? 

Pansy: Oh, just a hunch

Tossing the mobile aside, Draco went back to his unpacking, determined not to dwell on the thought of seeing Harry again after all these years.

The next evening, Draco dressed carefully, his outfit as much armour as a fashion choice. Dark wash jeans, tight enough to show off his long legs and trim waist without being vulgar, and a dark grey button-down that he knew made his eyes stand out.  He'd let his hair grow while in America, and it now fell in loose waves around his face.

In an attempt to tamp down his nerves, he downed a large portion of fire whisky before apparating to the designated location. This, combined with the martini that Pansy pressed into his hand immediately upon his arrival, was at least partially to blame for what happened.

A gaggle of people entered the pub in a baffling assortment of attire. Some were in stained and torn Auror robes, others appeared in relatively normal street wear, while others still were in a variety of athletic apparel.

The group, loud and boisterous, headed for where they were sitting. It was only then that Draco recognised his former co-workers from the DMLE. Including Harry.

At the head of the group, a wide smile on his face, Harry had on the smallest pair of shorts Draco had ever seen. Thick, muscular thighs were completely bare below the abbreviated garment. His shirt, more of a vest really, clung to what was clearly a six-pack and his exposed biceps flexed in a truly mesmerising way as he slapped one of his companions on the back.

“Sorry we're late, a bit of a situation with a training exercise." 

His companions burst into laughter at what was clearly an understatement.

Harry noticed him then, possibly because Draco's mouth was hanging open. 

“Draco!" Harry sounded truly happy to see him. “I'm so glad you came!" 

Draco's mouth opened and closed, but no sound emerged.  His brain was short-circuiting. Harry Potter was fit. Obscenely so. He wanted those thighs wrapped around his waist as soon as possible.

Harry didn't seem to need him to respond, though, because he carried on. "I'll get the next round.”

If seeing this new version of Harry had rendered him speechless, then the version of him that graced Draco's vision when he walked away broke the filter between his brain and his mouth. He thought to whisper to Pansy, but what he did instead was all but shout, "Fucking hell, look at that butt!”

Across the table, Theo laughed openly while Weasley spluttered, "What?”

"Sorry,” Draco said, remembering he was no longer in America, " arse.”

"That's not what we were confused about, mate.”

Draco wasn't listening, he was watching the jiggle of muscle under the tightly stretched fabric that ended barely below the lush curve.

"Juicy as fuck,” Draco muttered, ignoring the reactions of his companions.

When Harry leaned over the bar to speak with the bartender, it was all Draco could do to stay in his seat.

All of the blood in his body rushed south, further removing any reservations his brain may have been trying to maintain.

“Yes, waiter, I'll have the cake for dinner." 

Visions of sinking his teeth into the most glorious bum he'd ever seen filled his mind. 

When Harry eventually turned to walk back to the table, levitating a tray of drinks behind him, Draco's eyes dropped to the way the shorts cupped the substantial bulge at the junction of his thighs.

"Alright, Draco?” Harry asked after the drinks were distributed. He squeezed into the booth next to Draco, and Draco whimpered.

"You've hypnotised him with your arse, mate,” Seamus Finnegan helpfully supplied.

Harry turned towards Draco with a wicked grin.  "Oh, there's only one cure for that, I'm afraid.”

Draco nodded, having no idea what he was agreeing to.

"Exposure therapy,”  Harry said gravely and stood back up and held his hand out to Draco. “Shall we?" 

He went to take the proffered hand but paused when Pansy touched his arm. 

“Draco, are you drunk? Do you know what's happening?" Draco blinked back to himself and turned to her. She really was a dear friend.

“Pansy love," Draco said, “I do not need to be saved. If I'm killed by the Saviour’s arse, just know that I died happy.”

[thedeepthought]

I love when authors get all hyped about their own fics and the plot twists they just dropped. Like, I’ll scroll down to the author’s note and it’ll be something like, “omg you guys I can't believe that just happened!!!” — as if they weren’t the ones who literally wrote it 😭😭 It’s so cute. It makes me ten times more excited to read because if the author’s losing their mind, I know I’m about to lose mine too.

[omgerd]

I’m the kind of person that will restart a song because i got distracted and wasn’t appreciating it enough.

[nelipar]

Captive Prince

<Spoilers⚠️>

[ma4chestier]

best fucking shit in all captive prince trilogy me thinks is when damen saves laurent in a court with his very own critical thinking skills while laurent saves damen from his brother with his own strenght and fighting style, because there is no more perfect way of saying "thank you for saving me before, now let me save you too" than doing so in the other's language

[cannedebonbon]

speedy doodle based on The Consummation by @josselinkohl because that fic fucked me up.

[karcatgirl-vantas]

the default way for things to taste is good. we know this because "tasty" means something tastes good. conversely, from the words "smelly" and "noisy" we can conclude that the default way for things to smell and sound is bad. interestingly there are no corresponding adjectives for the senses of sight and touch. the inescapable conclusion is that the most ordinary object possible is invisible and intangible, produces a hideous cacophony, smells terrible, but tastes delicious. and yet this description matches no object or phenomenon known to science or human experience. so what the fuck

[skluug]

this is what ancient greek philosophy is like

[ace-disgrace-on-the-case]

False! “Sightly” is a positive word, so the default way for things to work is good as well.

The true most ordinary object is beautiful, horrible sounding, very smelly, intangible, and delicious.

I still don’t think it matches anything in existence but to truly understand a thing one must know its true nature.

[professionalchaoticdumbass]

"touchy" is also a word! however it's mostly used for things that aren't objects, like subjects of conversation. it either means "oversensitive and irritable" or "requires careful handling/wording, delicate"

i think the second one works well for our hypothetical object. so we can use that.

therefore, the Default Object is:

beautiful

makes a horrendous sound

smells absolutely awful

is very fragile

tastes delicious

and i still cannot think of anything that matches this

[and-a-pidgey-in-a-wepear-tree]

behold, the default object!

[birdplushie]

"it's not that deep" START DIGGING!!

[magn-animously]

DIG

[14-opossums-in-a-trenchcoat]

DIG

[buriedunderyourmum]

DIG

[hannisconfused]

DIG

[kitsunesakii]

DIG

[yourlocalfandomfriendo]

DIG

[apple-notplural]

DIG

[vivitur-moritur]

DIG

[spacecat24-7]

DIG

[chub-froggy]

DIG

[thatghostthateatspeople]

DIG

[krowbreaker]

DIG

[spid-the-spider]

DIG

[annabelle--cane]

DIG

[yellow-faerie]

DIG

[vampiraptor]

[philosopherking1887]

OOPS TOO DEEP

[breaks-hetheon]

CLIMB

[artist-of-obsessions]

CLIMB

[fablegate]

CLIMB

[marzibird]

CLIMB

[the-luckyrabbit]

CLIMB

[staarbles]

CLIMB

[modmad]

[sebwritesstories]