lup/bren | 30 | she | ♡ inexplicably, a harry potter (side) blog. drarry, wolfstar, et cetera. anti-terf/anti-jkr. ( prone to parentheticals ) @spilling-starlight
After the War, the boys finally fall into each other. Meaning: into bed. ♡
originally for the kinkuary prompt: first time | title derived from the lyrics of shatter by maggie rogers | ⋆˙⟡
failed pwp smut that somehow grew feelings & developed some kind of character study complex ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ | author’s notes in the tags because i’m yelling
drarry | word count: ~8.4k (!) | rating: explicit! | tags: first time, multiple pov, post-war, developing relationship, fighting as flirting, horny & yearning
excerpt expanded below the cut & full fic on ao3 here. ⋆˙⟡
_ _ _
excerpt:
“Would you— Merlin’s sake, just move,” comes the hiss over his shoulder, and Harry’s trying effortfully not to trip up the narrow flight of stairs.
The sound of the bar below goes on, reverberating, the Leaky lending itself to boisterousness on the weekends, post-War. They’re a weary eight months out, all haze, rote and muddled and dulled.
Except this, now, striking.
Malfoy’s thigh pressed to his beneath the table: a coal iron.
Malfoy’s shoulder meeting his at the bar: a brand.
Malfoy’s hands in his hair in the back hall by the exit: flint sparking.
Malfoy’s mouth on his mouth in the alley: pure lightning.
Harry’s senses are suddenly alight, wanting, and he’s willing, finally, so sick of loss, to reach toward it.
In the alleyway, the earlier evening rain still slick on the cobbles, Malfoy had drawn back just enough to breathe the word, “Bed,” between them. Harry’d groaned against his throat.
There was no chance they’d go to the Manor, and Harry had no intention of inviting him to Grimmauld (earning its name— grim and old, old and grim).
“Come on,” he’d huffed, sound coming from somewhere low in his throat, somewhere he hadn’t even known words lived.
They'd tucked in and out of invisibility, covered in it carelessly, two of them, and too tall, their footfalls almost certainly obvious to anyone perceptive enough to check (—nonesuch presiding presently, a small stroke of luck).
He’d dropped the sickles on the counter in exchange for a key, and then— the torturous tumble upward.
. . . . .
They stumble into one of the rented rooms on the second floor— any and all defining characteristics lost in the space between the doorway and the bed. Malfoy pushes him away and onto the mattress, slips from his shoes, neatly tosses his cloak.
Harry’s chest is heaving and he’s counting the buttons on Malfoy’s shirt to calm himself, a task which becomes exponentially more difficult once Malfoy begins sliding them from their loops.
“Wait,” he says, surprising himself with the wrecked sort of sound that comes out.
Malfoy halts, his eyes flicking upward.
“Here,” Harry says, sitting upright, reaching, tugging at the leg of his trousers.
Malfoy steps forward, slow, and Harry’s fingers find his where they’ve frozen. He begins to slip the buttons free, and Malfoy’s hands falter a moment before dropping to his sides.
The buttons give, (four, five, six, seven, eight), and Harry tugs the shirt, untucking it, before his thumb settles over the fasten at the front of his trousers. Malfoy’s gone so still and quiet that Harry worries for a moment he’s lost him.
“This one?” he asks, gaze lifting.
Over him, Malfoy’s eyes are as dark as he’s ever seen them, heavy clouds, a storm-sought sea, the brows above drawn in a tight line. He nods, the movement small and sharp but unmistakable, and Harry keeps his eyes locked on him as he slips the buckle loose.
He catches the careful exhale as he slides Malfoy’s trousers downward, over the narrow line of his hips, milk-pale thighs giving way to knees to shins to ankles. Harry drinks it in.
Malfoy steps out of the fabric once it pools at his feet, a cursory kick to send them aside. The shirt, hanging open, he absolves of his shoulders, dropped unceremonious into the growing pile of his clothes.
Harry hasn’t stopped staring, determines it’s too late now to pretend. Malfoy’s pants are a deep blue, near dark as the night sky against the starlight of his skin. There’s a mole above his waistband that Harry can’t help catching with his lips— a subtle press that slips him before he can even decide he’s doing it. He leans back, face tipping upward again.
He draws one hand to Malfoy’s wrist, and at the answering flinch, he slows, sliding his fingers to Malfoy’s fingertips.
“Touch me,” he says, lifting Malfoy’s hand toward himself.
And maybe permission was all he needed— one hand fast finds the side of Harry’s throat, splayed there, thumb digging at his jaw, pulse thrumming underneath. The other twines in his hair, harsh, and Harry sucks in a breath.
He watches Malfoy’s mouth fall open, slight, his throat shift around a swallow. He reaches up, his hand hooking over Malfoy’s shoulder to draw him down, closer, in. Malfoy’s mouth meets his, hot and heady, all-encompassing. He presses Harry down, and they break apart only long enough for Harry to shuffle back on the bed.
[ boys bonding & the one (1) wicked woman facilitating. ⋆˙⟡ | or: the intricacies of being cursed into proximity & mortal peril. ♡ | for the @drarrymicrofic prompt: bond ]
drarry | word count: ~970 | rating: t
_ _ _
Cicely Carreau was a pureblooded witch who, at Hogwarts, had been a handful of years their junior. A Slytherin, high marks, especially adept in Charms and Herbology. All, now, of course, in her DMLE file.
Her family had relocated to Luxembourg in 1996, where she ultimately finished her studies, the lot of them evading the worst of the Voldemort business and living a mild, peaceable existence as magical expats. Still, Echternach had never quite been home. That, and nothing spelled “power vacuum” quite like post-War Britain.
What could she say? Old prejudices died hard. (Well, refused to die. Rather like herself, in that regard.)
“Cuplamore cruciatus!” she snapped, red light sparking and tearing from the end of her wand. Its target— the blonde fellow, Malvo-whoever— shifting seconds too late toward defensive posture.
He needn’t worry, though. The curse wouldn’t hurt him. (Not yet.)
She sought a secondary subject, then found she hardly had to bother.
The lead Auror— quick, his green eyes keen on his counterpart— leapt between the crimson arrow of the curse and Mr. M.
A wasted effort, really, but what fun to watch.
The spell briefly split his sternum, in the same-second-span stitching him closed & searing through his spine.
Cicely missed seeing the second strike, but did not miss its measure. M’s eyes flew open before wincing shut, his hand rising to clutch at Auror Potter’s shoulder, the red robes, golden epaulet, crushed beneath his grasp.
Cicely grinned broadly, twisting the end of her wand, the shape of the knot drawn taut, tethering.
“Oh, dear,” she called, as the men staggered against one another. “No sense of self-preservation with the two of you. I’ll tell you, though, the spell’s going to love that.”
She tugged sharply at her wand and watched as, instead of reaching for their own wounds, each man turned to the other.
“So terribly sad,” she crooned, dodging a furious Bombarda, casting aside a sharp Incarcerous.
“You see,” she said, tossing up a shield and scrabbling over the rubble toward the exit, “love only gives the pain more power. A bit sick, isn’t it?”
She felt it then, the barrage of feeling that tremored through the bond, her wand still tracing the edges of it by mere proximity. The flutter of panic-recognition-secrecy-embarrassment-shock-horror-delight that tore through them.
“Oh,” she said, then cackled against the sheer idiocy. “You didn’t know? Well. Hate to be the bearer of bad news.”
She stepped through the doorway, felt the bounds of the anti-Apparition wards loose at last.
“Confringo!” Mr. M called, form precise in spite of the stagger to his step. Auror Potter caught him at the elbow as he stumbled.
Merlin, what she’d give to stay and see them struggle. Alas.
“Careful, boys! The spell’s a bit touchy, if you catch my drift. Do keep it happy.”
This line of work didn’t lend itself to play too terribly often. What a pity it would be to waste the opportunity.
“Proximity should be sufficient, you know, casual touch. Though it can get a little greedy.”
She knew monologuing was gauche, and yet they made it so easy. She grinned, sharp.
“All else failing, nothing a decent fuck won’t fix.”
Even at this distance, Potter’s ears went scarlet. M’s— Malfoy, that was it, Circe’s tits, finally— Malfoy’s fingers went sheet white around his wand.
It wouldn’t help, of course— fucking. But such a red herring was the least of her crimes. The pocket watch hanging from her belt pulsed, once, twice, thrice, a warning, a reminder.
She took it in hand, quickly recasting her Protego.
Potter remained cleverer than he looked, seeming to divine that the curse was somehow still yoked to the length of aspen caught in the curl of her fingers.
“Expelliarmus!” he shouted through gritted teeth, and what a thrill, to have that particular spell directed her way.
But he was too late, and too weak now, besides. The pocket watch gave one final, violent shake against her palm, and then she vanished, cataclysmic. Debris went crashing in her wake, the doorframe folding— fractured, buckled.
The seconds stammered.
Quiet fell.
Dust did its level best to settle.
“Potter,” Draco breathed, the tense composure of him gone tremulous.
Harry turned toward him, then startled at the raw line of red between them, tracing from one ribcage to the other, the light of it emanant and pulsing, venous. He stumbled a half-step back, and Draco coughed, one hand sweeping sharply towards his heart, the other scrabbling at Harry’s shoulder, drawing him closer.
“Don’t—” he said, choking around the word, whatever after it dying in his throat.
The pang seemed to hit Harry on some sort of delay— he winced, teeth clenched, palm grasping harsh and heavy at Draco’s arm where it linked them. The sound that rose was equal part pain and fury.
“What the fuck kind of curse—?” he murmured beneath labored breath.
Draco bowed toward him, forehead dipping forward, leaving the barest room between the imminent press of their skin.
Harry closed the distance, the relief immediate and unkind.
“The kind that kills slowly,” Draco whispered, fingers trailing the seam of Harry’s uniform to the collar, the exposed side of his neck.
“She can track us. And they’ll try to separate us,” he said, hand curling over Harry’s nape.
Harry sighed into it, dropping his face to the crook beneath Draco’s jaw, nosing along the column of his throat.
Draco hummed, barely conscious of the sound, but Harry felt it go through him like lightning. Every feeling had gone frenetic, fundamental.
Draco exhaled heavily, turning his face into the impulse, pressing his cheek to Harry’s curls.
“They’ll separate us,” he went on, desperately reaching for reason, the sunken semblance of rationality. (Harry’s hand sliding up his spine made thinking very hard.) But vital, and thus vehement:
[ boys dancing & daring. ⋆˙⟡ | or: one inebriated draco malfoy, one dutiful harry potter, an effort at dancing, and some rather public proceedings. ♡ | for the @drarrymicrofic prompt: ball ]
drarry | word count: ~800 | rating: m
_ _ _
The charity ball had been a horrible idea.
“Draco— Merlin’s sake, watch your feet.”
Draco’s Oxfords go traipsing over Harry’s brogues. Again.
“Your fault, Potter. If you’ll recall, you’re the one who kept—” (here, he stumbles) “—kept handing me glasses of Merlot.”
“God, it was a Malbec. You taught me that.”
Draco’s right heel finds his left foot, and Harry winces.
“You’re also the one who taught me to dance, though I very much doubt anyone would believe that at the moment.”
The following step on his toes feels more pointed.
The music swells, and he loses the frame, form shifting against Draco’s self-righting grip on his jacket— pulling himself upward, inadvertently closer.
“Hello,” Draco says, nose bumping against Harry’s chin as he straightens.
“Hi,” Harry answers, quiet, the pinched edge of panic ebbing a moment. “You could try for composure,” he murmurs. “There are photographers.”
“Photog—?” Draco’s gaze swings sideways, spotting the young woman from the Prophet, Qwik Quill scribbling at her shoulder. “Hm,” he breathes, forehead dropping to Harry’s shoulder.
Harry’s hand finds his elbow, steadying. “What? We can sit. Do you need—”
His words stall— hands, cold and hands, are suddenly beneath his shirt. He can feel the fabric rucked upward, his back and sides exposed.
He tugs at Draco’s wrists, immediate and adamant, until the offending appendages drop to his sides.
“Hands, watch your hands,” he hisses, skin tingling under the memory of his palms.
Draco’s mouth curls into a slow smile. “But you told me to watch my feet.”
“You’re a menace,” Harry says, with far less bite than could be reasonably afforded.
Somehow, they’re still moving, slow-spun circles that have lost the better sense of timing.
Draco leans in (and in) and laughs direct into his collar, the soft hum of it a heady warmth against Harry’s throat.
“We could give them a picture worth printing, don’t you think?” Draco says, low, stepping closer, their chests practically flush.
Harry’s feet stop, the Morganese waltz brought to sharp conclusion in spite of the ongoing lilt of the orchestra. His hand at Draco’s waist has gone a bit desperate, fingers all ache and restraint.
“That’s it. I’m taking you home.”
Draco hums approvingly.
“Your home,” Harry amends, certain the plum stain of his cheeks must be visible fifty meters out.
“Good,” Draco mumbles, nodding, then effortfully pulling himself into near-proper posture.
He dips his lips to Harry’s ear, too close, brushing his jaw just so as he sways, whispering: “I have better bedsheets.”
Harry’s grip goes rigid at his wrist. He does not deign an answer.
As he tows him toward the cloakroom, into its meager privacy, unmistakable is the mechanical shutter, the camera flash, accompanying their retreat.
.
“You’re being ridiculous. And nothing could happen anyway,” he tells Draco, practical, tossing his cloak (grey wool, dovish) around his shoulders, helping to fix the fasten at his front. “You’re drunk. Very drunk.”
Draco’s mouth pulls into a pout, and Harry forces his focus elsewhere, suddenly intent on buttoning his own coat.
Then, Draco’s fingers, just above the top loop, catching tight and tugging him forward. Harry startles, the proximity even more… proximous than prior.
“I’ll take a sobering potion.”
Draco’s free hand wraps around, finds the nape of Harry’s neck. The steady press of his fingers sends a shiver stippling through Harry’s shoulders, outward and through. Draco’s eyes are alight, expectant, as he whispers: “And I’ll still want to fuck you.”
Jesus, Mary, and Merlin.
Harry stammers out: “That— You— I—”
He takes a breath and gently pulls Draco’s grasp from his skin.
“I’m not negotiating this until we at least get you through the Floo.”
Draco snorts, then covers the sound, pink tipping his ears. He coughs, a clearing thing.
“Negotiation,” he says, fixed flat and smirking. He pokes at the breastpocket of Harry’s coat. “Very sexy.”
Harry rolls his eyes, but feels the smile insisting at the edges of his mouth. He guides Draco out of the gallery, down the corridor.
“Potter,” Draco whispers, his fingers once again seeking, finding, touching. They thread themselves through the very ends of his curls.
“Hm?” Harry says, maneuvering open the gate on the lift, trying to carefully tuck Draco inside without having him stumble over the edge of it.
Draco drops his chin, finding the downward slant of Harry’s focus.
“You danced very well,” he says, the sound of it too soft, his gaze searingly sincere. He slumps against Harry’s shoulder, letting out a huff, mildly disgruntled. “But I won’t say that sober.”
Harry warms, and whether it’s the cramped space (it isn’t), the stuffy robes (wrong again), or the easy presence of the man beside him (…), he finds he doesn’t mind.
[ boys dancing & daring. ⋆˙⟡ | or: one inebriated draco malfoy, one dutiful harry potter, an effort at dancing, and some rather public proceedings. ♡ | for the @drarrymicrofic prompt: ball ]
drarry | word count: ~800 | rating: m
_ _ _
The charity ball had been a horrible idea.
“Draco— Merlin’s sake, watch your feet.”
Draco’s Oxfords go traipsing over Harry’s brogues. Again.
“Your fault, Potter. If you’ll recall, you’re the one who kept—” (here, he stumbles) “—kept handing me glasses of Merlot.”
“God, it was a Malbec. You taught me that.”
Draco’s right heel finds his left foot, and Harry winces.
“You’re also the one who taught me to dance, though I very much doubt anyone would believe that at the moment.”
The following step on his toes feels more pointed.
The music swells, and he loses the frame, form shifting against Draco’s self-righting grip on his jacket— pulling himself upward, inadvertently closer.
“Hello,” Draco says, nose bumping against Harry’s chin as he straightens.
“Hi,” Harry answers, quiet, the pinched edge of panic ebbing a moment. “You could try for composure,” he murmurs. “There are photographers.”
“Photog—?” Draco’s gaze swings sideways, spotting the young woman from the Prophet, Qwik Quill scribbling at her shoulder. “Hm,” he breathes, forehead dropping to Harry’s shoulder.
Harry’s hand finds his elbow, steadying. “What? We can sit. Do you need—”
His words stall— hands, cold and hands, are suddenly beneath his shirt. He can feel the fabric rucked upward, his back and sides exposed.
He tugs at Draco’s wrists, immediate and adamant, until the offending appendages drop to his sides.
“Hands, watch your hands,” he hisses, skin tingling under the memory of his palms.
Draco’s mouth curls into a slow smile. “But you told me to watch my feet.”
“You’re a menace,” Harry says, with far less bite than could be reasonably afforded.
Somehow, they’re still moving, slow-spun circles that have lost the better sense of timing.
Draco leans in (and in) and laughs direct into his collar, the soft hum of it a heady warmth against Harry’s throat.
“We could give them a picture worth printing, don’t you think?” Draco says, low, stepping closer, their chests practically flush.
Harry’s feet stop, the Morganese waltz brought to sharp conclusion in spite of the ongoing lilt of the orchestra. His hand at Draco’s waist has gone a bit desperate, fingers all ache and restraint.
“That’s it. I’m taking you home.”
Draco hums approvingly.
“Your home,” Harry amends, certain the plum stain of his cheeks must be visible fifty meters out.
“Good,” Draco mumbles, nodding, then effortfully pulling himself into near-proper posture.
He dips his lips to Harry’s ear, too close, brushing his jaw just so as he sways, whispering: “I have better bedsheets.”
Harry’s grip goes rigid at his wrist. He does not deign an answer.
As he tows him toward the cloakroom, into its meager privacy, unmistakable is the mechanical shutter, the camera flash, accompanying their retreat.
.
“You’re being ridiculous. And nothing could happen anyway,” he tells Draco, practical, tossing his cloak (grey wool, dovish) around his shoulders, helping to fix the fasten at his front. “You’re drunk. Very drunk.”
Draco’s mouth pulls into a pout, and Harry forces his focus elsewhere, suddenly intent on buttoning his own coat.
Then, Draco’s fingers, just above the top loop, catching tight and tugging him forward. Harry startles, the proximity even more… proximous than prior.
“I’ll take a sobering potion.”
Draco’s free hand wraps around, finds the nape of Harry’s neck. The steady press of his fingers sends a shiver stippling through Harry’s shoulders, outward and through. Draco’s eyes are alight, expectant, as he whispers: “And I’ll still want to fuck you.”
Jesus, Mary, and Merlin.
Harry stammers out: “That— You— I—”
He takes a breath and gently pulls Draco’s grasp from his skin.
“I’m not negotiating this until we at least get you through the Floo.”
Draco snorts, then covers the sound, pink tipping his ears. He coughs, a clearing thing.
“Negotiation,” he says, fixed flat and smirking. He pokes at the breastpocket of Harry’s coat. “Very sexy.”
Harry rolls his eyes, but feels the smile insisting at the edges of his mouth. He guides Draco out of the gallery, down the corridor.
“Potter,” Draco whispers, his fingers once again seeking, finding, touching. They thread themselves through the very ends of his curls.
“Hm?” Harry says, maneuvering open the gate on the lift, trying to carefully tuck Draco inside without having him stumble over the edge of it.
Draco drops his chin, finding the downward slant of Harry’s focus.
“You danced very well,” he says, the sound of it too soft, his gaze searingly sincere. He slumps against Harry’s shoulder, letting out a huff, mildly disgruntled. “But I won’t say that sober.”
Harry warms, and whether it’s the cramped space (it isn’t), the stuffy robes (wrong again), or the easy presence of the man beside him (…), he finds he doesn’t mind.
[ on the sharpening of pencils. ⋆˙⟡ | for the @drarrymicrofic prompt: charm | title after the allegedly uk-popular pencil brand ]
drarry | word count: ~1,480 (ah, decidedly not a microfic— sorry!) | rating: t
_ _ _
“It’s sort of an odd charm to know,” Harry remarks, offhand, one evening. The sun is sinking, late spring light flooding in with the few added hours, but still, they spend it cooped up inside.
Research, for Teddy, on his behalf— the unique makeup of his genes causing certain magical… hiccups. Metamorphmagus and werewolf, half, each adamant, each sending the other a touch haywire the older he grows, the more his magic manifests.
There’s a certain kind of hurt in that. It’s too much, and all they can offer is too little, in those spare moments when he brings himself (blue-haired, brown-haired, bright-eyed boy; boisterous & buoyant & brave) to asking the hard questions, those ones they don’t have the answers to.
(Yet. They don’t have answers yet.)
To Harry’s left, diagonal, Draco sits folded over his notebook, number two pencil in hand. His attention hardly breaks at Harry’s musing, lead never leaving the line on which it’s writing. Still, the answer etches, even— not kind, not not kind.
“How do you mean?”
Harry drums his fingers over the tabletop, traces a whorl in the woodgrain.
“Just, you know, specific. And not especially novel. Which is a quality some might say you’re prone to seeking. With things like that.”
He flicks his own quill back and forth, sends it levitating through the stacks of the Ministry library before calling it back again.
It’s just that something unsettles, seeing Malfoy’s script, small and neat, scratched in shades of subtle grey. To see it— once in a long while— erased away.
The reason doesn’t hold, he knows. But wizards don’t use pencils. They just don’t.
He prods at solutions, in spite of the lack of problem.
“You could get a self-replenishing ink well. Or some biros, if you’re looking for a closer quill alternative.”
Draco’s eyes do flicker upward then, and Harry catches his expression as it wars one way, and then another.
He places his pencil on the table.
“Before they would see me in the Wizengamot,” Draco says, and sees Harry bristle at the thought, “which you know took a rather long while—”
He hesitates a moment, the precipice edge of confessional. Tips forward.
“During that time, my magic use was severely restricted. And as you well know, magical items are quite directly correlated. For the most part, the magic of them doesn’t originate within the object— it’s drawn from within the owner.”
He stretches, unrolling his shoulders from the position he’s held for the last few hours.
He’s not sure why he’s speaking quite so freely, even as the words fumble forth. The hours trifling over text, leafing through the tomes that litter the table, have left him tired. Loose-lipped and too far at ease, or anyway, too long laboring to keep aloof and close-guarded. He quiets. Then carries on.
“Magical core suspension meant no qwik quills. No brooms, no Floo, no recreational owl post. And absolutely no use of wands. Not for spells. Not for charms.”
He fidgets a beat with the signet ring where it rests on his pinky finger, twirling it ‘round, wrong-sided, then back again. Pressing his thumb softly to the flat face of it.
Then— the point.
“After the war, I spent lots of time drawing.”
Draco can picture them, (still, immediate)— the pages upon pages of parchment, sketches stretching to every margin. The mere act a diversion. Desperate, then devotional. A place to put all the things that had been displaced. Somewhere to direct the devastation, and the long, dour days.
“We ran out of Muggle-style ink at the Manor rather quickly. But the DMLE Junior Officer assigned to me took a bit of pity— Merlin knows why. She left me four pencils, once.”
He can still see her— tidy auburn hair; heavy, attentive brows— setting the pencils unceremoniously on the desktop in the guest study, where he often holed himself away during Ministry observation days. The resonant clack of the wood, her slight nod towards them. “To replace your quills,” she’d said, then left no space for question, striding from the room.
(Half-blooded, he recalls, then feels foolish for recalling. Strives to remember something else: Coffee, not tea; hazelnut syrup, flimsy paper cups. The watch she wore, navy blue band, digital numbers blinking in block font. Twenty-five or so, in age— right around as old as he was now.)
(He reaches for her first name. Fails to find it.)
Upon her appearance in the the room, (then— an age ago, a blink), he’d hardly let his gaze leave the windows, heavy curtains drawn back, where outside a sparrow was flitting about on the ground, selecting dry pieces of grass with a deliberateness Draco couldn’t ever remember expending on the outdoors.
He couldn’t say the number of Galleons, in that moment, he would have given to be allowed out— to scatter birdseed in the tea garden, labyrinthian rows of overgrown orchids and temperamental peony, capped by bushes of long-familiar hydrangeas, themselves encroaching upon some forty years of age. To be let to lie down in the summer pasture as June slowly dappled itself green again.
He hums, an absent acknowledgment of his own stumble into memory. He re-emerges, fingers rolling his writing utensil of choice over the library’s oaken tabletop.
“I didn’t know about pencil sharpeners, and didn’t have one besides. Merlin, I hardly knew about pencils,” he huffs, mouth twisting with mirth. It milds.
“So I’d whittle away at them with a nearly-useless penknife, more heirloom than tool. I’d sharpen them, careful, our old house el—”
Draco’s cheeks go into high color as he amends, admonishes himself.
“Miffy’s favourite expression echoing in my head, over and over. ‘Waste not, want not. Waste not, want not.’”
The next line arrives through a smile, and something in that makes Harry’s chest ache, makes the space behind his sternum itchy with a care he can’t quite quantify, not without bringing himself to acknowledge it, (which he won’t).
“Potter, I don’t know that I can account for the number of splinters I was subject to over the course of that handful of months.”
He had sharpened each pencil to shavings.
He had used them until they were stubs.
He pulls his thermos of coffee closer. Harry checks his tea, under Stasis.
“You don’t realize all the frivolous things we use magic for until the option no longer exists,” Draco continues, half under his breath. He takes a long sip of coffee, gaze gone a bit distant before he shakes himself back into the moment, a seriousness settling over his shoulders once more.
“Most days, anymore, I do my washing up by hand,” he says, “even though I don’t have to,” and Harry does a decent enough job of burying his surprise.
Draco goes on:
“I have a Hoover, and I run the tap when I need water. Keep a battery-powered torch for when it’s dark. It’s… silly, I suppose, sometimes. Tedious, for certain.”
His glance flicks to Harry for a beat, two, like he’s inviting him to intervene, to tell him to stop— Enough with the melodrama, Malfoy.
Harry doesn’t.
Draco ducks his head, chews the inside of his cheek a moment. Deliberates stopping himself. Proceeds, in spite.
His voice goes thin, gossamer.
“But magic is magical, isn’t it? I think I understand more, now, what Muggles mean by that particular adjective.”
He draws his wand from the inner pocket of his cloak, and it isn’t until it’s in his hand that Harry realizes how truly infrequently he’s seen him use it of late.
He says, for the second time this evening:
“Radiosa plumbscriptus.”
From the table, the black-and-yellow Staedtler Noris lifts itself, lofty, and does a sharp spin, shavings unfurling tidily from the writing end, slate-shaded & sure. It comes to a stop, a perfect point, the shavings raining downward and disappearing, blinking out like starlight on a windy night, before they ever touch the table.
It stills. Settles, dipping into the predestined groove of Draco’s hand, against crook of his thumb, finding a home in the fine clutch of his fingers.
(It is an odd charm. An odd charm to it.)
Draco’s mouth draws in a tight smile— Wistful, Harry thinks, or wry.
“Magical,” Draco whispers. He prods at his fingertips, left-handed, thumbnail catching on the ridges of each print, and Harry can imagine the pinprick of pain like the memory’s his own, splintering.
Draco’s gaze trips over Harry, the fractured look on his face, then lands back on his notes, neat and numbered. He resolves himself. Resumes his work.
And as Harry watches the script trail to the page, the unremarkable grace of graphite, and the soft scratching sound it leaves behind, he hears him murmur, (subtle, half-secret):
“So. I prefer pencils. But I don’t imagine I’ll sharpen one by hand ever again.”
[ on the sharpening of pencils. ⋆˙⟡ | for the @drarrymicrofic prompt: charm | title after the allegedly uk-popular pencil brand ]
drarry | word count: ~1,480 (ah, decidedly not a microfic— sorry!) | rating: t
_ _ _
“It’s sort of an odd charm to know,” Harry remarks, offhand, one evening. The sun is sinking, late spring light flooding in with the few added hours, but still, they spend it cooped up inside.
Research, for Teddy, on his behalf— the unique makeup of his genes causing certain magical… hiccups. Metamorphmagus and werewolf, half, each adamant, each sending the other a touch haywire the older he grows, the more his magic manifests.
There’s a certain kind of hurt in that. It’s too much, and all they can offer is too little, in those spare moments when he brings himself (blue-haired, brown-haired, bright-eyed boy; boisterous & buoyant & brave) to asking the hard questions, those ones they don’t have the answers to.
(Yet. They don’t have answers yet.)
To Harry’s left, diagonal, Draco sits folded over his notebook, number two pencil in hand. His attention hardly breaks at Harry’s musing, lead never leaving the line on which it’s writing. Still, the answer etches, even— not kind, not not kind.
“How do you mean?”
Harry drums his fingers over the tabletop, traces a whorl in the woodgrain.
“Just, you know, specific. And not especially novel. Which is a quality some might say you’re prone to seeking. With things like that.”
He flicks his own quill back and forth, sends it levitating through the stacks of the Ministry library before calling it back again.
It’s just that something unsettles, seeing Malfoy’s script, small and neat, scratched in shades of subtle grey. To see it— once in a long while— erased away.
The reason doesn’t hold, he knows. But wizards don’t use pencils. They just don’t.
He prods at solutions, in spite of the lack of problem.
“You could get a self-replenishing ink well. Or some biros, if you’re looking for a closer quill alternative.”
Draco’s eyes do flicker upward then, and Harry catches his expression as it wars one way, and then another.
He places his pencil on the table.
“Before they would see me in the Wizengamot,” Draco says, and sees Harry bristle at the thought, “which you know took a rather long while—”
He hesitates a moment, the precipice edge of confessional. Tips forward.
“During that time, my magic use was severely restricted. And as you well know, magical items are quite directly correlated. For the most part, the magic of them doesn’t originate within the object— it’s drawn from within the owner.”
He stretches, unrolling his shoulders from the position he’s held for the last few hours.
He’s not sure why he’s speaking quite so freely, even as the words fumble forth. The hours trifling over text, leafing through the tomes that litter the table, have left him tired. Loose-lipped and too far at ease, or anyway, too long laboring to keep aloof and close-guarded. He quiets. Then carries on.
“Magical core suspension meant no qwik quills. No brooms, no Floo, no recreational owl post. And absolutely no use of wands. Not for spells. Not for charms.”
He fidgets a beat with the signet ring where it rests on his pinky finger, twirling it ‘round, wrong-sided, then back again. Pressing his thumb softly to the flat face of it.
Then— the point.
“After the war, I spent lots of time drawing.”
Draco can picture them, (still, immediate)— the pages upon pages of parchment, sketches stretching to every margin. The mere act a diversion. Desperate, then devotional. A place to put all the things that had been displaced. Somewhere to direct the devastation, and the long, dour days.
“We ran out of Muggle-style ink at the Manor rather quickly. But the DMLE Junior Officer assigned to me took a bit of pity— Merlin knows why. She left me four pencils, once.”
He can still see her— tidy auburn hair; heavy, attentive brows— setting the pencils unceremoniously on the desktop in the guest study, where he often holed himself away during Ministry observation days. The resonant clack of the wood, her slight nod towards them. “To replace your quills,” she’d said, then left no space for question, striding from the room.
(Half-blooded, he recalls, then feels foolish for recalling. Strives to remember something else: Coffee, not tea; hazelnut syrup, flimsy paper cups. The watch she wore, navy blue band, digital numbers blinking in block font. Twenty-five or so, in age— right around as old as he was now.)
(He reaches for her first name. Fails to find it.)
Upon her appearance in the the room, (then— an age ago, a blink), he’d hardly let his gaze leave the windows, heavy curtains drawn back, where outside a sparrow was flitting about on the ground, selecting dry pieces of grass with a deliberateness Draco couldn’t ever remember expending on the outdoors.
He couldn’t say the number of Galleons, in that moment, he would have given to be allowed out— to scatter birdseed in the tea garden, labyrinthian rows of overgrown orchids and temperamental peony, capped by bushes of long-familiar hydrangeas, themselves encroaching upon some forty years of age. To be let to lie down in the summer pasture as June slowly dappled itself green again.
He hums, an absent acknowledgment of his own stumble into memory. He re-emerges, fingers rolling his writing utensil of choice over the library’s oaken tabletop.
“I didn’t know about pencil sharpeners, and didn’t have one besides. Merlin, I hardly knew about pencils,” he huffs, mouth twisting with mirth. It milds.
“So I’d whittle away at them with a nearly-useless penknife, more heirloom than tool. I’d sharpen them, careful, our old house el—”
Draco’s cheeks go into high color as he amends, admonishes himself.
“Miffy’s favourite expression echoing in my head, over and over. ‘Waste not, want not. Waste not, want not.’”
The next line arrives through a smile, and something in that makes Harry’s chest ache, makes the space behind his sternum itchy with a care he can’t quite quantify, not without bringing himself to acknowledge it, (which he won’t).
“Potter, I don’t know that I can account for the number of splinters I was subject to over the course of that handful of months.”
He had sharpened each pencil to shavings.
He had used them until they were stubs.
He pulls his thermos of coffee closer. Harry checks his tea, under Stasis.
“You don’t realize all the frivolous things we use magic for until the option no longer exists,” Draco continues, half under his breath. He takes a long sip of coffee, gaze gone a bit distant before he shakes himself back into the moment, a seriousness settling over his shoulders once more.
“Most days, anymore, I do my washing up by hand,” he says, “even though I don’t have to,” and Harry does a decent enough job of burying his surprise.
Draco goes on:
“I have a Hoover, and I run the tap when I need water. Keep a battery-powered torch for when it’s dark. It’s… silly, I suppose, sometimes. Tedious, for certain.”
His glance flicks to Harry for a beat, two, like he’s inviting him to intervene, to tell him to stop— Enough with the melodrama, Malfoy.
Harry doesn’t.
Draco ducks his head, chews the inside of his cheek a moment. Deliberates stopping himself. Proceeds, in spite.
His voice goes thin, gossamer.
“But magic is magical, isn’t it? I think I understand more, now, what Muggles mean by that particular adjective.”
He draws his wand from the inner pocket of his cloak, and it isn’t until it’s in his hand that Harry realizes how truly infrequently he’s seen him use it of late.
He says, for the second time this evening:
“Radiosa plumbscriptus.”
From the table, the black-and-yellow Staedtler Noris lifts itself, lofty, and does a sharp spin, shavings unfurling tidily from the writing end, slate-shaded & sure. It comes to a stop, a perfect point, the shavings raining downward and disappearing, blinking out like starlight on a windy night, before they ever touch the table.
It stills. Settles, dipping into the predestined groove of Draco’s hand, against crook of his thumb, finding a home in the fine clutch of his fingers.
(It is an odd charm. An odd charm to it.)
Draco’s mouth draws in a tight smile— Wistful, Harry thinks, or wry.
“Magical,” Draco whispers. He prods at his fingertips, left-handed, thumbnail catching on the ridges of each print, and Harry can imagine the pinprick of pain like the memory’s his own, splintering.
Draco’s gaze trips over Harry, the fractured look on his face, then lands back on his notes, neat and numbered. He resolves himself. Resumes his work.
And as Harry watches the script trail to the page, the unremarkable grace of graphite, and the soft scratching sound it leaves behind, he hears him murmur, (subtle, half-secret):
“So. I prefer pencils. But I don’t imagine I’ll sharpen one by hand ever again.”
[ on the sharpening of pencils. ⋆˙⟡ | for the @drarrymicrofic prompt: charm | title after the allegedly uk-popular pencil brand ]
drarry | word count: ~1,480 (ah, decidedly not a microfic— sorry!) | rating: t
_ _ _
“It’s sort of an odd charm to know,” Harry remarks, offhand, one evening. The sun is sinking, late spring light flooding in with the few added hours, but still, they spend it cooped up inside.
Research, for Teddy, on his behalf— the unique makeup of his genes causing certain magical… hiccups. Metamorphmagus and werewolf, half, each adamant, each sending the other a touch haywire the older he grows, the more his magic manifests.
There’s a certain kind of hurt in that. It’s too much, and all they can offer is too little, in those spare moments when he brings himself (blue-haired, brown-haired, bright-eyed boy; boisterous & buoyant & brave) to asking the hard questions, those ones they don’t have the answers to.
(Yet. They don’t have answers yet.)
To Harry’s left, diagonal, Draco sits folded over his notebook, number two pencil in hand. His attention hardly breaks at Harry’s musing, lead never leaving the line on which it’s writing. Still, the answer etches, even— not kind, not not kind.
“How do you mean?”
Harry drums his fingers over the tabletop, traces a whorl in the woodgrain.
“Just, you know, specific. And not especially novel. Which is a quality some might say you’re prone to seeking. With things like that.”
He flicks his own quill back and forth, sends it levitating through the stacks of the Ministry library before calling it back again.
It’s just that something unsettles, seeing Malfoy’s script, small and neat, scratched in shades of subtle grey. To see it— once in a long while— erased away.
The reason doesn’t hold, he knows. But wizards don’t use pencils. They just don’t.
He prods at solutions, in spite of the lack of problem.
“You could get a self-replenishing ink well. Or some biros, if you’re looking for a closer quill alternative.”
Draco’s eyes do flicker upward then, and Harry catches his expression as it wars one way, and then another.
He places his pencil on the table.
“Before they would see me in the Wizengamot,” Draco says, and sees Harry bristle at the thought, “which you know took a rather long while—”
He hesitates a moment, the precipice edge of confessional. Tips forward.
“During that time, my magic use was severely restricted. And as you well know, magical items are quite directly correlated. For the most part, the magic of them doesn’t originate within the object— it’s drawn from within the owner.”
He stretches, unrolling his shoulders from the position he’s held for the last few hours.
He’s not sure why he’s speaking quite so freely, even as the words fumble forth. The hours trifling over text, leafing through the tomes that litter the table, have left him tired. Loose-lipped and too far at ease, or anyway, too long laboring to keep aloof and close-guarded. He quiets. Then carries on.
“Magical core suspension meant no qwik quills. No brooms, no Floo, no recreational owl post. And absolutely no use of wands. Not for spells. Not for charms.”
He fidgets a beat with the signet ring where it rests on his pinky finger, twirling it ‘round, wrong-sided, then back again. Pressing his thumb softly to the flat face of it.
Then— the point.
“After the war, I spent lots of time drawing.”
Draco can picture them, (still, immediate)— the pages upon pages of parchment, sketches stretching to every margin. The mere act a diversion. Desperate, then devotional. A place to put all the things that had been displaced. Somewhere to direct the devastation, and the long, dour days.
“We ran out of Muggle-style ink at the Manor rather quickly. But the DMLE Junior Officer assigned to me took a bit of pity— Merlin knows why. She left me four pencils, once.”
He can still see her— tidy auburn hair; heavy, attentive brows— setting the pencils unceremoniously on the desktop in the guest study, where he often holed himself away during Ministry observation days. The resonant clack of the wood, her slight nod towards them. “To replace your quills,” she’d said, then left no space for question, striding from the room.
(Half-blooded, he recalls, then feels foolish for recalling. Strives to remember something else: Coffee, not tea; hazelnut syrup, flimsy paper cups. The watch she wore, navy blue band, digital numbers blinking in block font. Twenty-five or so, in age— right around as old as he was now.)
(He reaches for her first name. Fails to find it.)
Upon her appearance in the the room, (then— an age ago, a blink), he’d hardly let his gaze leave the windows, heavy curtains drawn back, where outside a sparrow was flitting about on the ground, selecting dry pieces of grass with a deliberateness Draco couldn’t ever remember expending on the outdoors.
He couldn’t say the number of Galleons, in that moment, he would have given to be allowed out— to scatter birdseed in the tea garden, labyrinthian rows of overgrown orchids and temperamental peony, capped by bushes of long-familiar hydrangeas, themselves encroaching upon some forty years of age. To be let to lie down in the summer pasture as June slowly dappled itself green again.
He hums, an absent acknowledgment of his own stumble into memory. He re-emerges, fingers rolling his writing utensil of choice over the library’s oaken tabletop.
“I didn’t know about pencil sharpeners, and didn’t have one besides. Merlin, I hardly knew about pencils,” he huffs, mouth twisting with mirth. It milds.
“So I’d whittle away at them with a nearly-useless penknife, more heirloom than tool. I’d sharpen them, careful, our old house el—”
Draco’s cheeks go into high color as he amends, admonishes himself.
“Miffy’s favourite expression echoing in my head, over and over. ‘Waste not, want not. Waste not, want not.’”
The next line arrives through a smile, and something in that makes Harry’s chest ache, makes the space behind his sternum itchy with a care he can’t quite quantify, not without bringing himself to acknowledge it, (which he won’t).
“Potter, I don’t know that I can account for the number of splinters I was subject to over the course of that handful of months.”
He had sharpened each pencil to shavings.
He had used them until they were stubs.
He pulls his thermos of coffee closer. Harry checks his tea, under Stasis.
“You don’t realize all the frivolous things we use magic for until the option no longer exists,” Draco continues, half under his breath. He takes a long sip of coffee, gaze gone a bit distant before he shakes himself back into the moment, a seriousness settling over his shoulders once more.
“Most days, anymore, I do my washing up by hand,” he says, “even though I don’t have to,” and Harry does a decent enough job of burying his surprise.
Draco goes on:
“I have a Hoover, and I run the tap when I need water. Keep a battery-powered torch for when it’s dark. It’s… silly, I suppose, sometimes. Tedious, for certain.”
His glance flicks to Harry for a beat, two, like he’s inviting him to intervene, to tell him to stop— Enough with the melodrama, Malfoy.
Harry doesn’t.
Draco ducks his head, chews the inside of his cheek a moment. Deliberates stopping himself. Proceeds, in spite.
His voice goes thin, gossamer.
“But magic is magical, isn’t it? I think I understand more, now, what Muggles mean by that particular adjective.”
He draws his wand from the inner pocket of his cloak, and it isn’t until it’s in his hand that Harry realizes how truly infrequently he’s seen him use it of late.
He says, for the second time this evening:
“Radiosa plumbscriptus.”
From the table, the black-and-yellow Staedtler Noris lifts itself, lofty, and does a sharp spin, shavings unfurling tidily from the writing end, slate-shaded & sure. It comes to a stop, a perfect point, the shavings raining downward and disappearing, blinking out like starlight on a windy night, before they ever touch the table.
It stills. Settles, dipping into the predestined groove of Draco’s hand, against crook of his thumb, finding a home in the fine clutch of his fingers.
(It is an odd charm. An odd charm to it.)
Draco’s mouth draws in a tight smile— Wistful, Harry thinks, or wry.
“Magical,” Draco whispers. He prods at his fingertips, left-handed, thumbnail catching on the ridges of each print, and Harry can imagine the pinprick of pain like the memory’s his own, splintering.
Draco’s gaze trips over Harry, the fractured look on his face, then lands back on his notes, neat and numbered. He resolves himself. Resumes his work.
And as Harry watches the script trail to the page, the unremarkable grace of graphite, and the soft scratching sound it leaves behind, he hears him murmur, (subtle, half-secret):
“So. I prefer pencils. But I don’t imagine I’ll sharpen one by hand ever again.”
the history book on the shelf / is always repeating itself
[ at waterloo, napoleon did surrender. — boys meeting their destiny in quite a similar way. ⋆˙⟡ | for the @drarrymicrofic prompts: history & book ]
drarry | word count: 800 | title from “Waterloo” by ABBA (obvs ha) | ♡
_ _ _
Hogwarts: a History (the 1990 - 1999 Appendices) is published in the summer of 2004.
“It takes a few creative liberties, as far as form is concerned, but it’s a rather grounded retelling. Impressive, really, for someone who wasn’t actually there,” Hermione offers, by way of review, summative.
“What makes you think they weren’t there?” Harry answers absently, digging the carton of cream from the back of the fridge, freed from behind the tower of takeaway containers. “Could be a pen name.”
Hermione’s response is immediate, as though the thought had long since been considered and discarded.
“Well, surely we’d know if someone we know wrote it. Even supposing it were an alias.”
Harry tips a dash of the cream into his tea, sets it aside on the table for Ron to peruse, once he’s pulled his nose from the volume in question.
Ron flips a few pages, murmuring aloud, like a list, “Noble. Selfless. Devoted. Just. Amiable. Chivalrous.”
He scrunches his nose, slanting a glance at Hermione over the kitchen table.
“Merlin, I mean, it’s not, like, egregious while you’re reading, but once you notice it…”
Hermione breaks into a grin before she forces her face back toward neutrality. “I know.”
“What?” Harry asks, outside the reference and put-out by it. His question flicks between the two of them— Ron, Hermione, back, & forth again.
She sighs.
“It’s just a bit… grandiose. When it comes to… certain subjects.”
Ron scoffs a laugh.
“You, mate. Book’s downright obsessed with you.”
Harry blinks a moment, response bubbling quick and unexamined.
“Okay, but like…” He cringes. “Plenty of people have been obsessed with me. And I am, you know… arguably somewhat central to the War. Historically speaking.”
“Ah, damn. Knew I was forgetting something. Thank you for the reminder, O Chosen One.” Ron gives a quick bow in his direction before flicking a piece of crumpled parchment at him.
Hermione breezes past Harry’s indignant noise, ducks the paper as it’s batted her direction.
“The odd part, I think, is that in spite of the— how shall I say— evocative language, it’s almost as though this is the tempered version.”
“Which, allow me to say again, is bloody mental,” Ron is quick to add. “I mean, Donovan says your eyes are poignant and prone to bouts of indeterminate pining. Apparently,” he continues, flipping pages, “your nature is, quote, ‘more astute than often given credit.’”
“Donovan?”
“Read him the bit about his ‘troubling penchant for generosity in the face of almost certain doom,’” Hermione adds with a wry grin.
“Donovan Falmouth,” Ron answers, an aside.
“The author,” Hermione appends.
Harry halts, the consonants and the shape of the sounds lending themselves to pause. He says, aloud, intent:
“Donovan… Falmouth.”
Hermione carries on, any nuance to his ruminating lost upon her. “And then, there is that— this thing where he can’t seem to decide whether to praise you or poke fun.”
Her fingers, ink-blotted easily thrice over, trace over her notes for work, mind still firing in at least two other directions as she speaks. “It makes for an interesting tone. Not strictly objective, but certainly engaging.”
“Remind me of the publication date again?” Harry says, all effortful nonchalance.
“June 5th,” Ron says, as Hermione catches something in the line of his questioning.
“Why? What is it?”
“Nothing,” Harry says. “Coincidence.”
At Hermione’s pointed glance and Ron’s quizzical brow, he improvises.
“Just had a thought about the author’s astrological chart,” he lies, sort of, a small thing, inconsequential.
They are each suddenly and sufficiently disinterested.
“Anyway,” Hermione offers, “I daresay it’s adequate as a reference text. The facts are sound, in spite of the handful of fanciful notions.”
“Harry’s very good at inspiring those,” Ron prods with an easy smile, scooping a handful of popcorn with the practiced poise of a snack connoisseur. He tips it into his mouth with notably less elegance.
Harry grabs the dust jacket from where it’s folded on the table. Flips it to & fro in his fingers.
There is no photo of the author. (Of course not.)
But on the back flap, a few brief lines:
* * *
The author resides in the rolling countryside of South West England. These Appendices mark his first foray into formal publication.
An amateur astronomer, he is also fond of flying, café au lait, sweets of a great many varieties, and cultivating his at-home greenhouse.
Himself a graduate of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry, he also holds a Computer Keyboard & Touch Typing Certification from City, University of London, and a Third-Class Potioneering License from Bonguérison Académie.
* * *
Harry lets two and two fall together, make four. Lets coincidence become conjecture, in the face of consistent occurrence.
the history book on the shelf / is always repeating itself
[ at waterloo, napoleon did surrender. — boys meeting their destiny in quite a similar way. ⋆˙⟡ | for the @drarrymicrofic prompts: history & book ]
drarry | word count: 800 | title from “Waterloo” by ABBA (obvs ha) | ♡
_ _ _
Hogwarts: a History (the 1990 - 1999 Appendices) is published in the summer of 2004.
“It takes a few creative liberties, as far as form is concerned, but it’s a rather grounded retelling. Impressive, really, for someone who wasn’t actually there,” Hermione offers, by way of review, summative.
“What makes you think they weren’t there?” Harry answers absently, digging the carton of cream from the back of the fridge, freed from behind the tower of takeaway containers. “Could be a pen name.”
Hermione’s response is immediate, as though the thought had long since been considered and discarded.
“Well, surely we’d know if someone we know wrote it. Even supposing it were an alias.”
Harry tips a dash of the cream into his tea, sets it aside on the table for Ron to peruse, once he’s pulled his nose from the volume in question.
Ron flips a few pages, murmuring aloud, like a list, “Noble. Selfless. Devoted. Just. Amiable. Chivalrous.”
He scrunches his nose, slanting a glance at Hermione over the kitchen table.
“Merlin, I mean, it’s not, like, egregious while you’re reading, but once you notice it…”
Hermione breaks into a grin before she forces her face back toward neutrality. “I know.”
“What?” Harry asks, outside the reference and put-out by it. His question flicks between the two of them— Ron, Hermione, back, & forth again.
She sighs.
“It’s just a bit… grandiose. When it comes to… certain subjects.”
Ron scoffs a laugh.
“You, mate. Book’s downright obsessed with you.”
Harry blinks a moment, response bubbling quick and unexamined.
“Okay, but like…” He cringes. “Plenty of people have been obsessed with me. And I am, you know… arguably somewhat central to the War. Historically speaking.”
“Ah, damn. Knew I was forgetting something. Thank you for the reminder, O Chosen One.” Ron gives a quick bow in his direction before flicking a piece of crumpled parchment at him.
Hermione breezes past Harry’s indignant noise, ducks the paper as it’s batted her direction.
“The odd part, I think, is that in spite of the— how shall I say— evocative language, it’s almost as though this is the tempered version.”
“Which, allow me to say again, is bloody mental,” Ron is quick to add. “I mean, Donovan says your eyes are poignant and prone to bouts of indeterminate pining. Apparently,” he continues, flipping pages, “your nature is, quote, ‘more astute than often given credit.’”
“Donovan?”
“Read him the bit about his ‘troubling penchant for generosity in the face of almost certain doom,’” Hermione adds with a wry grin.
“Donovan Falmouth,” Ron answers, an aside.
“The author,” Hermione appends.
Harry halts, the consonants and the shape of the sounds lending themselves to pause. He says, aloud, intent:
“Donovan… Falmouth.”
Hermione carries on, any nuance to his ruminating lost upon her. “And then, there is that— this thing where he can’t seem to decide whether to praise you or poke fun.”
Her fingers, ink-blotted easily thrice over, trace over her notes for work, mind still firing in at least two other directions as she speaks. “It makes for an interesting tone. Not strictly objective, but certainly engaging.”
“Remind me of the publication date again?” Harry says, all effortful nonchalance.
“June 5th,” Ron says, as Hermione catches something in the line of his questioning.
“Why? What is it?”
“Nothing,” Harry says. “Coincidence.”
At Hermione’s pointed glance and Ron’s quizzical brow, he improvises.
“Just had a thought about the author’s astrological chart,” he lies, sort of, a small thing, inconsequential.
They are each suddenly and sufficiently disinterested.
“Anyway,” Hermione offers, “I daresay it’s adequate as a reference text. The facts are sound, in spite of the handful of fanciful notions.”
“Harry’s very good at inspiring those,” Ron prods with an easy smile, scooping a handful of popcorn with the practiced poise of a snack connoisseur. He tips it into his mouth with notably less elegance.
Harry grabs the dust jacket from where it’s folded on the table. Flips it to & fro in his fingers.
There is no photo of the author. (Of course not.)
But on the back flap, a few brief lines:
* * *
The author resides in the rolling countryside of South West England. These Appendices mark his first foray into formal publication.
An amateur astronomer, he is also fond of flying, café au lait, sweets of a great many varieties, and cultivating his at-home greenhouse.
Himself a graduate of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry, he also holds a Computer Keyboard & Touch Typing Certification from City, University of London, and a Third-Class Potioneering License from Bonguérison Académie.
* * *
Harry lets two and two fall together, make four. Lets coincidence become conjecture, in the face of consistent occurrence.
drarry | word count: 58 | title from: “black hole” (Wikipedia) | ⋆˚꩜｡ | for the @microficmay card #1 prompt: gravitate
_ _ _
The spell was a stranger to him; troubling, that, given the task at hand was his. England’s sole Tier-One Incantation Consultant. Contractually obliged, Mysteries-certified.
Mystery, indeed.
“Incantato revelium obscura,” Draco hissed, diagnostic, hoping the old adage held: Third time’s the charm.
The tear in the tapestry grew, hungry, spilling darker than pitch.
drarry | word count: 134 | title from: “black hole” (Wikipedia) | ⋆˚꩜｡ | for the @microficmay card #1 prompt: saunter
_ _ _
Draco forced a grin, then gave it, (gracious).
“You’ll carry me out of here, then?”
Potter’s pity split— he laughed, the edge of it breaking through the concealment charm. “Suppose I’ll have to.”
It was a good laugh, now that Draco could hear it proper.
“How romantic,” he hummed.
“Fuck off,” Potter answered, mirth-mellowed.
“A favour, Potter,” Draco said, gaze flicking to the eyes that weren’t Potter’s eyes.
“Yeah?”
“The next time you tell me to fuck off,” he prodded, slow steps carrying him closer, soot-stain fingers falling to the front of his uniform, all that innocuous grey wool. Bold in the absence of consequence, of memory.
“Next time, tell me while you’re wearing your own face.”
Hopscotch-Potter grinned back at him, the shape of it wrong. (& yet, the feeling familiar.)
drarry | word count: 152 | title from: “black hole” (Wikipedia) | ⋆˚꩜｡ | for the @microficmay card #1 prompt: natter
_ _ _
The thing about dark spells was that they tended toward the same bad habits as their casters.
Draco could hear Scotch (tch— a joke of an alias) shouting from the other side, and defensive magic unfurled with ferocity around him— all protection, peripheral.
Spells, though, upon realizing they could be understood, were prone to soliloquy.
The star swallower tugged lazily at his wrist, the empty air awful & smug.
“Stulti primum mori,” it garbled, each syllable a threat, stretching his skin.
Fools die first.
Draco couldn’t help the flash of his teeth.
“By all means,” he murmured.
The other thing about dark spells: They were softer on the inside.
“Potter,” he said, and felt his magic flinch in answer. “Watch this.”
He didn’t even have to raise his voice:
“Bombarda.”
His wand-hand slipped free just as the chasm combusted, turned its insides out, its outsides in— as it devoured itself whole.
drarry | word count: 82 | title from: “black hole” (Wikipedia) | ⋆˚꩜｡ | for the @microficmay card #1 prompt: upbraid
_ _ _
The rebuke was swift, certain: “Malfoy, don’t.”
Malfoy did.
He crossed the room, passing easily through the soft side of the Protego.
Sound garbled, the scolding of the Unspeakable on the other side coming through like a patched-poor Wireless station: low-frequency, faltering and faint.
“Easy, Hopscotch,” Draco called. “It’s looking for you— which means the thing’s too stupid to bother with me.”
With that, he plunged his hand (fingernails bloody, ink still bright) into the tar-pit hollow of it.
drarry | word count: 100 | title from: “black hole” (Wikipedia) | ⋆˚꩜｡ | for the @microficmay card #1 prompt: weave
_ _ _
The sigils scribbled over him, skirting elbow, slithering over bicep, a careful curl from shoulder to collarbone, throat to cheek. They unraveled into sound as they reached his ear, settling against the drum:
Given language, its crooning crackled: “Salvator. Pueri Que Perviverit.”
Savior.
Boy Who Lived.
… Ah.
“Da eum mihi,” it shrieked, shrill— the spell— finally sensing it could be heard.
Give him to me.
“You want him?” Draco sneered, fingers biting crescents into his forearm against the siren song, each cruel crescendo.
“Go on, have him then,” he taunted, tongue silver with it.
