this blog is where i pour all the bullshit going through my head which is mostly drarry
fuck jkr and her transphobic bullshit, trans rights!
proud holder of the title of dramatic mean lesbian
i write stuff sometimes! my ao3 is scarredsnake and i just recently posted my first fic, which you can find by clicking here: I won't let you down (yes, I will)
my favourite carachter in the hp universe is draco malfoy, we are one and the same (except for the racism)
i also LOVE hjp and i will fight anybody who blatantly miscaractherizes him or draco, trust. still, don't like don't read and all that.
i love headcanons i talk about headcanons a lot, and canon, i love canon drarry.
i write drabbles and microfics under the #snakewritesstuff tag
my other tags include:
#snakespeaks : for my rants about stuff and fandom
#snakethinks : for when i'm feeling philosophical
account disclamers ☆
i may reblog or write nsfw content without warnings!
everyone is welcome as long as you are respectful!
asks are open, i'm a certified yapper and i LOVE talking about anything at all.
death does funny things to those left behind. when narcissa dies, malfoy stops sleeping. harry has to do something about it. || 8th year || harry pov || ♡
“… To die, to sleep; / To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub; / For in that sleep of death what dreams may come / When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, / Must give us pause…” (Hamlet, act iii, scene i — Shakespeare) || ⋆˙⟡
drarry | word count: ~1.6k | cw: minor character death, grief, purple prose, ‘excessive’ hand-holding
_ _ _
Malfoy stops sleeping after Narcissa dies.
Harry hadn’t known she was dying, might’ve— if he had— done, dunno, something.
They say that she passed quietly, uneventfully. An unfortunate stroke of fate— that she paled, that she withered. Unsalvageable. That her heart simply stopped.
They say that Malfoy had found her. In the Manor, there had been no one else to do it.
The sleeping thing, or rather, the not sleeping thing, Harry shouldn’t know— could be conjecture, if he said it aloud and someone questioned— meaning: it was obvious enough.
But it wasn’t conjecture.
Or it had been, initially, but then Malfoy’s undereyes went purple, thistle, and he stopped speaking in class, stopped with lessons or assignments, and his robes went limp and rumpled and he didn’t seem to care, maybe didn’t notice at all— so then there was the cloak, making shadow, and the Dungeon and the eighth year dormitory, (four beds, empty but for one boy), and Harry had to keep so, so quiet because Malfoy didn’t sleep.
He scribbled at his desk (nonsense Harry could hardly make out— Malfoy’s penmanship was all script and scratch, dashed lines and ink blots, was always that way, had been, even before), then he paced a good long while, up and down the room and back again, not a word, no muttering, (might’ve been better, if he had, muttered that is, might’ve proved something still human, still living within him— as it were—) just drawn shoulders, pressed lip, and bare feet on the cold, cold stone, (a rug rolled up against one wall, shoved there, heavy, pulled somehow from beneath the bedposts).
Then the bed itself.
He’d lain there, eyes open, then closed, only to open again, hands faint and folded at his middle, (corpse, Harry’s mind had supplied, and he gave the thought a shove before it could settle), and his breath never met sleep.
The darkest dip of night slowly tugged itself into dawn, daylight pulling covers, opening curtains, spilling in the thinnest line of sunshine through the narrow slat in thick stone, and by that time Harry was dead weight, dead on his feet, hardly half conscious, and swaying.
Eventually Malfoy pulled himself from the bed, toward lavatory, and when he did, Harry slid from the room, traversed halls of cheery first years and bedraggled third years, OWLs prep haunting young scholars, and then into the Tower, into bed, where, classes collateral, he crumpled and slept (and slept and slept).
He couldn’t understand it. So he went again.
The same. Scribbling, pacing, lying down.
Sleepless.
The third time confirmed pattern, committed the odd rituals to routine, resolute.
Malfoy was a ghost in all the ways that didn’t matter. He was threadbare and absent and far-off. He lingered, unsettling and unwelcome, a powdered jasmine perfume, caught in the back of the throat.
Harry doesn’t know what to do with it, only that he has to do something.
Three weeks after Harry’s first clandestine visit, Malfoy collapses in a stairwell after supper. Harry isn’t the first to find him, but he is the first to respond— wrapping him in a soft Rennervate that doesn’t pull him conscious but steadies the harp-sharp thrum of his heart, evens his shallow breathing. Harry’d scoop him in his arms, but Malfoy is all leg, unwieldy, so the best he can do, short of a Leviosa, is pull him over his shoulder. He weighs more than you’d think and less than he ought.
Half of Harry is ready to haul Malfoy into Gryffindor Tower, tuck him beneath his own bedsheets— inexplicable, (insane)— but he doesn’t do that, resists the impulse, if only just. He finds the infirmary and Madame Pomfrey, and she fusses in that steady way she has, a woman who’s seen a thousand broken bones over, who’s pulled more witches and wizards, (more children), from the brink of death than anyone would ever enjoy accounting for.
Malfoy sleeps, at last, (sort of; unwilling), and when Harry, nine hours in, follows him over the precipice, his face folds forward into the nest of his arms, elbows a press in the mattress to the left of Malfoy’s warm thigh. It’s sleep, if you can call it that, for either of them— fitful and desperate and empty.
Later, Malfoy hardly has to move before Harry’s awake, forehead pulled upward from the cool cotton of the utilitarian bedsheets.
Malfoy’s eyes open. They’re tired, rimmed red, crinkled, and they trace the rafters as he shifts his shoulders. Harry wonders if he recognizes the room by the ceiling alone, by the week he spent here, sliced- and then unsliced-open a mere two years ago. (Two years— a moment. A miniature eternity.)
Eventually, his gaze turns.
If he’s surprised to find Harry at his bedside, it doesn’t show. If anything at all, it doesn’t show. Those steel eyes, sunken, do one long blink, before his head dips back again, seeking the pillow and settling on it.
Harry feels Malfoy’s fingers flex. Pauses, processing. Feels his fingers. He glances down, discovers his own hand wrapped loosely around them, his palm crowding pale knuckles, holding somehow too tight and not tight enough. He tugs back, sharp, like burned, like steam or Fiendfyre have found him.
His hands huddle in his hoodie pocket. He forces focus back to Malfoy’s face.
The absence of him is still present, but his pallor’s faded. Which is to say— the faintest traces of pink touch his cheekbones, his chin, the tops of his ears, the tip of his nose. Pale peach, apricot.
Shying from something too sincere, (something that’d make him scatter), Harry offers: “You slept for forever.”
There’s a wobble that crosses the musculature of him, an almost-nothing that sends an almost-flicker to the corner of his mouth. Harry swears he sinks further into the pillows.
Malfoy slowly lifts his hands, and Harry sees as they move toward his torso, ready to fold again above his stomach, at his center, just shy of the beating beacon of his heart. He remembers the sight, sleepless and still, and refuses outright the false face of fatality. It doesn’t take thought, (too many things with him, Hermione says, take too little— thoughtless— though she’s said it less, of late, lax and forgiving), only instinct. Only the certainty that he won’t see him lie like a dead thing.
Hand finds hand.
A tangle of fingers, tugged to the side of him, resting on the bed.
Malfoy’s eyes go wakeful, a little, light coming on in the house behind them, hospitality, or at least inhabitance, trying to take shape, to sweep the floors and smooth the tablecloth.
His gaze goes sideways. Sees Harry. Sees.
“Potter,” he says, and his voice is a straight shot— Firewhiskey, arrow, to gut, to heart, to whatever feeling thing it can find. It creaks, soft and rasping, un-posh in its un-use.
“Yeah,” Harry replies, and it’s a question that fails to find the right tone, more a breath than a word, more automation than answer.
Malfoy lets his hand be held, taps a beat to the back of Harry’s, the scarred skin there, his thumb obscuring the word lies, revealing it, obscuring it again.
“You snore,” he says, short (by mere degrees) of judgment, landing instead somewhere closer to revelation, edging a slight step toward taunt.
“I do not,” Harry offers, wavering warmth rolling throatward. His free hand lands with an indignant push at Malfoy’s knee, his thigh, the tender juncture between, itself tensing beneath the touch. Then easing as he keeps it there, palm a loose splay.
Malfoy nods, an adamant thing for all the exhaustion of him, weakened and weary. “Loudly,” he expounds. He coughs against the effort, then whispers, still: “You snore loudly.”
Harry smiles, a small slip, in spite of himself, and tips his face forward again, cheek landing on the bedspread.
“Well. I’m going to have another nap.”
Malfoy’s wrist is there, just before his face, and he has to resist the muddled urge to tug it forward, to press it to his forehead, his nose, his mouth. The blue-green veins there beneath his skin tangle something in Harry’s stomach he’s unsure how to relieve. He clenches his eyes shut.
“If you want to avoid my snoring,” he says, sly, linens bunching beneath the curl of his hand, drawing closer, “then you’ll have to fall asleep first.” He opens one eye, watchful.
Malfoy hums, shifts, slowly pulls his fingers from Harry’s grasp. There’s a ticker at Harry’s middle that goes into a mortified sort of free fall.
But Malfoy’s hand doesn’t go far. The calloused ends of his fingers fix on the frame of Harry’s glasses. He lifts them from his nose, works them from the careful catch of his ears. He folds them, after a cursory glance, examining, and sets them bedside.
The quiet grows temperamental a moment, the quiver of all the unfounded proximity leaving color at Malfoy’s collar, just visible over the unfastened top button of his shirt.
His hand dips forward again, cutting tension with tenacity, taking hold, slight, of the curl falling in Harry’s face. He traces it, the unsteady spiral, gone long, more intentional now than in the handful of years before.
“When I wake up,” he says, soft, sound scratching. He swallows. “You’ll still be here.” It come like a statement, but the tail of it begs response, covered query.
“Yeah.”
Malfoy tugs the curl before letting it go.
“Swear it, Potter.”
“Solemnly swear.” He takes Malfoy’s fingers, still tremoring, fatigued. Tugs them close. “I’ll be here.”
He isn’t sure there’s more to say, and Malfoy must concur. After a beat— a heart-wrought moment that could steal the breath of twenty— he sinks in the sheets. Shuffles. Rolls his shoulders. Shuts his eyes.
Seeing people I know and like using AI is making me understand the protagonists of those old time sci fi dystopia's.
"Oh I don't normally use AI, I just wanted it to plan my trip"
You lived on this planet for decades, you know what you like, there are hundreds of websites where you can type into any search engine " things to do in [area]" and have at least a hundred different options.
"Oh I only use it so I can figure out what to make during the week with what I have"
The most popular website as you type in "recipes" into google have sections where you click dinner- quick and easy and those usually rely on staples + 1 or 2 items. I found 30 recipes on chicken alone.
"I had a writing idea, so I typed a few sentences into Chat GPT and I was able to write 20 pages with it."
Harry and Draco hate each other with a passion. They keep making bets just to mess with each other. Bets that somehow leads to them daring each other to make more and more intimate things... Hilarious and hot at the same time!
EXCLUSIVE: The Boy Who Lived… with Malfoy? Potter’s Dating Life Exposed!
@drarrymicrofic | wc: 550 | prompt: hesitate
“Well,” Harry said, the second Draco’s front door slammed behind them, “that went a bit shit.”
Draco turned on him slowly. “I thought it was salvageable until she asked whether you’d ever pictured me naked.”
“I said no!”
“You said no comment! Seriously, Potter, you were distracted the whole time.”
Harry blinked. “That was because I was picturing you naked.”
Draco stared at him.
“What?” Harry asked. “I’m only human.”
Draco made a strangled noise and swept towards the drinks cabinet. “I need something strong enough to erase the last forty minutes of my life. Possibly the last twenty years.”
“Bit dramatic.”
“Skeeter asked whether we were lovers, Potter.”
“She asks everyone that.” Harry dropped onto Draco’s sofa, sprawling deliberately, all messy hair and open shirt at the collar. “Also, you didn’t exactly help.”
Draco paused with the whisky bottle in hand. “Me?”
“Yes, you. All that sneering and ‘Mr Potter and I have a complicated history’ rubbish.”
“It is complicated.”
“It’s not that complicated.”
Draco poured too much whisky into one glass. “You are the one that hesitated first when she asked what we were to each other. Is friends not in your vocabulary?”
“Are we friends?” Harry asked, looking up at him beneath his lashes. “Because I thought you’d prefer me to say fuck buddies.”
“We are not—”
“What am I doing in your flat, then?”
Harry stood. Draco hated how casually he did it. He stopped too close.
“What am I doing here, Draco?”
Draco lifted his chin. “Being irritating.”
Harry stepped closer. “Try again.”
“Being impossible.”
“Warmer.”
Draco swallowed. “Being presumptuous.”
Harry’s smile was wicked. “You’re going to fuck me, are you not?”
Draco set the whisky down very carefully, face going hot. “For someone who froze in front of Rita Skeeter, you’ve found your tongue remarkably quickly.”
Harry’s gaze dropped to Draco’s mouth. “Could find yours too.”
“Potter.”
“Malfoy.”
“We are friends,” Draco said.
Harry laughed. “Right. Brilliant. Friends.”
“Harry—”
“No, it’s good. Really. Let me call Ron and ask whether he wants to shove me against a wall.”
Draco caught Harry by the front of his shirt and pushed him back against the nearest wall. Harry went willingly, annoyingly smug for half a second, until Draco pressed in and watched the smugness fade away.
“What do you want me to say?” Draco asked. “Since apparently you’ve decided directness is tonight’s theme.”
Harry’s breath caught as Draco leaned nearer, though not kissing him yet.
“I want you to say I’m not your friend,” Harry said, voice low, “I want you to say you were furious because I hesitated. Because you thought I was ashamed of you. Which I’m not.”
“You looked like you were.”
“I looked terrified because for one second I thought you might not want me to say it first.”
“Say what?”
“That you’re mine. That I’m yours. That Skeeter can print whatever headline she likes, so long as she spells boyfriend correctly.”
Draco forgot how to breathe, but not how to snark, because he said, “Boyfriend is a rather juvenile term.”
Harry’s smile returned. “What would you prefer? Lover? Partner?”
Draco made a face. “Fine,” he said, fingers still twisted in Harry’s shirt. “You’re my boyfriend.”
“I’m trying to protect you! You almost died last time.”
“I didn’t—all right, fair point.”
“Leave him be,” Hermione said over the din. “He’s ready.”
“Am I? Maybe this is a terrible idea.” Harry’s heart rattled in his chest, his breaths short. He hadn’t felt this frightened since … well, since the last time, when he had wavered, and he hadn’t almost died, but he’d fallen flat on his face making his escape, which was painful and humiliating enough.
“You don’t have to do this,” Hermione said. “Ron’s right. If you’re doubting yourself, maybe you’re not—”
“I know what you’re doing,” Harry grumbled as he straightened.
“Is it working?”
“Yes, fucking fine. I’ll do it. And I won’t die. I hope.”
“That’s the spirit,” Ron said. “It’ll be over quickly anyway. I’ve got your back—I can shield you.”
“He won’t need a shield,” Hermione said. “He’ll be fine. Now stop avoiding your fears; it’s very unlike you.”
“Right,” Harry took a deep breath. He’d been training for this. He reviewed the rules. Shoulders back. Eye contact. Don’t let them smell your fear. Don’t hesitate.
“Right,” Harry said again. He strode forwards, counting his paces to calm himself as he avoided the obstacles in his path. His heart raced.
The time has come! Below you will find the master list of creators for this year's fest. Shout out to all our fabulous, fantastic participants — we 💚 you!
💚 [Podfic] About Time by poppyhills created by Lexi_Leckstar @lexi_leckstar
Rating: E, Run Time: 01:34:37
Summary: Harry Potter leads a perfectly satisfying life. He’s got friends, a successful career that allows him to travel anywhere, and no shortage of willing partners. Although, over the years, Malfoy has remained the most constant and recently, kind of the only one. But that’s not a bad thing, really, Harry’s learned. Nothing has to change between them…until it does.
Or: Cue an ancient curse, a rushed Handfasting ceremony, and discovering that maybe—just maybe—life begins when you’re forty.
💚 Collapsing Walls and Improving Relationships created by Devious_Muffin @devious--muffin
Rating: E, Word count: 9,305
Summary: Harry becomes Draco's flatmate a year after they graduate Hogwarts, clueless not only to Draco's preferences, but his own. Draco is living his best life, bringing near strangers to the flat multiple times a week, and Harry simply can't handle it. At first, he thinks he's being homophobic, but after a vague conversation with Ron, he slowly realizes he's feeling an altogether different emotion. He isn't homophobic. He's jealous.
💚 Come Out, Come Out created by ineedcoffeern
Rating: E, Word count: 8,513
Summary:
"Draco was his. He was his prize; a pet, a sacred thing that Harry had kept alive while Draco tried his best to wither away."
For months, Harry has been a ghost in the shadows of Malfoy Manor, memorizing every line of Draco’s body from the dark and collecting pieces of his life. But when Draco brings two girls back to his bed in a desperate gamble to draw the monster out, Harry’s patience completely shatters.
Stepping out from behind the velvet curtains, Harry decides it’s time to take total control, and teach his spoiled little pet exactly who he belongs to.
💚 [Podfic] Draco Malfoy has a Podcast! by DracoAbraxas created by sweaters_in_the_summer @sweatersinthesummer
Rating: T, Run Time: 01:04:46
Summary: Harry Potter is recently divorced, emotionally spiralling, and just trying to survive. When he discovers Draco Malfoy has a fashion podcast, it is apparently the last straw. He instantly becomes obsessed; how dare Malfoy be happy? One live-show ambush and a whiskey-fueled argument later, can Harry realise he has been focused on the wrong problem?
OR Everyone has a podcast now.
💚 [ART] Garbage Queen created by CopperCatBird @coppercatbird
0Rating: M, Art Medium: Digital Art/Comic
Summary: Draco is on the run as a cat, and is keeping an eye on things by scavenging from certain wizards that he may know.
Harry Potter has a soft spot for the pretty white stray that keeps getting into his bins.
💚 Harry's Hairy Crime created by randomswedishgirl @randomswedishgirl03
Rating: E, Word count: 7,889
Summary: Draco and Harry are both famous fashion models, top of the industry in London. Harry makes a sudden change to his appearance that everyone in the fashion industry absolutely hates, and Draco is sure he'll finally become the number one model.
The very hairy emotions Harry's new style is making Draco feel, is not what he had in mind…
💚 [ART] Harry ‘minuteman’ Potter created by RatKingPoe @ratkingpoe
Rating: E, Art Medium: Digital Art
Summary: Digital art for your eyeballs to feast. The devil is in the details.
Harry Potter is a mad stalker, completely obsessed with Draco Malfoy. Draco expects as much, obviously.
aka Harry can get it but doesn't know what to do with it, type shit.
💚 How Hermione Started Shipping Drarry - A podfic created by Cailynwrites @cailynwrites
Rating: E, Run Time: 53:40
Summary: Dumped by her boyfriend and needing somewhere to stay, all Hermione wants to do is get comfort from her best friend. But there's just one problem. Harry is incomprehensibly living with that pointy git, Draco Malfoy.
This is 100% Drarry but from Hermione’s POV. How does that work? Read it and find out!
💚 [ART] Icarus Eat Your Heart Out created by RatKingPoe @ratkingpoe
Rating: T, Art Medium: Digital Art
Summary: I gave Draco Malfoy wings like you asked. :)
💚 Mine/Yours created by IncognitoBuritto @incognitoburritto
Rating: E, Word count: 7,659
Summary: Draco has had a terrible day at the office. Harry is a good husband who makes it all better.
💚 Over the Garden Wall created by pr1m4d0nn4 @darlingirly
Rating: M, Word count: 17,575
Summary: Draco did not come to the Highlands to fall in love with Harry Potter.
He came for peace, quiet, and a magical garden full of rare potion ingredients. Instead, he gets Harry Potter in the next cottage over: terrible gardener, excellent baker, devastating wearer of rolled-up sleeves, and the single worst person in Britain for Draco to be trapped beside for the summer.
💚 [ART] Princess Cut created by RatKingPoe @ratkingpoe
Rating: E, Art Medium: Digital art
Summary: 🎼🎶 In the fifth mini comic, Draco's true love gave to him:🎵
A 5 Carat Rinnnnnng,
4 Portkeys,
3 Orgasms,
2 Reservations,
And found Teddy necking in an alcove! 🎶
💚 [ART] Prophet created by firewhiskeyxx @firewhxskey
Rating: G, Art Medium: digital, ibis paintx
Summary: Fine shyt (Draco Malfoy) winking at the camera, featured in the prophet.
💚 [ART] Speak Up created by Draykray @draykray
Rating: E, Art Medium: Digital Art
Summary: Draco has never been one to keep quiet.
💚 To The Cat Knocking Over My Bins: Stop (please?) created by Cherriontop @cherriontop
Rating: T, Word count: 17,442
Summary: There are two things bothering Harry:
One, he is on suspension and bored out of his mind.
Two, Draco Malfoy is missing and Ron kept this fact from him.
Harry could handle both of these things perfectly well if only this pesky cat would stop knocking over his fucking bins.
💚 Wings created by IzRoan @izroan-ff
Rating: E, Word count: 8,217
Summary: Harry tries to court Draco pureblood-style. Draco beats him to it. Also, Draco has wings.
💚 yield created by fervent @ferventt
Rating: E, Word count: 9,400
Summary: a heat wave, a thunderstorm, the overlap of spring into summer. everyone knows, and yet.
this is all still a Before.
having a best friend who meets your level of freak is unmatched. you present them with the most unhinged, deeply buried thought from the depths of your psyche and instead of blinking blankly they just go "oh absolutely"—and I think that mutual brain rot like that is the highest form of intimacy actually.
