StarQuesting

they/she| cat enthusiast | 🏳️‍🌈 drarry, hansry, miscellany | 18+ | 🏳️‍⚧️ protect trans lives 🏳️‍⚧️

[starquestingfordrarry]

This blog is Anti-TERF

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AO3: StarQuesting

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[obsidianpegasus-deactivated2025]

Say it with me:

I am a writer. Not a content-producing machine. I am a writer. Not a content-producing machine. I am a writer. Not a content-producing machine.

It’s okay if I don’t have time to write. It’s okay if a chapter is delayed. It’s okay if my words come out messy. It’s okay if I need to take a break. It’s okay if I don’t update every week, every month, or even every year.

My value as a writer is not measured by how fast I post. My worth is not defined by kudos, bookmarks, or comments.

I am allowed to be slow. I am allowed to rest. I am allowed to write for joy, not for an algorithm.

I am a writer. Not a content-producing machine.

And if anyone thinks otherwise, they can wait.

[half-gobbled-piece-of-toast]

“I ain’t reading all that” your brain is rotting and shrinking

[hortensius-deactivated20240909]

the novelty of having pets really does never wear off i’ve had my cat for ten years and i still look at him strolling around like can you believe this. a cat. is everyone seeing this. he’s alive he has bones and all. unbelievable

[littleskrib]

A Lordly Idle |10072026 You want to see WIPs, exclusive content and artworks earlier? Consider supporting me on Patreon ✨

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

[bebx]

[osheamobile]

I am allowed to hold both the concepts of "my country is a nightmare for anyone who isn't rich and the world cup tourists will only see the good parts and that is by design" and "the world cup tourists coming away from this by genuinely falling in love with the good experiences they have here and how there is so much joy even for our weirdest most American shit" simultaneously.

Yes it's only the richest people with money to burn having a great time, yes our administration is still doing awful police state immigration shit to the visiting teams let alone the fans, yes this place is still a nightmare for everyone else

but there is still joy to be had and while that doesn't erase the bad, the bad does not erase the joy

The storm continues, but when there's a momentary break in the clouds we're allowed to bask in the sunlight

[elfgrove]

#alternate closer #yes the forest is haunted but the trees are gorgeous

[pangur-and-grim]

in the spider alien book, this is where the dick comes out. how does everyone feel about that?

[pangur-and-grim]

can I just say? early 7th century Boeotian terracotta agrees with my placement

[berkeleygirl3]

[snommelp]

So, I’ve been pulled over a few times in my life. Not many, but a few. And I’ve also been in a couple of cars that got pulled over. And let me tell you, if you were actually doing something wrong, the officer doesn’t make any small talk, just straight into “I clocked you doing 70 in a 55.” The only time I’ve ever gotten the “do you know why I pulled you over?” was the time when I wasn’t doing anything wrong, and I got let go even though he insisted to the end that I was doing 87 in a 70 (white privilege at work).

“Do you know why I pulled you over?” is a trap. It means there’s a good chance the officer doesn’t actually have a good reason to ticket you, and is trying to get you to waive your 5th Amendment rights and incriminate yourself. If you make a guess, that’s a confession of guilt.

But there’s another trap, that I’ve heard of but haven’t yet experienced. It’s “do you know how fast you were going?” With that one, they’re hoping you’ll say no, because then they can name whatever speed they want – you just said you didn’t know how fast you were going, if you deny the speed they name then you’re lying to them.

[themightytej]

Oh, I’ve had that one. Go with “yes.” Don’t give them a number, just say “Yes.” Then they still have to offer a number and you can deny it without contradicting yourself. They could just ask you, at that point, but that’s suspiciously similar to saying they don’t know, and they tend to avoid doing that.

[fattyatomicmutant-deactivated20]

Reblog to save a life

[suspiciouslysharklike-deactivat]

if you scroll past this just because it doesn’t affect you personally, i see you.

[dovewithscales]

Also, you can always go to court and contest a ticket, and a lot of times you’ll win. Or if the cop thinks you’ll win they won’t even show up and you’ll win by default.

They like to target out of state plates because anyone who would be majorly inconvenienced by a court date two months away is a lot more likely to just pay it.

[lupine-trees]

perchance to dream.

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.

Harry will stay. Make sure he sleeps.

⋆˙⟡

[angeldog5]

a vast embrace

@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 right after he’d escaped, 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, to the other side of the bed.

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 bad 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. Harry’s eyes are still like stars, shining in a wilderness.

.

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: arm, shoulder, waist, prick, they were all good with Harry. Drops of water sprayed through the air, catching the moon, catching the dark. The world felt like a crystal ball, full of good fortunes. Harry smiled, slow and sheepish. I've never been much of anywhere. 

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

He lifted his face toward the night’s vast embrace. In the corner of his eye, Harry did too.

[nonexistent-triangle]

the irredeemable pervert is generally well regarded among their friends for their insightful thoughts and all around pleasant demeanour

[bliksemflitsenblog]

people who quote lines in the fic comments go to heaven btw. if you care

[bliksemflitsenblog]

and people who comment on old fics. you will also go to heaven

[free-my-mindd]

[sunsetbuddie]

hey so anyone else just, feel thin. sort of stretched. like butter scraped over too much bread. like you need a holiday. a very long holiday. and you don't expect you shall return? or is that just me and bilbo baggins