#31daysoffearfest

[cavendishbutterfly]

the new generation

Rated T | 50 words | for the @hp-fearfest prompt, “rot”

Harry never dies, but the elder Malfoys do. Fifty years later, he visits the Manor. Chipped foundations, rotting fruit trees. He pushes open the heavy, unlocked door. “Didn’t expect me, did you?” The voice is not quite Draco. Not quite human. “On the contrary.” A slow grin. “I’ve been waiting.”

[phoebe-delia]

Orion's Will

I don't usually write horror. But I saw the "The Shivers" prompt from @hp-fearfest and couldn't resist once I thought of this! cw: mcd, cw: illness, cw: curse, cw: grief, cw: unhappy ending

They tried warming charms; tried scalding cups of tea and baths with water that turned Harry's skin bright pink. He wore layers of thick, wool clothes and wrapped himself in blankets while sitting in front of Grimmauld Place's hearth, until he gave up after realizing the flames—whether lit by magic or matches—only lasted a few seconds. Healers at St. Mungos looked at them with more pity in their eyes with every visit, until they were finally told to stay home.

Draco held Harry in their bed as he shivered and shook, vibrating from head to toe, teeth chattering so hard Draco feared they would break. "Y-you should s-sleep in the g-guestroom," Harry said through the tremors. Draco just shook his head and squeezed Harry tighter against him, turning out the light with a whispered, "Nox."

Eventually, the shaking slowed, along with Harry's breathing. Draco tended to him throughout the day until he stopped trembling; stopped moving altogether.

He called the authorities, and their close friends and family. He signed the paperwork and then cried into Hermione’s shoulder as Harry’s body was carried out. And when it was all over, Draco forced himself to the guest bedroom, unable to face their bed, and collapsed on top of the covers.

The next morning, Draco woke with a bone-deep grief and twisting anxiety at the thought of starting the rest of his life without Harry. He rose from the bed on unsteady legs and made his way to the kitchen for a cup of tea.

Minutes later, he had a steaming cup of earl grey in his hands. He turned from the kitchen counter and glanced into the living room, eyes catching on the wall high above the hearth— Draco’s teacup clattered to the ground, hot liquid scalding his bare feet.

But he couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. Just stared at the bright red writing on the wall in terror.

By Blood or Bond alone are Masters made to reign. May interlopers quiver ‘till they perish from the pain. It is Orion’s will that False Masters face attack, By the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black.

[alexandra-emerson]

New WIP

New Dramione WIP for prompt #8 in the @hp-fearfest. Read the first chapter here.

[dracopetal]

Prey

@hp-fearfest Day 17 Prompt: Hunt/ Bloodsuckers

Read on Ao3

wordcount:799

Draco’s lungs are burning, his legs are aching and he’s seconds from vomiting up his heart, that or it’s going to pound its way through his ribs and his skin and slip out of his chest with a wet squelch, and he imagines that when it does it will still be warm and thumping.

He focuses on the image of his heart torn from his chest, trying to desperately ignore the urge to stop, to slow down. His body is screaming at him to, but he can’t.

Fenrir must be close. He can’t hear him over the sound of his feet thumping through the estate and his own rapid breaths, but he knows that he’s close. This is nothing but a game to him, a bit of enjoyable terror to inflict on a Malfoy. There’s no way that Draco can outrun him, but he can’t stop trying.

High above him, the moon is almost full, luminous and white against an endless black sky. It offers Draco a little light in return for casting frightful shadows.

That’s why they locked him up for weeks after his failure. He had thought that was his punishment - to be imprisoned in his own dungeons. But no, the Dark Lord planned a far more terrifying fate: to allow the Malfoy heir to be hunted through the gardens that he played in as a child.

He doesn’t even know what Fenrir will do. Kill him, turn or maim, eat his flesh? Draco’s head is full of the dozens of horror stories he’s heard whispered, and tonight he believes every last one.

The night air is just barely warm, and he can feel sweat pouring over his face. Fenrir can smell him. Fenrir is waiting somewhere, hiding within a shadow, baring sharp teeth and terrible claws, something out of a childhood nightmare.

A living, breathing nightmare creature.

Draco makes it through the gardens and into the woodland that surrounds the estate, hoping that the trees will lend him some cover, give him somewhere to hide.

And it’s there, amongst those trees, where Draco makes the biggest mistake of his life.

His boot catches on a root, and he stumbles, arms flailing uselessly, and crashes face-first into a tree. The bark is hard and sharp against his tender skin, and he feels the intense burst of pain of a dozen tiny cuts. 

He tries to right himself, but his ankle is twisted unnaturally, and sends an agonising bolt of pain through his leg. Mouth dry, he manages to stifle the rising scream, and then tries to stagger upright. He leans onto the tree speckled with his blood for support, and he’s almost there, is so close to limping away, further into the woods, when claws stab into his twisted ankle and drag his back down.

Draco can’t hold in the scream this time. What’s the point? The predator has the prey in a death grip.

Draco can smell that awful smell of unwashed flesh and urine that follows Fenrir like a cloud. It fills his lungs and he screams again, and the scream turns into a shriek, and becomes something else, something animal and desperate that’s lurching up from a deep pit at the bottom of his stomach. He can’t make it stop, not as Fenrir drags him back out from the dark woods on his belly. He spits out mouthfuls of mud and dirt and twigs and leaves, but the mud coats his teeth, leaving an earthy taste on his tongue.

Draco can’t stop until Fenrir rolls him over, the action surprisingly gentle. But no: it’s not surprising, Fenrir is playing with him.

Fenrir falls onto his chest, his knees trapping his arms, knocking the breath out of Draco. Draco heaves, but has nothing to come up. The shadows playing on Fenrir’s face make him look even scarier, more like a child’s bogeyman, and Draco doesn’t think he’s ever been this close to him.

He closes his eyes, squeezing them tightly shut and whimpering with terror. He doesn’t want to see anymore. He doesn’t want to know what’s coming for him.

Draco feels the beast lean down, and Fenrir’s nose touches his own. Draco flinches away but there’s nowhere to go. Fenrir is everywhere. The smell fills his lungs with rot. A wet, horrid tongue licks the blood from his cheek. Fenrir leans down further then, and sharp teeth latch onto his ear, and Draco makes a choked noise as the skin splits slowly, and then is ripped off entirely, and gushes hot blood down his neck.

Draco is marked now. Fenrir swallows his flesh, and then latches onto the mangled ear, and Draco feels him lap up his blood. Toujours Pur. Always pure.

Draco sobs, and Fenrir’s breath is vile when he laughs. 

“Got you.”

[chamomileteafuel]

Restoration

________________________________________________________ For the @hp-fearfest prompt - From the Deep || Buried Rated M | 204 words | cw: implied necromancy, character death, illness, gore, grief. ________________________________________________________

Three broken fingers. Six exposed nail beds. Skin of his knuckles surrounding their seeping wounds like ill-cut drapes. He spits soil onto dewy grass, droplets glistening upon their blades, his bare flesh stinging against the frigid night air. A familiar hand open and reaching, pulling him upwards and away from the grave he just crawled out of. Hands that had often cherished endless, archaic tomes, loaned from the library of his ancestors. Slender fingers traced every line, eyes scrying over every page for an answer. They would flash silver in their slow burning mania, and Harry could no longer soothe it away with words, nor with the soft caresses they had grown so accustomed to. Not while the ill-fated curse ate him away from the inside and out, weathering him into the husk of a saviour, once so revered for both strength and persistence. “I can fix it,” Draco would say in false certainty, smile wavering in the morning light of their rooms while long fingers encircled a frail wrist over plush blankets, the sweet scent of decay lingering between them and growing stronger every day. “I’m good at fixing things.” Harry had never doubted him. He just wished he could have stopped him.    

[xgardensinspace]

HP Fear Fest 2022

Day 1 - Body snatchers || Heart

Neville reached inside his open shirt, gently prodding and scratching at his skin. The flesh tearing and exposing lovely shades of red. Tears fell gently over his cheek as he reached inside his ribs for the item he was looking for.

He gently took his heart out and presented it to Ron, as a symbol of their newfound love. Ron could only stare in awe at the gift being offered. He took it gently upon his hands with caution. Neville enveloped his hands close by; Blood dribbling from his soft pink lips as they embraced each other.

Hi,hello... Yes I am aware of how late this is, but to my defense, October is my bussiest month. I hope my colour choices make up for the tardiness? And also the lil writing I added at the top :b I’m not an excellent writer (especially for horror, even though it’s my favourite genre), but I tried to spice up my artwork :b Also, I know it’s not as spoopy a theme, but I wanted to do something lovely as well because I love these two so much xD

I also played and loved the look of the pink shadows and blood on the hands bits when I messed with the contrast so I’m adding them below. Enjoy!

For the @hp-fearfest​ :)

[theheadgirl]

31 Days of Fear, hosted by @hp-fearfest

Day 3: Buried (read on AO3 here)

The late June sky is silvery grey, spotted with darker clouds. It'll be raining within the hour. He can't remember if he has his umbrella. Frankly, he's been having a hard time remembering anything these days. He's left without his briefcase a few times, and Audrey's had to stop by his office an embarrassing amount because he left his lunch on the counter. He'll find himself distracted in the middle of meetings and unable to remember what the last thing he wrote down was. He can't read, can hardly participate in conversations - his brain is constantly racing, not even finishing one thought before jumping to the next one. His potions are supposed to help, but they make him feel slow and stupid, so he only takes them on days where he's not working. Those, however, are few and far between. 

More than anything, he wishes things would just be quiet. In the world, in his head - anywhere. Maybe that's why he came to this cemetery just outside of Ottery St. Catchpole. Even though the idea of visiting the grave of his brother (the grave that should be yours, the brother you killed, his mind hisses) makes him feel physically ill, at least it's quiet here. 

He walks through the headstones to the back of the cemetery, where the newer graves are located. The dirt on Fred's grave is still freshly turned over, and his stomach clenches and heaves at the sight. 

should be you should be you SHOULD BE YOU SHOULD BE 

He staggers, overcome, and drops next to the grave before he can think, head in his hands, trying to shut out the clamor. Part of him quails at getting graveyard dirt ground into his woolen suit, but he's too overwhelmed to move right now. Slowly, slowly, the jangling quiets, less of a deafening wave and more of a dull roar. He exhales, lowering his hands. His fingers sting as they uncurl, and there are red crescents in the palms of his hands from his nails. He'd known it would be bad, but for some reason - some arrogance, ignorance - he hadn't thought it would be that bad, that he'd be able to handle it better. 

It isn't the first time he's been very wrong lately. 

He pushes up his glasses and wipes his eyes with a shaking hand, then settles the glasses back. Looking sidelong at the headstone next to him, he says, "I'm sure you would have handled that better." He's certain of it. Fred would be grieving (maybe), but at least everything would be right.

He sighs heavily. "I'm so tired," he continues. "I'm just so tired and sad all the time. It's exhausting. I can't think, I can't focus at work. I can't listen when anyone's talking to me. It's just spinning, spinning, spinning, all the time, and it never stops. I can't sleep. Oliver and Audrey have to know by now. I get out of bed every night and lie down on the couch and stare at the ceiling for hours until I can justify getting ready for work, and I'm ragged and jumpy at work. Everything scares me. It's just …" 

He feels bone-tired suddenly, like his body has lost the ability to sit up any longer. It seems like the most natural thing in the world to lie down alongside the freshly-dug plot, even though he's definitely getting dirt all over his suit now. 

"It's so much," he continues, voice barely above a whisper. "I know I have to, but I don't know if I can."

He closes his eyes, and feels rain starting to speckle against his face. It feels kind of nice, actually; like a cleansing. It would take a lot more than a gentle afternoon sprinkle to redeem him, but this feels like a start. 

He must fall asleep, there in the graveyard, because the next thing he knows, he doesn't feel the rain on his face anymore. As he opens his eyes, he wonders what's wrong, because it hasn't made a difference. Everything is still pitch black. He lifts a hand and it presses into the dirt above him.

The world is so, so, perfectly silent. 

[snack-o-ween]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Work Title: Bait

Rating: General Audiences | Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply | Fandom: Harry Potter | Category: [None selected.]

Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s).

Characters: Severus Snape, Sirius Black, Regulus Black.

Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Implied First Date, Undisclosed Identity | Blind Date, Zombie Regulus Black, Luring Victims Via Personal Ads, Severus Snape Lives.

Summary: Severus had the sneaking suspicion that something was off about tonight's date. He had been invited to a simple set of coordinates instead of being given an address, and the warding was a bit... Odd.

A/N: 🧟 Trick Or Treat - For the Snack-O-Ween 2022 prompt 5: Inferi or Zombie. Also counts for the HP Fear Fest 2022 prompt 28-B: Undead.