#bonebloom snippet

[bonebloom]

No Line on the Horizon - Snippet

egregious over-stretch of the meaning of snippet Sunday etc, but I always appreciate the tags. motivated me to work on this, so thank you!! @heysaykitkat and @shunstanpike

No Line is a very queer love story. It's about Remus falling in love with himself and with Sirius. Like most things I touch, it's also a story about the fluidity of gender and how it bends through the prism of sex and power. I started this a year ago, but finally feel ready to tell it the way it deserves. Here is a raw snippet from a bit I worked on today.

They had ridden for ten hours, taking breaks only to eat in silence. Finally, when they could see the ocean, they took a turn-off and parked the bike. They sat side by side on a rock ledge overlooking the Firth. Dark fog was gathering along the water and rolling onto land, obscuring the horizon. “I’m thinking of Remus, by the way. As a name,” he said, voice flat and neutral. He lit up a cigarette with a flick of his finger. "Around Brampton, I saw some rude graffiti about the A69 ramming Hadrian's wall, and it came to me." Even in profile, Remus caught Sirius's smirk. He'd been humming Deep Purple under his breath.

[for more flirting, and the fruits of the votes you placed, see below]

[tws: internalised transphobia, allusions to sexual assault, Sirius in lace panties ( I am a mere jester who dances for her subjects. You say lace, I say how tight.)

"First I thought Hadrian could be something, but then I thought about Rome. How I used to feel so sorry for Remus. Mum liked to tell me the story of the brothers, and it just never made any sense. Romulus risked his life to save Remus from death, only to turn around and kill him over where he wanted to put a city. That's bullshit, right?" he kicked the heel of his boot off the ledge and let the force swing his leg.

Sirius stole his cigarette and took a deep drag. Then shrugged, "Isn't that what it means…to be a brother? You'd do anything for them, including kill them." He worried the black cord around his wrist, nails digging into skin.

Remus caught his hand to stop the picking. Plucked his cigarette back with the other.

"Well, then at uni, it turns out, I'm fucking right," he continued.

"It's this whole thing with historians. One of the most problematic foundation myths we have as humans. It just doesn't fit any pattern we know. No one is quite sure how to explain why Remus dies," he closed his eyes, to think better.

"I still remember the paper I read. Dead grim, not one joke. But the theory was that the blood of that violence gave the Romans a seed around which to build their society's morality. They invented Remus and stuck him back into a myth, so Romulus could kill him. It cemented them in their collective imagination as a people who defined strength, worthiness and power as something built upon the blood of a brother," he looked at Sirius, to make sure he was listening.

Sirius nodded, as if to confirm. Remus noticed Sirius had taken to biting his cheek now and there wasn't an easy way to make him stop that.

"In a sense, Remus then just lives to die," he exhaled. "His death is useful to the people who wanted to control their subjects. He's supposed to be an example. It's the Roman leaders saying: This is what trust gets you. Don't fucking trust your brothers, you'll have to kill them to get what you deserve," he laughed.

Sirius frowned, now looking at Remus. Up above, a fleet of gulls flew past noisily.

"But you know me. I hate when stories do that—make someone live just to prove a point by killing them. If I'm doing this…if I'm going to change everything about my life and be an aberrance, as dad kindly put it, then I'm going to let Remus live, I think. Through me."

"You'll be Mr Wolfy-Wolf then," Sirius finally said. "I was gonna convince you to match me. Something celestial. You wouldn't consider Roman, would you?"

Remus smiled, "This way, I'll match my mum. She was named Hope because of Pandora's hope, you know? Plus, Merlin knows how long I'll be a Lupin once I tell my dad my plans. Maybe I'd need a loan of your last name."

"You really think he won't come around? Isn't that kind of extreme, considering everything you all have been through?" Sirius asked, thoughtfully.

"You don't have a monopoly on shit parents, you know?" Remus sighed. "I think he may tolerate it, eventually. But I don't think he will actually believe me. Well…I know he won't. He's done that before, too, with the wolf and everything."

He saw Sirius stiffen. Wolf-and-everything had become Remus's shorthand. It held the chunk of life that was still too hard to talk about easily. But, by now, all his friends knew what he meant. They'd heard about the horrors in bits and pieces over the years. The euphemism was falling apart for most of them.

He continued, choosing to ignore Sirius's concerned look. "Makes it hard to believe in myself. When my dad had me doubting everything, right from day one. And on top of all that, what if I don't do this in a clean way that makes sense to him? Like, what if I'm always going to be a lanky man who likes his hair long and wears skirts and sometimes has tits? Like, what if all I need is to buy the right strap to feel like I'm all right? I wish I could go 'Hey Gepetto, carve me a willy, will you? I want to have a real cock on Sundays!" he mock yelled into the ocean.

“Just fuck me," Sirius said, cutting him off.

“Excuse me?” Remus said, sure he misheard.

Sirius leaned back, expression intentionally neutral. “Back at the bar. You said you thought affirming sex would help you figure it out. You know… not the stuff you've been doing. Let's call whatever you're working with already your cock, and see how it feels. You wanted to put your penis in a warm hole. Your words, not mine. I’m offering to do that, Remus."

Remus's breath stalled. "Say that again?"

"Just fuck me?" Sirius asked, one eyebrow raised.

"No. Smug git." Remus smacked his thigh lightly.

"You want to put your penis in a warm hole", Sirius said, laughing.

Remus smacked him again.

"Remus," Sirius said softly. "Would you like to fuck me, Remus?"

Remus sighed, letting his hand rest on Sirius's thigh. "Yeah, that's it. I like that name. But Pads…what the fuck. Don't give a guy a heart attack. It's not a funny joke."

"I'm not joking," Sirius said, taking his hand. "I swear on Reg."

Sirius gave a watery smile. "You know I mean it, then. If the skinny dickhead dies because you won't fuck me, I'm going to be so mad, Remus."

"I don't— what? Is this like a charity thing? Like, please just try the food bank and don't make me the victim of whatever sex-pest-bake-sale this is? Plus, you’re…you. You can have whoever you want, and I just…you don’t need to ask to fuck me."

Sirius had a calculating look on his face. "So, you're saying you want to fuck me?"

Remus felt himself blush scarlet. It was possible that his body itself was now turning into the mist around them.

Sirius bit his lip. "Well…what if I’m not asking? I’m begging, Remus."

He looked Remus straight in the eyes and said in a low voice, "Please fuck me?"

Remus shook his head.

"Give it to me. I'll take anything Remus, even just the tip ” Sirius's voice had gotten progressively louder and filled with mirth.

Remus looked around, panicked. There was nothing but open road stretching out for miles, blurred by his fresh, hot tears of confusion.

Sirius tightened his grip on his hand. "I know you're at least attracted to me. Or you were, back in Aruba? I remember you having to collect your jaw off the floor when you caught me in that pair of lace panties in our hotel room."

"You were on all fours, looking for something under our bed. We had one bed, you knob!" Remus protested, "You were getting naked to hook up with some dude in our single bed, which I would have to sleep in later that day."

"So it wasn't the way my cock looked in black lace that made you trip and break a toe?"

"Fuck you," Remus laughed. "You know it was. And the idea that I would be sleeping somewhere where you'd just been railed. That made me want to break some other dude's toes."

Then Remus deflected, “But hang on. If you wanted to fuck me, we'd have done it by now. You're not exactly known to be shy. I bet you my last cigarette. You would have already fucked me if you wanted me.”

“Hand it over then,” Sirius said, hand outstretched. "Because you lose. You're as thick as meat sometimes. Why do you think I was lying in our bed in lacy underwear?"

Remus giggled, but it came out more as a broken sob “But you’re gay?”

There was something murderous in Sirius’s eyes as he said, ”Yes, and?”

Remus groaned, “I’m…sure. Okay. But you know what I have. What I am. I don’t know if it’s okay for you to be gay for me? What if you see it…see my bits or dick or whatever and you hate it? It’s…not like the potions did mu—“

Sirius shut him up with a hand to his mouth. Remus looked at him and raised an eyebrow.

“No spoilers,” Sirius said. Then he took Remus’s hand in his and boldly placed it over his crotch, where he was already hard. “Turns me on…to even think about your dick. So trust me when I say this: I don’t care. Rubber, skin…whatever. Because it’s got the rest of you attached to it. And yes, I love to choke, but I also love to get fucked without any prep. Ask James—haven't yet met a dick I didn't like to ride.”

Remus stared. His brain felt sluggish on the uptake, and something hungry burned through his stomach. The crash of waves on the rocks beneath was muted by the blood rushing in his head.

"Not asking Prongs that," he finally started, a bit dumbly.

"If we do this, we’re still friends?" Remus whispered as Sirius let go of his hand. He wanted to move it away from the other man's crotch, but couldn't seem to. It was like a lead weight now hung off his wrist, commanding him to stay tethered to Sirius's erection. His voice sounded frayed.

"Sure! Show me a group of queers who haven't at least tried to stick their cocks in all of their friends by the time they are thirty, and I'll show you a group of liars," Sirius said, eyes averted to the water.

Remus blushed, something hopeful collapsing flat in his gut. He could do this, couldn’t he? The true gay man's experience of fucking a friend and not taking it elsewhere? It could be affirming, and not heartbreaking.

Plus, Sirius already knew the worst about his sexual desires and proclivities. There could not be much more than this one hookup. Sirius, who had been punished for so many years, probably didn’t want a life of sex with a man who thought punishment was the main draw.

He stopped his spiral by focusing on the tightening between his legs. He steeled himself and asked, “When?"

Summoning: @zoemillinwrites , @barkingatthemooninsteadofwriting , @backuploveinterest since you all also made these words happen today :)

[bonebloom]

Weekend Snippet — Pacific Rim AU

It’s happenin folks! I’m writing the Pac Rim AU!! Thanks for the tags @shunstanpike (week late but counts? :D) , @rae-lune and @anonymouse-notarat 🖤

"Heard about the Ruina then Remus?" Tonks said mid chew.

"Who hasn't?” Remus could hardly escape the brothers, and he lived underground most of the year. Outside their van, the sun bleached the rocks pink.

"No. Not generally, Rem. Have you heard of what happened to it?”

"No. But now I know you will tell me.” He’d been hoping for a quiet ride over to the Mine. This wasn’t going that way.

"It’s gone. Into the depths they think. Pilots and all,” Tonks said, waving one of her friends over. “Disengaged from Drift part way through taking a Cat five—“

For a second, Remus's heart clenched. Brothers. Both gone together. Must be nice.

He shook it off. He didn’t dare go down that line of thinking today. The day was about digging deep into red rock and choking on dust until bedtime. Tonks was still talking about it, “—imagine a solo that long!”

“The Pacific is massive. Their Jaeger could take days to walk it. Those two have gotten out of worse,” Fabian chimed in from the seat behind. He tossed a nervous glance at Remus.

Remus hoped that the solitary, damaged Regis Ruina wasn’t limping across the ocean. Because that meant one of the pilots was dying mid-drift. And that would mean, somewhere out there, another soul was growing the same void his had.

Np tagging :

@lifeisabitch-butimcute , @zoemillinwrites, @barkingatthemooninsteadofwriting , @thistlecatfics, @the-verity

[bonebloom]

Pyre

Pairing: Sirius x Remus

Rating: E

Vibes: royal au, angst, emotionally complicated yet romantic

Author notes: written for @padfootfest 2025!

Summary:

Sirius meets Remus when he’s seven and Remus is eleven. They grow up together, making mistakes and bargains that burn hot. Sirius is obsessive. He's learnt that love always means to conquer. But he's not ready for Remus, who yearns for the right cage. As they fall into each other, they find that holding a line between love, possession, and power may never be possible for them. OR Sirius is a Prince, and Remus is his whipping boy.

Snippet:

Sirius had eventually broken his promise. 

He'd tried so hard. He'd got into just the right amount of trouble. Had watched as Remus took hit after hit. Had worn cruelty like his inherited crown until his mind felt strange without it. It had appeased Orion. His mother had even acknowledged the positive change in him—how he'd turned out more like her than she had initially thought. 

To everyone at court, he'd made Remus come to heel. Had found a loophole to somehow be himself and to be the legacy no one expected him to be. People whispered that perhaps he really could continue the Dynasty as King—he'd taken on his mantel as the monster. Uncaring, wild, ruthless. And the worst part, to Sirius, was that it had been easy to deceive everyone. They had been waiting for him to put Remus up as a sacrifice.

Read from the start on AO3

[bonebloom]

Blue Vespers - Snippet

Thanks for the tag <333 @heysaykitkat .

It's far from Wednesday, but excited to share the Jegulus situation I have brewing.

It's a coming-of-age story about discovering you have a sexuality, and that sexuality is gay-for-your-brother's-friends.

Confused Regulus will be reading and masturbating a lot. It's my light and horny story because the other things I am writing have made me a bit sad.

Pairings: Jegulus, background Wolfstar and flirty Moonwater friendship

Catch a snippet of Blue Vespers below!

tws: sexual content , teenage characters discovering sexuality

Regulus blamed Remus for a lot of things. But Remus’s first crime had been leading Regulus to that cursed muggle romance book.

It was early in the summer, before fifth year. Sirius had dragged him along to a charity shop. There, his brother spent an hour in front of the mirrors—jacket after jacket, a preen for Lupin, a laugh for Potter.

Regulus felt all pinched and green—he told himself it was only boredom. His chest hurt when he looked at Sirius, and then his head hurt more when he looked away.

He watched Potter try on a tight burgundy shirt. He flexed into the mirror, making the three buttons of the poor shirt wheeze. He'd groaned, "Padfoot, it doesn't fit."

Sirius perched his chin, like a devil, over James's shoulder. “Well done, Prongs! That’s the point. We spent good Muggle money on those tattoos and ate more eggs than Merlin intended last year. Gotta show off the goods back at Hogwarts!" He roughly thumped James's back in approval.

And James grinned at that. “I am grade-A beef,” he said, then slammed into Sirius, full force.

How stupid, Regulus thought.

He tried not to stare when the shirt fell open entirely. James was all thick cuts, bronzed muscle divided by dark curls. Fresh antlers inked into his hips, pointing down as if to advertise. Grade-A, indeed.

Shamelessly, Potter then fixed his hair in the dusty mirror. He left the shirt hanging loose and wandered down another rack, throwing a lazy smile at Regulus.

The shirt fit, Regulus decided bitterly. Because, James was like a naked light—in need of a shade. Still, Regulus thought a sack would do better than scraps of fabric. The urge to smother him under fabric burned sharp.

Sirius, meanwhile, shoved a pile of muddy green sweaters at Lupin. “For you, my Moonbeam.” He leaned his whole body into him. Regulus liked how pained the boy always looked in Sirius's presence.

“Those belong in a coffin,” Regulus said before he could stop himself. “They don’t suit Lupin’s long lines.”

Sirius had stared. Almost as if he forgot Regulus was there at all, before snorting, "Hear that Moons? My brother thinks you've got looooong l—"

Lupin clapped a hand over his mouth. Regulus knew Sirius licked him—he always did—but Lupin didn’t flinch. Instead, he cinched Sirius by the waist with his free arm, stopping the struggle cold. Then, calm as anything, he looked at Regulus and said,

“You should try bin three in the book aisle. I’d love to know what you think.”

It was hard to say no when Remus spoke in his deep, gravelly voice.

But when he got to Bin Three, Regulus was confused.

Lupin had to have misunderstood many things about him to send him in this direction. The bin was stacked high, overflowing. These were illicit, dangerous, indecent books. They advertised things that belonged under the privacy of skin. But here they were, unashamed in fluorescent light. And the books were ratty from use. The dog-eared corners worn down to suede. Muggle secrets about sex, romance, queerness.

He did not want to look at them. He pretended to eye a Renaissance Art book on the shelf above.

Bin Three seemed to track him as he walked past, books waiting for him, like a pile of whore's rouge, daring him to touch.

He checked to make sure no one was watching him, then let his fingers skim the piles. Paused at one that still had a dust jacket. That felt like the most respectable of the lot.

So he pulled it out. And like original sin, ripened just for him, out of the plain dust jacket fell Mustang’s Ride.

He'd frowned at the title. Surely—it was not about that. But his face heated scarlet as he took in the cover.

A dark-haired woman slung across a man's lap, mid-gallop on a horse. Her breasts spilled over the edge of a blouse with a delicate hint of nipple. His broad shoulders, framed in maroon leather. Tan chest peppered with dark hair. Something purposeful in the bite of his lip. The man's whip aimed high. Ready to come down anywhere between rump and thigh.

Regulus had quickly charmed the cover into an Arithmancy textbook and slipped it into his jacket pocket. Didn't let himself think about much until he was safe back home: not the book's content nor the stealing.

That night, he locked the door and read it by wandlight. He expected to laugh, perhaps to learn something about ranchers. What he hadn't anticipated was that the words would burn through him. That they could turn summer heat into touch.

Words clinked like buckles. Slid, circled, pressed. A whip along his spine, down, down—until they wrapped like a hand around somewhere velvet, hard.

Regulus wasn’t one for crushes. His most passionate emotion had been hate—hate for Potter, mostly. And yet by the last chapter, he found himself flushed and trembling over Rhet and Stella.

He felt dizzy, mouth dry as he read. Perverse. How fast words could apparently make him hard. How safe, to watch sex at paper’s distance—and still feel his body answer. How his hips knew to answer to the spur, how hot it felt to read the slide into hot muscle, how his rhythm broke into ruin.

Somewhere in the last act, when the hero had finally breached every frontier, Regulus had come. He felt blissed-out. And then a wallop of shame. As he returned to himself, he realised how much he’d moved. Crisp sheets loosened at the corners. Drool wetting the pillow. He burned with embarrassment at where his teeth left an imprint into his own palm.

Only a few days later, after reading it for the fifth time, did he fully see the extent of his little death. His other books could barely keep him awake anymore. In fact, nothing else could keep his attention. It didn't help that he no longer lived with a one-man circus. Sirius had been reckless entertainment, always at hand, and now the house was too still.

So he let Rhet and Stella keep him company. He let himself get lost in fantasy, becoming intimately familiar with the creases of its spine, and fell asleep spent, cheek cradled by a page.

By September, when he boarded the Hogwarts express, he feared the text was printed on his forehead. That everyone who saw him would know how he'd spent his summer.

And of course, it was Potter who bumped into him first.

If you read it and liked it, and want to share a WIP, I'm tagging you! Please tag me in the snippet you post, I love to read :)

[bonebloom]

Snippet of Three Perfections

Thanks @the-verity for the tag! Hope you enjoy this one <3

This snippet is from the in-progress Sirius POV of A Creature for Devotion!

It's the first time Sirius sees Remus (and it's even before they are neighbors, before all of ACFD happens).

No pressure to post, even if I would love to read what you are working on! Mostly tagging people off the top of my head who may like this: @shunstanpike @backuploveinterest @ohyou-pretty-things @enbyguously

Read a snippet of Three Perfections below:

Cedar and orange did not smell good together. The gallery was already giving Sirius a headache.

"Anyhow, it's the other guy—Lockhart," he said to James, who was now shuffling the stack of brochures, "He chose the name. Said it was "the thread of fate that ties our work together". And I've been enough of a pain to Fab already—two years of giving him nothing more than the odd shag...didn't feel like demanding to name the show…Plus, I wouldn't have even known what to name this bloody mishmash of crap I made."

"It's not cra—I like the…way this one looks a bit like a dog stuck its foot in a cowpat," James said, pointing towards a large olive green painting, thick and textured, with the slightest dip in the middle.

Sirius laughed, "A tiny dog." Then something softened in his voice, "You know…I was thinking about mum when I made that one. Most of these, really."

James nodded, smile falling. They didn't have words for the thing they were stepping around yet. No one did back then, Sirius would later realise.

Sirius knew he felt scared. He worried he was already too late, that maybe Effie would not remember him tomorrow when he rocked up at the Potters' place. But he was also trying to hold it together for James. So he tried thinking of what his therapist had said: maybe she would, maybe she won't. Tried to cut the cycle of his fear.

"I'm glad you are back," James instead said, holding Sirius's hand for a second. Then he shoved on his best smile. "Looks like the reporters are here. I'll go charm them, you stay pretty and get ready to hide!"

Sirius had slunk toward the back of the gallery. It was going to be a humiliating night. Humiliating, because everyone would be puzzled by the sheer lack in his work. Humiliating, because he already planned to be drunk. It was the only way he could stand beside the nameless canvases and talk about abstraction or Chine-collé. The only way he could stop himself from blurting out that he wasn't sure if he could really make art again or that these pieces were just his pure, naked pain.

It was humiliating because he'd once craved this spotlight so openly—told the world he wanted it, worked so hard to earn the right to feel like an artist. And now he was what he hated. A man who had nothing specific to say, but one who still stole the show and spoke anyway.

He leaned against a cocktail table with something dark in a crystal cup and let himself spiral. He idly sketched a fuzzy tomato stem, a sharp leaf, and a young green fruit from one of the floral centrepieces into his pocket sketchbook. Perfect, he thought, they'll have something apt to fling at my work later.'

Then a man walked in—tall, tawny-haired—and Sirius's pen stopped. His thoughts spun.

The man had made a beeline for Sirius's Olive green piece. The one James had called a cowpat earlier. A press badge drooped loosely around his neck, caught slightly askew by his tie. He was accompanied by someone very pregnant—rowdy pink hair, gorgeous gold blouse. Prickly jealousy bloomed in him as he watched her lean against the man. He wanted her ease tonight. And he wanted someone pretty to rest against—something other than this rickety table trussed in its nylon sheath.

But it was a gorgeous gold blouse, which reassured Sirius. He liked it when he could boil the appeal of things into a few words. And then he felt irritated that this man defied his system.

The man was deep patina and stretched wool—a satchel rubbed to a soft shine at the corners, a stretched-out jumper, as if two cats had once been caught inside it. No labels, no hint of self-conscious curation. He was instantly more compelling to Sirius than any art hanging on those white walls.

Sirius wanted to draw him—tug a single thread from his delicate wrist and pull. He wanted to watch how this stranger's body would unravel beneath his palms. Pull, smudge, trace until the man sagged, pliant, open and warm, like one of his pieces under a hot lamp. Make his very meaning finally shake out of him, like a tight-pressed leaf released from a good book.

Sirius wanted to know his colours. Feel how his chest would burn vermillion under the weight of a firm palm, how dark his eyes could blow when he finally understood the things Sirius would draw of him. He could bind him to paper with satin black ink, let a flick of creamy paint drip down the cusp of his freckled cheek. Maybe brush the pink scar that curved through his lips or glaze them with clear drags of glossy need.

Despite his drink, Sirius was parched. Guess I do have plans for after, he thought, even as he saw the other man turn away from his piece and move on to the next.

He was sure he could have him whimpering by the end of the night. Bathroom, hotel, car. Most people, Sirius knew, were ready to go anywhere for a chance at his broken love. Then maybe after, once they were both colourless and spent, he would let Sirius paint him. Just a little hit—something rough and urgent—before he had to go home and see Mum tomorrow.

[bonebloom]

Chapter 2 of Alluvial Fan: Landscapes of Memory

"New rule," Laurent said, resting his head back on Damen's thigh. "Tell me the name of everyone you've bedded. It is political information. I have a right to know what allegiances I may be entering by proxy, because of your listless, wandering dick."

My greatest joy when publishing fic is to be able to make it a little mood-board. Multi-chapter fic...multiple mood-boards?!

I really want opinions on the ink-sex-map imagery because I'm in two minds about that scene.

It all started with me learning that people used squid ink in ye olde days to write. The ink is blue-black and dries sepia! Isn't that very Akielos/ Laurent's blue-melting-into-Damen's-bronze coded?

The sex itself, on my first read: hot. On later reads: uhh? why have I done this? are we sure? Anyhow, you get to read it!

[bonebloom]

hi! death eater therapist draco, pretty please!

AHH, I had totally forgotten about the edits I had made to this. Initially, Draco was such a dodgy therapist because this was meant to be pure, unethical smut. But he has evolved. Going to actually just drop the entire file here. I genuinely don't know where I'll go with it, so getting it into the world may help! Thank you for asking! <3

Cw: heavy topics and big emotions (feels kind of redundant to add this for a drarry therapy fic but still.. i’m up at 2:30 am worried about not having it, so heads up!)

Umbra

Harry looked like he was becoming a part of Draco's sofa. Poor posture, a pile of pillows covering his lap and a sheen of sweat that made his skin look like well oiled leather.

"I'm wasting your time," he said, after almost four minutes of tense silence. "This isn't going to work. Why the fuck would this work? I've been talking to you about my lunch sandwich and the owl from Magical Artifacts. And I desperately want to tell you about my new broom."

His nails were digging scars into a pillow and Draco wanted to tell him to stop mauling the Venetian velvet.

"Maybe therapy's not for people who are singularly fucked up like me," he pouted.

Draco thought it was endearing—the little frown and Harry's belief that he was chosen, even in trauma. He wanted to rub the words right into Potter's mouth.

Instead, he focused his eyes on Harry's left shoulder. “Therapy with me was your idea. You pestered me for months. I'm here, we're trying. And it works…about as well as you do,” he took a sip of his tea, hoping Harry's impulse to fight him would kick in.

"Then again," he continued, "you have complained that you aren't achieving your potential these days. Slight, as it has always been. Your words."

He caught the annoyance in Harry’s eyes. Felt a trill of satisfaction. Provocation always worked on Potter.

“Guess it's just good to know someone still sees through the Order of Merlin, golden bullshit,” Harry muttered, standing up to leave. “But, you’re still fucking unhelpful, Malfoy.”

“We do have ten more minutes. Perhaps we can work on articulating some short term goals?”

Harry scoffed, “I've never been good at ideas, if you ask Hermione. And I'm shit at talking about things, if you ask Gin. And I'm half a citation away from the Ministry asking for my badge. So forgive me for thinking that it’s too late for short term goals," his voice trembled.

"In that case, get out of my library Potter. One more week of inaction won't fuck you up any more than you think you deserve," Draco said. His palms itched to strangle Potter when he spoke like this.

"Draco…" Harry started, hand hovering over the pail of floo powder. "How did you—how long did it take to work for—er—well—you?" he looked at the ground. "You would tell me if I was un-fixable, right? Like, if you saw no hope—"

"Are you asking as my client?" Draco cut his spiral off.

Harry flushed. He let the floo powder fall out between his fingers, back into the bowl. “Friend,” he grit out, looking away from Draco.

Draco's stomach dropped. Friend. That word had grown strange between them. From a seed of solidarity after the war, to a blooming flower. They'd become unlikely, close friends. Harry needed a place for his darkness, and Draco needed a fair punishment or a real chance at redemption. But now it was over-ripe. Swollen with imbalanced power because they'd added this dimension to their relationship.

"I'm buying," he said, dusting off his worries along with some crumbs from his trousers.

Harry snorted. "You always buy," before apparating away.

Draco ground his teeth and felt the tension at the base of his skull release. He reminded himself that he had good reasons for this.

There were twelve mind-healers with knowledge of the wizarding world in Europe. Harry had seen seven. One had asked him for an autograph. None of them knew what it was like to be in the same room as Voldemort, forget what it meant to live with him in your soul. The scar on Draco's forearm ached at the thought.

No, this wasn't ethical. But he knew the signs. The isolation, the impulsivity, the temper. They would all lose Harry if he didn't try.

Plus, he justified that he'd done plenty of therapy with acquaintances before. It was besides the point that all his other clients had been Death Eaters who no other therapist would see. They deserved a chance, and so did Harry.

He tapped his wand to his forehead and added his thoughts to his Pensieve.

Penumbra

Harry felt useless. He felt like he was sitting in the closet with the boggart-dementor, and it was feeding off his soul, over and over again. His fear of fear itself had persisted. He wondered what Remus would say, and felt a searing ache of grief. He'd never know.

"Third lunch date this month, Potter. Are you considering giving up on yourself entirely?" Malfoy slid into the booth across from him.

"Not doing your job well then, are you, Malfoy?" Harry shot back.

Draco arched one blond eyebrow up. He'd changed robes before leaving his office. Harry suddenly felt very sweaty.

"I've told you—I can't actually change you. Trust me, if I could, I'd get rid of the vast majority of your personality."

A silver cocktail shaker shook it's way over to them.

Both of them reached out to make it stop, icy hands meeting on iced metal. Harry held on for a beat too long.

"You're not supposed to force yourself to get through this, Harry," Draco said, pouring them drinks.

"Forcing implies any effort is being applied. I feel like I haven't done jack shit to help myself get over my crap for the past decade. I still hear him in my dreams. He's still in my head." Harry let out a long sigh. It was true, Voldemort had been with him ever since childhood. His death had not been the end of it. It had begun the reckoning for Harry—that some of his happiest memories—Hogwarts, Sirius, his friends—had happened with this darkness as witness. That through him, darkness had touched his loved ones. Stained them.

"Most believe you have done enough," Draco said, stopping him from falling entirely into his doom.

"Do you?," Harry asked him. Draco did not sugarcoat.

"Do I believe you've done enough?" Draco sounded sarcastic.

"I guess, do you believe it's okay to think that I have done enough?" Harry hedged. He was afraid that this was the sort of belief that killed people. Something complacent about thinking his responsibility to society was over.

Draco looked unimpressed by this question.

"What if I decide I've done enough, yeah?" Harry said, leaning in. "I quit my job, I go on vacation to Ibiza with some muggles, pick up gardening. Then, five years later, when they find me hanging off a doorknob. Will they still care about the things I did when I was eighteen?" he looked up at Draco.

A wrinkle now cut across his smooth brow. Harry felt a surge of some primitive feeling. It made him feel small when someone worried about him. It happened so rarely.

Harry had a delerious thought. How much would Draco Malfoy charge to slap him? Perhaps just one tight one would fix him? Vernon thought so, and Mr. Dursley was not losing sleep about being useless.

When it seemed clear Draco would not answer, Harry tried to continue. He went with the next thing he meant to tell Draco, "I just…errr…I think I'm getting a divorce."

"Does the she-weasel know?"

"I'm working up to it," Harry said. The words felt like acid. "I purposely forgot our anniversary. And she said she understands." Something venomous crept into his voice. "She understands? Can you believe that?"

Draco, who had finished his drink, poured another.

"You're supposed to say things," Harry muttered. Maybe he should slap Draco.

"Okay. Since we're here as—friends—" Draco bit around the word. "Ginevra is one of the best things that happened to you. I think you've never had it this easy before. And so, you're struggling. A happy marriage can be unstimulating. But a divorce is an over-correction. Next thing you'll be telling me you're considering homosexuality."

Harry snorted. "Homosexuality? You do find a way to suck all the sensuality right out of the idea. Why'd you divorce Astoria then? Not exactly the same thing?"

Draco smirked, "You push my limits every time. But yes, the homosexuality was the exact reason I divorced her. Now, when was the last time you had sex?"

Harry flushed. It had been months. Draco somehow had become the only person he could tolerate.

"'S not important. Can't you just use legilimency on me? Or dose me with veritaserum? Just once?" he asked.

"Fuck off, Potter," Malfoy muttered. "Even I have my limits on how unethical I get."

"You never answered my question earlier. You received therapy. I presume it went well. How?" Harry picked up an oyster from a tower that floated past their table.

Draco sighed. "Because you won't like my answer." He tugged his hair out of it's ponytail and it hung in lustrous waves along his jaw. Harry thought he preferred it that way.

A stack of menus appeared on their table. They both ignored them. They'd been here often enough that the staff would send them their entrees eventually.

Draco closed his eyes and rubbed his temples.

Harry sat up straighter. He would lick every word of advice Draco was willing to give him, like a dog with an empty bowl.

"Trust, stolen by human hands, can only be restored by human hands," Draco said. He fixed Harry with a firm stare. "Therapy can be many things. You do have to actually find out what it means for you."

Draco fiddled with his sleeve.

"Therapy was a container for me. It held me until I became a person who wanted relationships again. Even ending things with Astoria, having to hurt someone anew? It helped. It gave me permission to be bad once more. To see myself as fallible—and human—and to just let go. Grieve, I guess. I didn't think I deserved grief for a long time."

Harry wanted to reach out, to take his hand. But he didn't dare move. He didn't want Draco to ever stop talking.

Draco took a deep breath again. "Harry, I think grief is the shadow of love. When we grieve for ourselves, it's also a reminder of how good we could feel. Of how much love we are capable of. Being scared of grief also means starving yourself of care."

Draco looked up at him, eyes narrowing. "Which is why I will offer you candour. Having sex helped. Feeling desired? Being the person who can give someone what they really want? Demanding someone's trust again? It rebuilt me."

"So you're saying that you were not desperately bored by Astoria, but that you just weren't horny for her?"

"Is that what you're feeling about your wife? Bored?"

Harry bit down on the lemon seed. Let it fill his mouth with that terrible flavour. "I'm always bored, Draco."

"Even now?," Draco asked, like a threat.

Harry's breath caught. He didn't know. Inside, it was as if every emotion arrived at the same time and then never left.

He was angry. He could see himself shoving Draco's face down into the table. He was profoundly jealous--that Draco had figured this out. He felt ravenous, but not for food. He wanted to eat something sharp. Have something pierce the swirl of anxiety that festered inside. He wanted something to hurt him again.

"I don't know what you make me feel, Draco," he said, finally, eyes welling up with tears of frustration.

And that's all I got to before this story stank of plot and logic. As someone who hasn't read much Drarry, I am making Harry up as I go, which has contributed to some of my stall on this one. But I do love thinking about him!

[bonebloom]

Tuesday snippet

Thanks for the tags @rae-lune and @heysaykitkat ! 🖤🖤

This is a scene I wrote about Remus waking up in heaven after he dies. Made me cry.. i’m in a mood these days. idk if it’s going anywhere. But enjoy, ig?

After:

Remus wakes up and he’s back in their apartment. He feels younger, stronger. Dust motes dance in a beam of light in front of him, and he realizes he is in Sirius’s bed. Bowie’s giant face and a string of motorbikes greet him from the walls. He smiles at the pile of his sweaters now draped over Sirius’s “half-clean” laundry chair. He never thought he’d see Bowie again. Or Bathsheba. Or his purple argyle.

Their clothes—the ones they must have worn last night—are strewn across the floor, Sirius’s leather jacket atop them like a punctuation mark. There’s something deeply sated in his stomach, and he feels the lip-shaped bruises forming along his shoulder. The wolf grumbles dozily in his mind somewhere, nuzzling into soft pine needles.

The shower is running. If he listens closely, he can hear Sirius’s voice—singing nonsense lyrics to the radio. The kettle they charmed to turn on bubbles merrily, and the Daily Prophet zooms to meet him. On the front page is a smiling photo of James, Lily, and baby Harry—they’ve won the daily prophet sweepstakes, the prize is a child sized broom and a muggle shirt for each parent with Harry’s face on it. They both look so proud, to have this little boy between them. 

On his bedside table, he sees a photo of a purple-haired woman mid-laugh, wearing his favorite cardigan, and a baby with blue hair and his eyes reaching toward the camera. He picks it up, lets his hand linger on their faces—like his body knows that’s what it does every morning and every night.

And underneath it, a crumpled Muggle photograph: his mum, his dad, and himself, smiling at what seems to be a childhood birthday party, scores of kids crowded around him.

His knee twinges in an aching, familiar way, and he is so, ecstatically happy.

What a mercy, he thinks—to not be asked to let go of anything. To simply be given the strength and space to hold it all. To wake up in their bed, his favorite place, and be at peace with his contradictions.

He lies back and closes his eyes, luxuriating in this morning. Somewhere in his chest, he knows they all have the rest of forever ahead of them. Sirius will come out soon, like a wet dog, and shake his hair onto him. He’ll groan and complain but secretly he would cherish the drops of water that came purely with Sirius’s scent.

And in this way, in some merciful fold of the universe, he gets to rest in the love he knows he’s earned.