#drabbles!!

[ashes-and-ashes]

Can you write a cute little one shot of married!drarry babysitting Ron and Hermiones toddler and them playing any game and at the end of the game one of them says they want a kid?

You have: 15 new voicemails.

Message One:

“Hey Ron, it’s Harry. Why am I saying that it’s me. You have my number saved, right? I hope so, cause I’m babysitting your fucking kid. Ah, shoot I probably shouldn’t swear so much, right? Not my fault - Draco swears like a Scottish sailor when he gets mad. Anyways, just wanted to let you know it’s all okay and hope you enjoy your date with ‘Mione. Hope you get some. You need it.”

Message Two:

“Hey Ron. So uh, I know Hermione left dinner for Rose but she wouldn’t eat it. Like full on, tantrum, wouldn’t eat it. And I know that I’m the boy who lived and everything, blah blah but seriously mate, I’m panicking? What do I do?”

Message Three:

“Yeah so Draco and I are never having kids. Rose wouldn’t eat, so we asked her what her favourite food was and she said fried eggs? So Draco made her some, and she seemed pretty happy until she started asking for dessert. And - your kid is going to be a pathological liar, I swear cause she said she was allowed ice cream? And we gave her some because what else were we supposed to do? Do babies usually stick to the ceiling? How long until they fall off?”

Message Four:

“Ron, I appreciate that you’ve probably turned your phone off cause you’re in the theatre or some shit but Rose is bouncing off the walls. Literally. And she’s shitting sparks. Is this natural kid behavior? Kid-wizard-baby thing that I conveniently missed out on? Please help me because I have no idea what to do and - oh god, the toaster is sparking. DRACO, WHY IS THE FUCKING TOASTER SPARKING??”

Message Five:

“Ron I am the smartest person I know. Hermione said that her favourite treat was those sugar quills right? We bribed her to get off the roof with those. Now she is happily sucking on one of them whilst Draco changes her nappy and I do the dishes. On an unrelated note you really need to stop buying these graphic mugs because they are horrible. Your “My wand is the largest” one is disgusting and Draco nearly choked when he saw it. And also...if you want to stop by a toaster shop on your way home?”

Message Six:

“Weasley. It’s Draco. I want to assure you I am never having kids because your child is a demon and I hope that the stained glass window in your study wasn’t terribly expensive because Rose just flew out of it. Don’t worry, Harry is going to get her but I’m afraid she may have flown rather far, due to the whole levitating sherbets - What? How was I supposed to know that? Harry you idiot, I didn’t know I wasn’t supposed to mention the sherbet? How do I delete voice mail - Harry? Harry you’re the fucking Muggle here - Harry? Harry??”

Message Seven:

“Hi Ron, it’s Harry. Not to worry, everything is going to plan, Rose and I are just...getting some fresh air?”

“Your acting skills are tremendious, Harry.”

“Fuck off Draco, we’re - don’t worry, Ron, your child isn’t lost, she’s just a bit...High? Physically, not mentally. I mean, we wouldn’t have given her drugs, that’s a big no-no and - DRACO? DRACO IS THAT - I’ll call you back!!”

Message Eight:

“Hey, so it’s Pansy and Harry just wanted me to let you know to not worry, everything is under control. We’re going to find Rose and he promises she’ll be okay - oh sorry? I wasn’t supposed to mention that? Okay you fucking call then asshole!”

Message Nine:

“This is Blaise. I’m not sure if I’ve ever called you before but first time for everything. We have it all under control - Draco just invited Pans and I over because your daughter is a...handful. Anyways, enjoy your date.”

Message Ten:

“Hello, I am the hidden heir to the Black Fortune, and I am currently wrongfully inprisoned in Azkaban. I need you to open up a Gringott’s account so I can transfer thirty million galleons to you. I need an outside source to hold my money while I arrange for my release. If you would just send me the account details, I will allocate a significant reward to you once I am free. Please call me back, or send an Owl.”

Message Eleven:

“It’s Theo. Yep, the whole gang came over because it’s hard work caring for your spawn. Also, it takes a village to raise a child right? Anyways, just wanted to reassure you that your child is definitely at home with us and not halfway up a tree in the middle of the park. I promise I’m not be sarcastic. Potter, stop making that face at me. Potter - “

Message Twelve:

“Harry here - she’s fine, I promise Ron, swear it on my life, she’ll be okay, alright? Just enjoy your date and - you haven’t even answered your phone yet, oh god, all the voicemails BLAISE YOU HALFBLOOD GET YOUR ASS HERE - “

Message Thirteen:

“ - how’d she get into a fucking tree - “

“ - floated?”

“ - fucking helpful you piece of - “

“ - someone get me a ladder or a rope - “

“ - rope? Gonna climb your way to the top Pans?”

“ - make yourself fucking useful - “

“ - god is she spinning? A twirling, psychotic baby?”

“ - best friend’s daughter so shut your face Zabini - “

“ - will never, ever have children - “

“ - with the amount you and Potter bang it’s highly fucking unlikely that you won’t have children - “

“ - THAT’S NOT HOW BIOLOGY WORKS - “

“ - do you have her? I think - “

“ - YOU CAN’T HAVE A CHILD BY STICKING A DICK UP - “

“ - oh my god this was recording the whole time - “

“ - turn it off, turn it off - “

“ - oh god it’s fucking sending HARRY - “

Message Fourteen:

“It’s okay, Ron, we have her. This is Draco by the way. We’re on our way home now and - no. No, Harry, get that grin off your face - “

Message Fifteen:

“Hi Ron, it’s Harry again. Rose is asleep and I was thinking, all this chaos has taught me that I actually operate pretty well under stress. I think...I think I might want to have a kid. What do you think?”

[blackberreh-art]

Leave a ✫ in my inbox with a character(up to 3)/pairing and a corresponding AU/prompt/theme/setting below and I’ll write a drabble!

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[rantaire]

thor & loki at hogwarts, by request | 1k 

When Loki is called into the Headmistress’ office, he is not surprised.

When Loki is called into the Headmistress’ office, he is not surprised. His work has been exemplary as of late, far beyond his levels; there has been talk among his professors of letting him take on an even more advanced curriculum.

Perhaps the Headmistress wishes to congratulate him. When he receives the summons, he hurries, but not so fast that he does not pause before his favorite looking-glass in a corner of the Slytherin common-room.

He is pleased that his uniform is well in order, green and silver tie knotted neatly, and his black hair, newly washed, has a pleasing shine. His shoulders have at last broadened in his seventh year, and his prefect’s badge, always kept gleaming, is pinned prominently.

“You are most fair today, Loki,” says the looking-glass.

“My thanks.” He touches the worn-down copper of its frame affectionately, and promises to stop back later for a longer talk; then he wends through Hogwarts’ teeming hallways, bound for the Headmistress.

He respects McGonagall. Everyone does: it is impossible not to praise her storied history, and she is known to be wise and just, if somewhat biased on occasion toward overlooking the antics and disruptions of her old House, Gryffindor.

Loki is proud to be called before her. He knows that his grades are exceptional, and his behavior irreproachable, since the unfortunate incident in fifth year; he has been assured that he will have the pick of professions to pursue when this last year is finished. He ascends the curving, fast-moving staircase, already excited by the idea of the advanced lessons that lie ahead.

He waits outside McGonagall’s door until her steady voice calls, “Do come in, Mr. Laufeyson.” He is pleased that she remembered, though he supposes the fact is difficult to forget.

Loki enters the office, with its moving portraits of Headmasters past and cabinets of wondrous curiosities, a polite greeting on his lips. That’s when a golden head pokes out from the embrace of a massive armchair, and Thor is turning to look at him with hopeful eyes.

Loki stops halfway, his spine gone stiff. He might as well have been hit by a stunning spell, such is the effect of Thor’s unexpected blue gaze. Loki looks quickly away, at McGonagall behind her desk. She indicates the armchair next to Thor’s, and he has no choice but to take it.

It is the closest he has sat to Thor in a very long time, the closest in any room that was not required by a joint class. Like this he can smell Thor, the musk that says he has just come off the Quidditch pitch, and underneath that, the scent that is ineffably Thor’s: oak leaves crushed underfoot, the sky after a storm, and something that means home, that is a lie.

Loki begins to breathe through his mouth.

“I’ve asked you here to discuss a family concern,” McGonagall begins, after eyeing them both, and Loki stops thinking about Thor and blinks at her.

He wants to deny his part in such a family, as has become his custom; but the serious expression her face gives him pause, and he speaks a sudden fear before he can stop himself: “Our mother?”

Thor looks at him sideways, like Loki has said something wonderful. Won’t stop staring. Loki’s fingers twitch to hex him.

“She is well, Mr. Laufeyson,” says McGonagall, her voice gentled, “as is Lord Odin. But he has summoned you both home on a matter of pressing importance, and I agree with his judgment. You are excused from your studies until further notice, and will return to Asgard Estate as soon as you have collected your belongings.”

Loki clears his throat, tries to clear his spinning head. The relief of knowing Frigga unafflicted allows him to regain the necessary distance. “Headmistress,” he says in his most persuasive tone, “I believe that you know that place is no longer my home.”

In the chair beside him Thor can no longer keep quiet. “Brother, please--”

“And this person is not my brother,” Loki finishes icily, around the ice in his heart. Out of the corner of his eye he can see how Thor flinches, his cheeks flushed almost perfectly to match the Gryffindor red of his hastily tied tie.

McGonagall regards them over her half-moon spectacles. Then she looks at Loki with an expression that says I have brokered more nonsense than you can imagine, boy, and I will be having none of it today. “Be that as it may,” she begins, diplomatic about it, “Lord Odin remains your legal guardian until you are eighteen. It is his will that you and your -- that you and Mr. Odinson be returned to Asgard. Hogwarts must comply.”

Loki is mere months from freedom, and he smarts under the reminder, chafes under the bonds he cannot yet escape. But there is no winning in a staring match with McGonagall. He studies his boots instead. “As you say, Headmistress.”

Thor seems to have found his tongue again. “Can you tell us the nature of -- of my father’s summons, if none of -- the family is ill?” Even now, even after everything, Thor is ever the big, soft-hearted fool, and he struggles not to name his father and his family ours.

“I’m afraid that I cannot,” McGonagall tells him. “Only that you must proceed with haste. A floo network has been arranged. I ask that you tell your classmates only that a family affair calls you home.” Then she is looking at Loki again. “And no tricks.”

This time it is Loki who flinches, and nearly protests, but he supposes that the warning is fair. It was McGonagall who had to deal with the fallout after the first time that Loki refused to return to Asgard Estate, and sent a double of himself along with Thor who made it all the way through Christmas dinner before being discovered.

Loki gives a short nod.

“Very well,” says McGonagall. “You are dismissed.”

Desperate to be free of the room, Loki leaves first, but he has barely put foot to stair when Thor catches up on his too-long legs and grabs his arm.

Loki was expecting something of the kind, and he has his wand out and pushed hard into Thor’s clavicle before Thor’s fingers can even close. But Thor’s fingers still close, and they stand there frozen on the staircase.

“Loki, please,” Thor says again. At least this time he dares not say brother; Loki will turn him into something unpleasant if he does, orders from the Headmistress be damned. “Stop this. It has been two years. Say you’ll put your anger aside when we reach Asgard, for our -- for Frigga’s sake--”

“You’d dare bring her into this, after the lies she was forced to tell?” Loki pulls his most scathing sneer, perfected over hours of amiable conversation with the looking glass in the common room.

It’s the first time that he’s addressed Thor directly in more days than Loki can count, and Thor’s proximity unnerves him as it always has, and in new ways. Thor has filled out, strains the confines of his uniform, towers above Loki as he never did before, and Loki wants to blast him backwards down the staircase. In magic, in magic only, he thinks, he can still best Thor.

“Let go of me, Head Boy,” Loki says, low and dangerous, “should you not wish to make the journey back to Asgard as a frog.” And since Loki’s done it before, Thor releases him.

Thor is worrying his lower lip between his teeth, a show of nerves and nervous energy that makes Loki feel suddenly, weakly young. How many times did he see just that expression before Thor did or said something mind-bendingly stupid, or brave, or both at once?

“I don’t know what could possibly make Odin recall us like this,” Thor says, and he looks directly into Loki’s eyes before Loki can glance away. “But whatever it is, if it means we’ll have you home again, then I’m glad.”

Home. A fractured word, broken as the shiny, false veneer it once encompassed. Asgard, a sprawling estate with too many tall towers and stuffy sitting-rooms and empty, echoing corridors, is no home to Loki. 

But as Thor moves past him in the stair, the scent of air after rainfall, and green leaves turned red-gold, and something that is only Thor’s -- that smell hits Loki as he passes, and Loki thinks: home.

[ashes-and-ashes]

possible drabble prompt: Draco and Harry, not together (yet), slowly become tentative friends and Harry falls asleep on same couch as Draco in the eighth year common room and Draco checks him out and then realizes Harry isn’t asleep and is, oh no, AWARE of Draco checking him out and then ?? I love all of your work by the way, thank you for writing everything you do ♥️♥️♥️

He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Harry look like this.

Draco stares down from where he was shoved up against one arm of the sofa, Harry’s long legs dangling in his lap. He looked different like this, more vulnerable, all ruffled hair and steady breaths and so, so young in the afternoon sunlight, the boy that Draco knew at 15.

Sometimes it hurt. All the years of history together, the fights and the sneers and the scars and they were in eighth year now and it still didn’t feel real. Draco traces the outline of the Dark Mark on his forearm and wonders what life would had been like without Voldemort.

He used to do that, in the days before the War, the nights when he couldn’t sleep. Spinning stories in his head, where He never came back, the soft sounds of the lake washing over his bed. He used to stare up at the ceiling and wonder what it would feel like to drown.

Draco lets his head rest against the back of the sofa, tracing Harry with his eyes. It was the one thing he didn’t expect, coming back for eighth year. Him and Harry, the shackles cast aside, late nights spent talking and early morning spent laughing. He never thought he could have a friendship with Potter, never thought it could blossom into more.

And yet here he was, watching Harry sleep on his legs and a feeling like tiny explosions going off in his chest. It’s breathtaking and heartbreaking and if he closes his eyes he can see Harry, the emerald green of his irises -

Draco jolts, Harry’s foot pressing into his stomach, and he thinks he can just see the barest hint of a smile on his stupidly perfect face.

“Oh God,” he breathes. “You’re awake?”

Harry laughs, the sound making Draco’s chest hurt. He shifts slightly on the couch, rolling over to face him. “No. I’m sleeping. And you were staring.”

He can feel his face going hot, colour rising to his cheeks. “I...wasn’t?”

It’s the afternoon sunlight, streaks of gold on Harry’s face. It’s the flush on his cheeks, the way the emerald of his eyes shifted when he blinked. It was his shirt, riding up to his ribs as he lay tangled on the sofa, the rapid beat of Draco’s heart as he pressed himself against the side of the couch. It was the sound of his voice, rough and sleepy and Draco could have gone on forever.

Harry just shrugs, turning back over sleepily. “If it’s any consolation. I was staring too.”

Draco blinks.

“The fuck?” he says, but Harry has already turned over.

[ashes-and-ashes]

Writing prompt: mauraders interacting with sirius (as padfoot)?

“Do you think if I threw my wand he’d play fetch?” Peter asks.

James burries his face in his hands. There’s dirt all up and down his arms, sticks in his hair and leaves caught in the lint of his robe. His head pounds as well, and he’s pretty sure that there’s something still attached to his skull, the ghost of antlers sticking out above his ears.

He glares down at the floor, the black dog running in circles at their feet. If he looks closely he can see the resemblance - Sirius’ dark hair reflected in the dog’s shaggy fur, the tilt of his eyes and the grey irises. He’s pawing at an exposed root half burried in the dirt, his claws neatly tearing the bark off into neat little strips.

James curses, kneeling down onto the ground. “Sirius,” he says. “Can you understand me?”

The dog seems to roll its eyes, giving James a long, deliberate blink.

“Is that a yes? Can you nod?”

“I couldn’t,” Peter points out. He’s balancing on an upturned log, arms out on either side of him.

“Yeah, but you’re not exactly the brightest person, are you Pete.”

Peter grins, hopping down and landing with a flourish. “I make up for it with my charms.”

James rolls his eyes. He pokes Sirius again, who lets out a wounded whimper, curling up to protect his belly. “Oh for Christ’s sakes. Give me a nod, okay?”

The dog nods.

“Thank fuck. So it looked like everyone managed to work it out then.”

Peter scowls. “If I have to go through another month with that fucking leaf under my tongue - “

James makes a face at the memory - bitter sap and sourness pollen filling his mouth. “Yeah. I’d go insane.”

He feels something soft against his ankles and looks down: Sirius was rubbing himself against James’ leg, his tail wagging behind him. “Oh Jesus Christ. Do that with Remus you wanker! If I see a hard on...”

“Can dogs get hard ons?” Peter muses, tossing a handful of leaves into the air.

“Do I fucking want to know?”

Peter winks, picking up a stick from the ground. “I’m sure I can find out. Hey Sirius!” he calls. “Fetch!”

The dog gives Peter a reproachful look but obediently chases after it. He drops the stick in Peter’s hand.

“Let me try,” James says. “Sirius!”

With a smirk, he hurls the stick straight at Sirius’ face. It hits him on the nose, making him growl. The dog launches himself on top of James, dragging him down into the dirt, all wet tongue and scratch paws and mud.

“Tosser!” James spits, shoving Sirius off. He glanced up at the sky; it’s almost sunset, the moon just visible behind the clouds. “Come on. Let’s go tell Remus.”

He follows Sirius out of the forest.

[ashes-and-ashes]

hurt 👏 sirius 👏 black 👏. that's it that's the request. go wild

I’M SORRY.

~

Remus is almost asleep when Sirius knocks on the door to his tiny apartment.

He almost doesn’t realize at first, half lost into that soft world between consciousness and dreams. It’s only Siruus’ voice, hoarse and agonized, “Remus, Remus, please,” that made him sit up, rub his eyes sleepily.

“You’re a dream,” he says, flinging open the door and letting Sirius in, and then he sees the blood.

“Oh God,” is all he says before he’s on his knees, blood soaking through the floorboards, the carpets, his sweatpants and he’s frantically pressing the hem of his shirt to the marks on Sirius’ skin, the white cotton going a brilliant scarlet. “Oh God, oh fuck - “

“Remus,” is all Sirius says before he bites his lip, the skin around it going a vicious white. He’s shaking, Remus realizes, trembling so hard that Remus could feel him, the desperate clench of his muscles as he tried to stay conscious. His leather jacket was slung around his shoulders and Remus shoves it off, letting it drop to the floor beneath him.

“What happened?” he breathes. There’s a cut on Sirius’ back, so large that he could see it snake around his rib cage, the skin shockingly pale under the glow of the moon. “Fuck, what made - “

Siruus grits his teeth. His eyes are wide, the pupils blown out and the irises silver and Remus distractedly thinks that they looked the exact same as when they kissed.

“Father,” he says, and that should be enough right? Sirius and his father, the alcohol and the drugs and his brother who Sirius would die for. The marks left on the skin of his back, all straight lines and jagged edges, belts and lighters and canes.

“Then what - “ Remus starts, then cuts himself off. The wound on Sirius’ back was deep, skin hanging loosely from where it had been struck off, the edges shiny and puckered. “Was it - “

“The poker,” Sirius says flatly. “From the fireplace.”

“I’ll stitch it - “

Sirius shakes his head, then lets out a groan. “My arm.”

“What?” Remus starts, but then he sees Sirius’ arm, the odd lump halfway on his forearm, the bruising and the swelling.

“I felt it crack,” Sirius whispers. Remus brushes cautious fingers over it and Sirius lets out a soft moan. “Please.”

“I have to call the ambulance, Sirius. I can’t - “

“Hold me.” Sirius is shaking now, his teeth gritted and his eyes closed, so close to shattering that Remus’ heart broke.

“Sirius - “

“Please.”

“I’ll hurt you - “

“I don’t care,” he says, and his voice was hoarse and raw. “Please.”

Remus reaches forward, holds the broken, battered pieces of Sirius’ body. He can feel Sirius in his arms - the blood and the scratches, every tense line in his body where he was rigid against the pain.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. The phone’s dialing on the table beside him - he wonders if those were sirens he heard. “I’m so, so sorry.”

“I love you,” Sirius whispers back.

[ashes-and-ashes]

"Our lives suck arse but, honestly, could you even imagine them being different?" Drarry prompt?

“Did you know,” Draco says, “that I used to have a wishing stone?”

Harry stares back at him in confusion, the sheets still twisted around his legs. He looked like a marble statue, something too perfect to be real, silver and gold and glass. “A what?”

“A wishing stone. My mother gave it to me, when I was...oh god. 6? 7? After a birthday, I remember, when I blew out the candles and wished that my father wouldn’t force me to join Him. After he let me out of the cellar, my mother handed me this stone and told me all my wishes had to go to it, not to Father. She didn’t want me to get hurt, I think. Or maybe she just didn’t have the time to listen to such childish hopes.”

Harry’s eyes darken. It was one of the things Draco could always talk to him about - the shared neglect of their childhoods, the hidden scars that it always left. It had taken him a long time to open up - to anyone but Pansy and Blaise, the fear making him sick.

“I don’t know,” he says, staring up at the ceiling. “I kept that stone right until I turned 17. I used to hold it, in my hands as I fell asleep. I remember the weight of it against my palm as they burned the Mark into me. I remember holding it when I kissed you in the great hall before we went to fight. I threw it into the forest when I thought you died.”

“What did you wish for?” Harry asks, his voice soft. The feeling of his hand against Draco’s made him want to cry.

He laughs instead, burries down the pain with a biter chuckle. “All sorts of things. For the war to stop, for Him to go away. For Father to stop locking me in closets, or using stinging hexes, or refusing to feed me.”

“Draco...”

“And you. I wished for you.”

Harry lets out a long breath, the feeling cool against Draco’s cheek. He closes his eyes.

“I mean.” Harry whispers. “Our lives suck arse, but honestly, could you imagine them being any different? Me and you, even after all the shit hit the fan. We made it, Draco. We made it.”

Draco laughs. “Guess the stone worked after all.”

Harry smiles. “Guess so.”