#hp horror

[in-flvx]

Today on my mind: the body horror that polyjuice potion can bring!

Everything beneath this cut is horror and horrible. SA, forced pregnancy, and the likes, take care!

Like, some evil wizard kidnaps a completely random person off the street. That person then wakes up in a body that isn't theirs.

They have to get used to their new body, new height, new width. New sex, possibly.

And then they get drugged with polyjuice potion for at least 9 months, after which they birth a child that looks nothing like them, but rather like the body they were forced to live in the entire time. And the entire time, they know the only thing keeping them alive is acting the part they are given, bc everyone could take this role.

Extra bleak points if they have to take care of other polyjuice kids in the meantime

[corvuscrowned]

haunted

read on ao3 | written for @hp-fearfest‘s day 1 prompt: haunted house. 565 words; no warnings (but spooky!) big thanks to my personal hero @wheezykat​ for the speedy beta!

“He’ll be fine, Harry,” Hermione tells him for the tenth time that night. “He’s just overtired. Insomnia can distort reality when it lasts this long.”

They stand at the threshold of her and Ron’s spare room, watching Draco sleep for the first time in days. Their murmured conversation is swallowed by the patter of heavy rainfall as a storm rages outside, but even the mighty claps of thunder aren’t enough to wake him.

Harry wants to believe her, but he knows that all of it started well before the insomnia began. Draco had been glancing around Grimmauld manically for weeks, flinching away from things that Harry couldn’t see. He’d woken in the middle of the night countless times to find Draco huddled against their bed frame, staring at the space above the foot of their bed as if locked in a trance. Draco had tried playing it off as nothing for as long as he could, but he eventually broke down and told Harry the truth.

Draco had never been one to give in to fancy or fantasy, so when he told Harry that Grimmauld was haunted, Harry got him out. It didn’t matter if Harry believed it or not. It didn’t matter if it was true. He just knew he never wanted to see Draco like this again - wound up and jumpy, sick with a fear he tried to keep off of his face, like he was being slowly digested by whatever lurked in the shadows of their home.

Harry never saw a thing.

“You two can stay as long as you need,” Hermione says as a flash of lighting floods the room with light. Draco stirs, tossing fitfully onto his side. “But Harry - you know it’s not really haunted, don’t you?”

She’s trying to comfort him, but it just makes Harry’s stomach twist. He wishes Grimmauld was haunted - it would be easier than knowing that it’s all in Draco’s head.

“I know, Hermione,” Harry says. “I know.”

“Try to get some rest,” she says. She squeezes his forearm before turning into her own bedroom and shutting the door behind her.

Harry climbs into bed slowly, careful not to disturb Draco’s sleep. He seems exhausted even as he slumbers, his face pinched with worry, occasionally twitching and contorting against a nightmare. The storm picks up outside, wind whistling as it throws rain against the window. Another flash of lightning drenches them in a burst of light.

The room is illuminated for less than a second. It’s so short that Harry can barely register what he sees: the dark impression of something that may have once been a human hunched over the bed. Its mouth protrudes from a shroud of tattered robes, a toothless, gaping cavern lowered just above Draco’s face, chapped lips twisting as it murmurs rapidly into his ear. 

The figure disappears as the room is swallowed again by darkness, the lightning echoed with a crash of rolling thunder. Draco jolts up and throws his arms around Harry’s neck, knocking the wind out of his lungs.

“It’s okay, Draco,” Harry says, trying not to let the fear seep into his voice as Draco breathes shakily into his chest. “I’ve got you.” 

He was wrong. They were both wrong. It’s not Grimmauld that’s haunted, Harry realizes as he pulls Draco tight and glances around at the empty, darkened room.

It’s Draco.

crow’s fearfics

[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​ :)

[the-fools-errand]

A Tear in the Veil

Posting something fun this October with @thehoneybeet as we tackle the 31 prompts of @hp-fearfest 2021 All Hallows Challenge, with our fic A Tear in the Veil | Rating: M | No warnings thus far

Day 1: Haunted House

“Harry jammed his glasses on his nose and snatched his wand off the end table, turning to the door and reassuring himself that more likely than not, Laverne’s mysterious one-sided discussion could be chalked up to the old painting’s usual ploys for conversation. Though at the sound of muffled voices in the next room and the howl of October wind at the castle window, his hand reflexively tightened. 

What have you got to be scared of? He chided himself. 

There was nothing malicious in the castle anymore, and certainly nothing he couldn’t easily handle. After all, Hogwarts was many things, least of which a Haunted House.”

artwork CC0: Design for Bed Alcove Ceiling Decoration, Giuseppe Barberi

[doodlebat]

Welcome to Borgin and Burkes

(HP Horror RP)

Beginning

- -

Story 2: The Wardrobe

- -

Burkes: Back for more?

Burkes: Don’t mind the stains~

- -

Elise: One moment! I’ll just go get it from the wardrobe.

- -

Victoria: Elise?!

Victoria: It’s...shifting?

Elise: Make it go away!

Victoria: At least it’s hopped back into the wardrobe...

Elise: I’ll be out in the morning, but I’ll leave the door unlocked for you.  Promise you’ll do it?

Victoria: I promise.

- -

- -

- -

- -

- -

- -

Elise: Well that was quick...

- -

Burkes: This wardrobe is very spacious, enough for a person neatly sliced.

Burkes: Come back soon~

- -

Next: Part 3

[corvuscrowned]

spitting image

100 words | written for @hp-fearfest‘s day 21 prompt: a cursed child | thank you @moonstruckwytch​ for the beta and the 100th word!

It was perfectly normal, Andromeda told them, for infant Metamorphmagi to learn and communicate through mimicry. 

Teddy’s hair grows long and silver when he wants Draco to hold him, turns fiery orange when Ginny visits, and a jagged scar bolts across his forehead when Harry is away with the Aurors too long.

Harry lays him in the cradle one night, watching his hair fade from jet black to its usual blue. Then Teddy’s eyes shoot open as he gazes at the ceiling over Harry’s shoulder, irises burning red as blood, skin morphing ink-black, lips curling back to reveal pointed fangs.

crow’s fearfics

edit: this fic just got a sequel by @cavendishbutterfly!! check it out here: “friend”

[corvuscrowned]

the raven finds him there

read on ao3 | written for @hp-fearfest‘s day 2 prompt: from beyond the grave. cw: MCD. thanks to @vukovich​ for the beta and the great eye for how to make things creepier.

The letters come every day, and they never make a shred of sense.

They are, at first, entirely unintelligible — tangled messes of scribbles and ink blots written on damp scraps of parchment, carelessly deposited on Draco’s windowsill as though carried by the wind.

Eventually, the letters begin to contain words. Mostly, the words are a combination of Draco, Here, and Please, written shakily, like they were penned through an earthquake.

Draco flinches every time his window is darkened by the letters’ harbinger: a massive raven with feathers of iridescent black. But his attempts at shouting and shooing never seem to bother it; it only blinks at him through glassy eyes before swooping into the black sky.

Here, the notes say. Draco. Please.

Draco. Please. Here.

Draco.

Please.

The notes are delivered with thin layers of mildew or dustings of earth. They come on shredded parchment, the backs of receipts, wrinkled gum wrappers. They speak volumes in their nonsense. Do you remember? one reads, slick with mold. Do you know? says another, splotched with dark, ruddy stains. 

Draco has grown accustomed to harassment, though it normally comes in the form of Howlers that kindly remind him he’s still Death Eater scum, that he’ll never stop being Death Eater scum. Those don’t bother him - not the way this does. Something in the desperate scrawl, the frantic pleas, the madness of the blathering makes its home at the back of Draco’s mind, leaves a constant chill just beneath the surface of his skin. 

Mine, one of the letters repeats, growing smaller and smaller until the words skitter off the edge of the paper. Mine mine mine mine mine mine mine mine.

The raven begins to come multiple times a day, its talons stuffed with scraps of parchment, crumpled napkins, flattened cigarette boxes. Draco shuts his window, but the raven leaves the snippings in a pile on the sill. Draco stays with Pansy, but the raven finds him there.

I want to speak, one letter reads with a striking lucidity. I want to speak with you. I only want to speak. 

Hello? Another reads. Hello? Hello? Draco Draco mine mine mine.

Draco draws his wand when the raven next appears at his window, his mouth curled around a half-formed hex. But something in the beast’s vacant eye stills his tongue. 

He pockets his wand, grabs parchment and a quill, and writes against the wall.

I don’t know who you are, he writes. I don’t know what you want from me. But I’m begging you to stop. Please stop this torment. Please leave me in peace. Please don’t write to me again.

He rolls the parchment up. The raven takes it in its talons and flies into the night.

The last letter comes the following evening.

It simply reads: Okay.

The letters stop, but Draco can’t push them from his mind. When he tries to sleep, he sees the manic penmanship scrawled against his eyelids, scribbles of frenzy and desperation, codexes of need and intimacy that singe his every thought.

Eventually, he climbs out of bed and does what he always does when he can’t sleep. He goes to Harry’s grave.

The night is still and cold, and a rolling fog seeps through Godric’s Hollow. Harry always had simple, obvious tastes; Draco found it charming, if a bit droll, while he was alive. Now, it made things easy: a dozen red roses at his grave once a week. 

Draco places the bouquet on the fresh mound of earth, not yet grown over with grass. Harry would know how to help. Harry would know what to say. He always did. 

Draco stands, brushing earth off of his trousers. When he straightens, he meets the inky black eye of the raven, perched on Harry’s tombstone.

It holds a scrap of parchment in its beak. 

Draco takes it in trembling hands, unrolling the sullied, ink-stained note to read the words penned in familiar handwriting.

I’m sorry, it reads. Goodbye. 

crow’s fearfics

[corvuscrowned]

prey animals

read on ao3 | written for @hp-fearfest day 7 prompt: they’ve killed before, they’ll kill again. thank you so much to @jalesidor for the alpha and @m0srael​ for the beta. cw: graphic depictions of violence, murder.

Rowle is in the middle of explaining the genetic inferiority of Squibs for the fifth time when the arrow pierces his skull. It happens so quickly that for a moment it seems he might continue talking, like he hasn’t noticed his brain has been cleaved in two.

Narcissa lets out a piercing shriek, her face twisting in horror as she and Lucius clamor from the table. They’re not used to seeing people die this way, from ruined flesh instead of magical force. 

Draco watches, paralyzed, as Rowle tips forward onto his dinner plate. The arrow skids into the table, pushing deeper into his skull, his forehead dipping into unfinished foie gras. 

Narcissa grabs Draco by the arm and pulls him away from the table, her heels skittering on glass from the shattered window. Lucius raises his wand to the night, a curse on his lips, but freezes before he can cast. 

A figure stands on the lawn outside of the Manor, shrouded entirely in black. Its face is hidden behind a white rabbit mask, its eyes hollow and empty. 

“Father!” Draco shouts, pushing Lucius away from the window. An arrow shoots through the glass and plunges to the fletching into the wall behind them, inches from where Lucius’s face was. 

Lucius’s wand flies from his hand, summoned in a flash into the darkness outside. Narcissa gasps as her wand is wrenched from her hand next; Draco tries to summon his off the table, but it’s summoned into the night before the Accio leaves his lips. 

“The basement,” Lucius murmurs, almost to himself. Another arrow slices through the night, shattering a vase on the table. “The basement.”

Outside, the rabbit-masked figure lowers a crossbow. Two others emerge from the darkness beside him: snow white masks of a cat and a hound. Narcissa grabs Draco by the arm, pulling him out of his trance. 

They follow Lucius through the Manor, emerald robes billowing behind him as he leads the way to the basement. He clamors down the stairs, but his leg catches on something at the bottom step. He hurtles forward, skidding across the ground.

Narcissa screeches at the sight of it. In the darkness, Draco can see the glint of a wire tied tight across the bottom step, slick with fresh blood.

Lucius releases a shaky groan as he pushes up onto his arms, a crumpled mess of a man. Narcissa pulls away from Draco’s grip, sobbing as she steps carefully over the tripwire. She freezes with one foot in the air as a shrouded figure emerges from the darkness, all in black but for the snarl of a white fox mask.

The figure falls upon Lucius and raises a knife above its head. 

There is nothing Draco can do but watch - and listen. The figure plunges the knife into Lucius’s back, drawing back glistening red. It stabs again and again, dark blood spilling out as Lucius chokes and sobs beneath its merciless hand, his last breaths nothing but a gurgled moan. 

The wail Narcissa lets out beside him is worse: a tortured, discordant thing of utmost misery. She crumples into Draco’s arm.

“Mother,” Draco says, his voice nothing but a hitched gasp. “Mother. We have to —”

Narcissa sobs as Draco puts an arm around her, pulling her back up the stairs. He hastens one last look behind him at the hollow black eyes, the stark white mask flecked with blood.

Draco can hear footsteps in the dining room, the creak of floorboards groaning upstairs. A figure emerges into the corridor, bearing a crossbow; another appears, holding an axe lazily on his shoulder. Their forms are swallowed by the night, only their white masks visible in the dark: a deer, a goat, an antelope. 

“What do you want from us?” Draco cries. 

The goat looks to the antelope and then back to Draco. It shrugs.

“Upstairs. The Floo,” Draco murmurs, keeping his eyes locked on the figures as Narcissa turns to the staircase. The fox emerges from the basement, its knife still dripping with his father’s blood. The figures watch patiently as Narcissa and Draco scramble up the stairs, like cats playing with their mice.

Narcissa scrambles for the Floo, her hands shaking around a fistful of powder. When she throws it, not a single spark erupts. 

“They’ve shut it off,” she whimpers. “They’ve trapped us, Draco, they’re going to —”

“Listen,” Draco says, taking her by the shoulders. “We are not going to die in this sodding Manor. Not without a fight.”

Draco looks to the bedroom door he’s locked behind them. He isn’t foolish enough to think it’s enough to protect them; the figures are taking their time, toying with their prey.

“We’ll take the Floo to the fireplace downstairs,” Draco says. “They can’t have disconnected it within the house. And then you’ll run for the door.”

“You —” Narcissa sobs.

“I’ll be fine,” Draco says. “You’ll run for the door. You’ll need to act quickly while they’re caught off guard. Do you understand?”

Narcissa quakes under his touch, her glassy eyes quivering. She nods. 

Draco squeezes his mother’s arm. “Are you ready?”

Narissa nods again. She steps a foot forward, preparing to break into a sprint. 

Draco’s hand trembles around the powder. He breathes a sigh of relief when the Floo works, enveloping them in emerald light. The living room materializes around them, peeking out from dying green flame. 

Draco watches the rest as if in slow motion. Narcissa bounds into a sprint across the room. A figure whirls around, revealing a shock of white in the darkness, the pointed mask of a cat.

Narcissa almost escapes. Almost.

The figure catches her by the arm. He spins her around, holding her back against his chest, and draws a blade to her throat. Draco hears it before he sees it — the slice of metal cutting into flesh, the gurgling of Narcissa’s dying breaths, her choking gasps as she drowns in her own blood. Red sprays across the room, slung onto the walls and furniture. Narcissa’s eyes spring open, glowing with shock and terror in the darkness. 

A font of blood pools down Narcissa’s neck, dyeing her dress ruby. The figure releases her and she slumps onto her knees, breathing one last, confused whimper before falling face first onto the cold floor.

Draco backs against the Floo as another figure enters the room, and then another. Soon he is surrounded by half a dozen shrouded killers, each hidden behind the faces of a different animal: fox, cat, rabbit, hound, antelope, deer.

Then with a spark of magic, the figures converge into one — a single man looming in the black night, his face hidden behind the mask of an antlered stag.

Draco looks down at his robes, splattered with angry red blood. He sighs. “You didn’t have to do it right in front of me.”

“Sorry,” Harry says, pulling his mask off and running a red stained hand through his hair. “I guess you didn’t want to watch that.”

Draco looks down at Narcissa’s body. Her face is pushed sideways onto the ground, the life spilling out of her in waves of crimson. He nudges her with his shoe. She’s already growing stiff. “Oh no, I certainly did,” he says. “It’s just that these robes are very expensive.”

Harry drops the knife with a clatter and pulls him into a kiss, blood-slick fingers winding into Draco’s hair. 

He always did get hot and bothered in the aftermath. 

“I’ll know better next time,” Harry says, kissing Draco on the temple.

“I’m quite sure you won’t,” Draco says with another sigh. He takes Harry by the hand. “Come on then, love. We need to get cleaned up for our visit to the Carrows.” 

crow’s fearfics