#hp slash

[oldangrymagpie]

Harry and Ginny doing the "hear me out" cake trend. but it's just Harry putting all of her brothers, Draco, Lucius, Cedric, Sirius, Viktor Krum and an old pic of Tom riddle

ginny: is there ANYTHING you'll like to tell me

[wolfpants]

wheel of drarry 2025

Here is my (very late!) @drarrymicrofic WOD gift exchange for @dearestfluer! Hopefully you're not tired of Christmas yet because this is very Christmas and fluff-forward! Lovely to write for you 🌹 (thank you @smugrobotics for the wonderful beta!)

Drarry | Rated G | 800 words Prompt: Pine

🌲

He’s working on a Christmas tree farm now.

Because of course he fucking is.

Draco glances from his son’s pleading eyes to the empty space in the middle of the Manor’s entryway.

“Oh, please, dad,” Scorpius says. “You can’t not have a tree. Mum would be so disappointed in you.”

Yes, Draco thinks. Astoria rather would. 

He can just picture her now, grinning at him from her wet bar in heaven. 

Don’t be a scrooge, you old queen.

Old? Forty is not old, he would scoff.

She’d roll her eyes. Pour him an ever so pondy gin martini. 

Oh, stop looking at me like that. 

Scorpius waves the page of the Prophet in front of Draco’s face. Harry Potter’s dimply smile finds its way back to Draco’s eyeline. 

His stomach does an embarrassing little wobble, like he’s twenty-one again, like he’s gathering the courage to approach said dimply smile in the pub after work.

Buy you a beer?

What? 

The music had been so loud that night. Potter’s glasses had been steamy and all Draco wanted to do was clean them, or rather snatch them from the crooked bridge of his beautiful nose.

Nevermind, Draco had said crossly, and damn him for being such a coward, for finding the first excuse to fail. Any excuse to fail, because failing is so much easier than asking for something so humiliating twice.

Over the years to come, there had been other opportunities to test the waters, to find out if Potter was agreeable. Astoria encouraged it, Draco swatted her off, and then she was gone. And so was he.

“Al says—”

“Right,” Draco says, clipped and decisive. “You’d better put your coat back on, then. Don’t forget your gloves, it’s snowing.”

—

Draco silently practices his hellos while Scorpius wipes Floo dust from his cloak. 

Hogsmeade’s Floo station is also a post office, a cafe, a corner shop, a rallying point for local gossips.

Afternoon Potter, how long’s it been?

No, no. Far too familiar.

Fancy meeting you here.

Too gauche, too obvious. Draco loves theatre, but he’s never been a great actor.

“Come on, dad!”

The snow is thick. It gathers round their boots, leaving a trail of their journey from the top of the hill all the way to the foot of the village where the trees are arranged in a neat diamond. 

Potter has plenty of custom; families of three and four, couples weaving in and out of the maze looking for the perfect sized tree for their homes. Draco can smell hot Butterbeer and malted chocolate. The tiny hut that obviously serves as some sort of office or storage space is awash with Christmas lights and topped with a chimney blowing fat plumes of cheery smoke.

And out walks Potter, red-cheeked, hair flattened by an ugly orange hat with a red pompom and a gold H emblazoned on the front. He’s talking to another man Draco doesn’t immediately recognise: tall, broad-shouldered, hefty-handed like a Beater. Potter points at a waiting couple with their backs turned and the sort-of-familiar man ambles off to them with a wave. And then Potter looks up, and Draco has been caught.

“Professor—I mean, Mr Potter!” Scorpius cries, kicking up snow on his way down.

Potter’s eyes shift from Draco to Scorpius, his mouth tugging up into an easy smile. “Hello, Mr Malfoy!”

Merlin.

“We want a Christmas tree,” Scorpius says, slightly out of breath.

“Well.” Potter’s gaze flits up, catching Draco’s—this time, not bleary at a pub or curious across a ballroom or professional from the other side of a desk at parent-professor evening. Just—open. Alarmingly receptive. “You’ve come to the right place.”

He pats Scorpius on the shoulder and offers Draco a smile over the top of his head. Scorpius is listing off their requirements rapidly: tall, because our foyer is tall. It has to be the first thing people see! Lots and lots of lights/ A fairy on top. A big one.

The tree sap smells sharp, fresh. Draco breathes in deeply, at the same time smelling Potter—earth, chocolate, a slight tang of working sweat.

Draco brushes down the tail of his scarf. Scorpius runs ahead.

Potter turns to Draco and fixes his glasses. 

“They’ve gone all steamy,” Draco says. 

“Again?” Potter grins his dimply grin and pushes his fingers underneath his glasses like Muggle window wipers. “They’re always giving me away. Hey, I think he’s found a good one.” His muddy boots crunch in the snow as he makes his way towards the end of the maze, where Scorpius is pointing to the tallest—and likely most expensive—tree in the farm. 

Draco feels around in his pocket for his Galleon pouch. Pretends that his cheeks are warm from exertion. He inhales once more, and lets himself follow Potter’s lead, just this once. 

[noithestomach]

Quirrellhart – Fan-made Canon

This is, of course, a fan-made canon created to establish Quirrellhart.

--

Let us assume that Quirinus Quirrell and Gilderoy Lockhart were Ravenclaw classmates during their Hogwarts years.

Based on Pottermore descriptions, Quirinus likely developed a deep complex about his nervous demeanor after being mocked for it as a student. As a result, he unconsciously distanced himself from anyone who might harm, ridicule, or trigger his inferiority complex.

The one who remained as a result was Gilderoy.

Gilderoy was arrogant and possessed a personality that compelled him to constantly prove his own superiority. However, such posturing was meaningless in the face of Quirinus’s sharp insight.

Gilderoy was raised with excessive doting from his mother, yet during his time at Hogwarts, he began to suffer from the growing gap between his actual abilities and those of his peers. To cope, he developed a habit of pretending to be more capable than he truly was.

A life sustained by constant lies, however, eventually reaches its limit.

Unconsciously, Gilderoy began to rely on Quirinus—the only person who knew the truth, who seriously challenged his fabrications, and who forced him to confront his own weaknesses.

For Quirinus, holding the weakness of a celebrity constantly in the spotlight, and being relied upon by him, brought temporary comfort and a quiet sense of superiority.

However, Quirinus came to believe that this state of affairs was merely a moratorium. He became convinced that he must become a truly great being—one whom no one could ever look down upon—and thus set off on a journey in search of Lord Voldemort.

Gilderoy could neither stop him nor understand what Quirinus was seeking.

Unaware that Quirinus would be reduced to ashes at Hogwarts two years later, Gilderoy accepted the position of Defense Against the Dark Arts professor with a daft smile, utterly unaware of what awaited him.

--

Quirinus and Gilderoy are not lovers in any ideal sense—only a rotten, mutually dependent bond, a twisted affection born from immaturity.

[c-gabriel-wright]

Chapter 24 Is Up! And Colin Creevey Is Going Down! (errr... not that way, you pervs. Yet.)

Chapter 24: Feed Them Splinters!

(In Which the Crows Come Home and, Finally, Rhaid Talu'r Pwyth.)

[- Read on AO3 -]

[garagepaperback]

fleetest sweetness 1.9k, explicit pairings: flintwood kinkuary, pt ii: scent, consent, humiliation, overstimulation

“Convince me,” Flint says, head tilting near so that the slab of his forehead leans against the back of Oliver’s skull. Presses. “Seems like a waste of time.” “Ha,” Oliver says, pronounced. “Come on.” And, “Flint,” and, “Quit fucking around,” even though the damp need drips back against the tense muscles of his stomach, even though he’s being made to make his own dumb into sound. It doesn’t snare anything other than a break from the slow-tread of his hand, heavy fingers tweaking a nipple. “Flint,” again with a worse whine. Even, “Marcus.” “What?” “Come on,” Oliver repeats, unsure where the soft curve of his face, the swell of his lips even ends. The edges are all starting to soften and sink, damp with need. “Please.”

read it on ao3

[blanchcz]

Let me introduce you my snarry ART, and FANFIC. 4k one-shot with smut ;)

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

[oldangrymagpie]

tom: why aren't you in Slytherin

harry: I met draco and say fuck that

Tom, turns to draco: this is all your fault

draco: *sweats*

[jalbus]

James is crumpled sheets, still warm when Albus climbs in, the window always open, letting in the chill of the night. Milk dribbled down the table from careless cereal bowls, muggy air and fogged mirrors after James's showers, the scent of him lingering. Golden smiles that light the room, brown eyes like liquid warmth, always glancing over with a cheeky "what's up, lil bro?", teasing and tender, drawing Albus in but never staying long enough to settle. Scarves loosely wrapped around necks in the crisp autumn air, noses red from chasing him through icy December skies, always flying ahead, always out of reach.

He's the sound of footsteps running through the house late at night, the spaces shifting and coming alive with him, huffed breaths that always wake Albus up. Fingers in his hair, rough and careless, ruffling the way only big brothers can. Boots kicked off by the door, a forgotten mess of clothes on the floor. The scrape of a chair pulled too hard at dinner, the smell of burnt toast on slow Sunday mornings. James is sunlight spilling through curtains that should’ve been closed, a voice calling out through the hallway.

There's always something left behind - a half-finished conversation, a stray laugh still hanging in the air.

Albus fears this longing will never leave, this endless want that quietly consumes him.