#rita skeeter

[prongsievans]

rita: mr. potter, may i have a statement for the daily prophet regarding your involvement with death eater regulus black?

james: i stand with my cancelled wife.

[toorumlk]

ron and hermione photographed on the steps of their first home together makes it into the Prophet

[miiroki]

𝐁𝐚𝐛𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐌𝐢𝐧𝐞 ┅ 𝖣𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗈 𝖬𝖺𝗅𝖿𝗈𝗒 & 𝖶𝗂𝖿𝖾! 𝖱𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾r

𝘕𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘣𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘴. 𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘵𝘶𝘴 𝘶𝘱𝘥𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘋𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘰’𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘏𝘰𝘨𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘴. 𝘋𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘸𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘯𝘦𝘸𝘣𝘰𝘳𝘯 𝘴𝘰𝘯.

﹙𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭﹚

NOTE: literally just me indulging.

Malfoy Manor has never looked better. It used to feel like a mausoleum—high ceilings draped in shadows, portraits whispering judgment from their gilded frames, and the constant, bitter chill of his family history.

Now, the air was soft. It smelled of warm milk, lavender, beeswax, and the faint, sweet scent of newly washed baby blankets.

Draco stood by the floor-to-ceiling window of the master sitting room, a cup of lukewarm black tea packed full of sugar cubes forgotten in his hand. Outside, the mist rolled lazily across the manicured lawns of Wiltshire, swallowing the ancient oaks. Inside, the world—or his world—had shrunk to the radius of a four-poster crib and the low, even breathing of the woman asleep in the bed behind him.

"Draco?"

The voice was sleepy, laced with the gentle exhaustion of a mother running on three hours of rest.

He turned instantly, setting the teacup down with a soft clink. He crossed the rug in a few long strides, kneeling beside the mattress. Her hair was messy, haloed against the pillows, and exhaustion shadowed her eyes, but she was smiling.

"Did I wake you?" he murmured, reaching out to brush a stray lock of hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered on her cheek, tracing the line of her jaw.

"No," she whispered, leaning into his touch. "How is he?"

Draco glanced over his shoulder toward the crib in the corner of the room. Inside, swaddled in a soft green blanket that matched his father's old house scarf, lay Scorpius. The baby was fast asleep, tiny fists curled near his face, his chest rising and falling in rhythmic little sighs.

"Still sleeping," Draco said, a quiet pride swelling in his chest that never quite stopped terrifying him. He turned back to her, capturing her hand and pressing a kiss to her knuckles. "He’s perfect. You know he’s perfect. I spent the last hour convincing myself he didn't inherit my nose."

She let out a soft, raspy laugh. "Your nose is fine, Draco."

"I want him to have your nose. It’s rounder than mine."

"Well he has your eyes," she countered, her thumb brushing over the back of his hand. "Even closed, I can tell."

Draco smiled, a genuine, unguarded thing that only she ever got to see. Nothing but bliss. If anyone had told Draco Malfoy at seventeen, cowering in the Astronomy Tower with a wand shaking in his grip, that his life would look like this—peaceful, domestic, and safe—he would have laughed them out of the room. There was no Dark Lord, no impending war, no expectations of grandeur. There was just the quiet hum of a morning in a home built on love. Their love.

Until a sharp, piercing sound ripped through the peace.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Draco’s body went rigid in a fraction of a second. His wand was in his pocket before his mind even caught up.

"What was that?" his wife asked, blinking away the sleep, her instincts instantly flaring as Scorpius stirred in his crib, letting out a tiny, disgruntled babble.

"Stay here," Draco whispered, his voice dropping an octave.

He stood up, smoothing down the front of his cashmere jumper, and strode out of the room, pulling the heavy oak door shut behind him.

Draco stalked down the grand staircase, his jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached. They weren’t expecting anyone at this hour.

By the time he reached the grand foyer, the knocking had escalated into a relentless, rhythmic pounding, accompanied by muffled voices echoing through the ward-shielded double doors.

He whipped his wand out, muttered a diagnostic spell to check the outer perimeter, and threw the doors open.

Pansy Parkinson stood on the porch, her designer boots tapping impatiently on the stone, holding a massive, extravagantly wrapped silver box. Hovering nervously behind her was Blaise Zabini, carrying three separate diaper bags that looked like they belonged on a mountaineering expedition, and—much to Draco's horror—Rita Skeeter, clutching a Quick-Quotes Quill and a notepad.

“Darling!" Pansy shrieked, breezily pushing past Draco’s frozen frame without an invitation. "We’ve been standing out here for a whole two minutes! Do you know what the morning damp does to my hair? And where is my godson? I brought him a bespoke set of Italian silk booties—"

"Parkinson," Draco said, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper that could freeze fire. "What in Merlin’s name are you doing here?"

"We came to see the baby." Blaise said defensively, stepping into the foyer and dumping the mountain of bags onto an antique mahogany console table. "Mate, do you know how many letters we sent? You didn't reply to a single owl for four days. Pansy was ready to call the Department of Magical Law Enforcement for a wellness check."

"I told you not to owl us right now," Draco hissed, stepping back inside and slamming the doors shut to lock out the chilly breeze—and Rita Skeeter, who was trying to slip past the threshold.

Draco slammed the door right on the edge of Skeeter’s lime-green feathered hat. A muffled squawk of indignation echoed from the porch.

"Draco Malfoy! Is that any way to treat the press?" Skeeter’s voice filtered through the wood. "The public has a right to know of the Malfoy heir! Come now don’t be like this!"

"Go away, Skeeter, or I set the peacocks on you!" Draco roared through the door, before turning back to his two best friends, who were already wandering toward the sitting room as if they owned the place.

"You didn't answer our owls, Draco," Pansy repeated, unwrapping her coat and tossing it onto the back of a velvet sofa. "And now you're trapping me outside with the press. Have you lost your mind? We brought gifts! We brought well-wishes! We brought... unsolicited parenting advice, which you desperately need."

"We don't need advice," Draco said, rubbing the bridge of his nose where a headache was rapidly forming. "We need peace. Do you have any idea how long it took to get Scorpius to sleep last night? Four hours, Parkinson. Four hours of pacing the nursery while he practiced his impression of a banshee."

Blaise smirked, leaning against the marble fireplace. "Ah, the joys of fatherhood. Welcome to hell, mate. Here, hold this."

Blaise tossed a small, wriggling package at Draco, who caught it purely by reflex. It was a self- rocking bassinet enchanted with a permanent lullaby charm that sounded suspiciously like a war march.

"We don't want your enchanted torture devices," Draco said, dropping the bassinet onto a chair. "And you can't stay. Both of you. Out. Now."

"Don't be dramatic," Pansy said, sinking into an armchair and pulling out a compact mirror to check her complexion. "We’re staying for lunch. And I expect to hold the baby. If you keep him locked away like an artifact, he’s going to grow up weird, Draco. Weirder."

—

Lunch, as it turned out, was entirely out of the question, because Pansy and Blaise had apparently acted as vanguard for an entire migrating flock.

By midday, the Floo network in the east parlor flared green with frequency.

Theo Nott tumbled out of the fireplace first, covered in soot, carrying a bottle of firewhisky that looked older than Hogwarts. "Malfoy! I heard the spawn has arrived! Where is the little heir hm? I bought him a miniature set of cursed wizard's chess—let's see if the boy has any sense of strategic flair."

Before Draco could hex Theo back into the fireplace, Astori—no, wait, Astoria wasn't there, but Daphne Greengrass arrived next, followed closely by a gaggle of distant cousins Draco hadn't spoken to since his trial, all bearing suspiciously large packages and starry-eyed expressions of curiosity.

By 2:00 PM, Malfoy Manor was housing more people than it had done in the past few months.

Draco stood at the head of the staircase, looking down at the living room below. It was packed. People were clinking glasses, arguing over whether the baby would have gray or blue eyes, and rummaging through the family silver to see if anything new had been added to the display.

"Draco?"

He turned. His wife was standing in the doorway of the nursery, wearing a loose robe, looking exhausted but amused by the cacophony drifting up from below.

"I'm sorry," Draco groaned, running a hand through his blond hair until it stood up in messy tufts. "I tried to put up anti-intrusion wards, but Granger must have helped them bypass the magical signatures, or Parkinson simply bribed the house-elves. The house has fallen."

She walked over to him, resting a hand gently against his chest. She could feel the rapid, stressed thrum of his heartbeat.

"They just love you, Draco. And they're excited."

Draco grumbled, though his expression softened the moment she smiled. "Pansy tried to feed him a sugar quill earlier. A sugar quill, to a newborn."

She laughed, a bright, melodic sound that cut through the low roar of the party downstairs. "Well, at least your friends care. But... I do agree it's a bit much."

"A bit much? It’s a siege." He leaned down, pressing a quick kiss to her forehead. "Stay here. Lock the door. Guard the crib. These fools can wait until the boy is ready to handle this many people."

—

"Right," Draco said.

"Visiting hours are officially over. The baby is sleeping and the mother is resting. If anyone attempts to cross the threshold of the east wing with another enchanted chess set, a silk bib, or a reporter from the Prophet, I will personally ensure your next family reunion takes place in Azkaban."

"And Blaise, take your oversized diaper bags. Theo, take your firewhisky—which, by the way, is appalling—and get out of my house. Greengrass, don't look at me like that, take your cousins and use the front door."

"You're throwing us out?" Theo feigned deep emotional distress, clutching his chest. "After we traveled all this way to bless the child?"

"I am giving you three seconds before I let the house-elves pack your bags," Draco said, offering a tight, utterly unapologetic smile. "One. Two..."

Before he could hit three, the mass exodus began. Shuffling feet, muttered complaints about hospitality, and the frantic rustling of coats filled the foyer. Within minutes, the Floo network was roaring green again as body after body tumbled back out into London, eager to escape the wrath of the new father.

Blaise was the last to leave. He paused by the fireplace, grabbing his coat, and looked at Draco with a knowing grin.

"You're soft, Malfoy."

"Age mellows a man," Draco replied dryly. "Now, get out."

With a flash of green fire, Blaise was gone.

—

It was absolute, pristine quiet.

Draco let out a long, shuddering breath, his shoulders finally dropping from their defensive hunch. He walked slowly back up the stairs, his footsteps echoing softly in the empty corridor.

When he pushed open the door to the room, the scene inside made every bit of the afternoon’s stress melt away into nothingness.

His wife was sitting back in the rocking chair by the window, the soft evening light catching the gold in her hair. Cradled securely in her arms was Scorpius. The baby was wide awake now, blinking up at his mother with wide, impossibly gray eyes, completely content.

Draco walked over quietly, leaning over the back of the chair. He wrapped his arms around both of them, resting his chin comfortably on his wife’s shoulder.

"Are they gone?" she whispered, smiling up at him.

"Evacuated. Dispersed. Banished to the nether realms," Draco murmured against her skin, breathing in the scent of baby powder and vanilla.

She chuckled softly, shifting slightly so Draco could get a better look at their son.

Scorpius let out a tiny coo, his small hand reaching up blindly until one of his microscopic fingers accidentally brushed against Draco’s thumb. The tiny hand automatically curled around his finger with surprising strength.

Draco stared down at the tiny hand, his grey eyes shining with a sudden depth of emotion. He gently squeezed the baby's hand back, careful not to crush fingers so fragile they felt like spun glass.

"He likes his father quite a lot," she whispered softly.

Outside, the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of deep amber. Inside, wrapped in the warmth of each other.

Just the quiet hum of home.

Nothing but bliss.

—

Later that afternoon, Draco had the pleasure to receive a letter from Harry Potter himself.

Malfoy,

Ginny, Ron, Hermione, and I are planning to visit this Saturday afternoon to finally meet the little one properly. Albus will be thrilled to have a friend his age.

Don’t bother trying to lock the gates or set up anymore wards by the way. Hermione checked them last week and already mapped a bypass.

See you soon.

Harry.

Blissful indeed.

[aiexh]

my sister is a retired marauders fan and has rarely interacted with the fandom since 2019 and my favourite hobby to piss her off is introduce her to the ridiculous new things the fandom comes up with and watch her crashout

some of my favourite conversations include

"what's your opinion on quillkiller?"

"what is that? barty and who else?"

"no it's bellatrix and reeta skeeter"

"WHAT THE FUCK"

"calm down-"

"you know back in my day we just used to combine the names of the characters to make ship names. WHAT THE FUCK IS QUILLKILLER"

"guess what bitchkiller is"

"okay this is easy. bitch as in dog, so sirius and bellatrix? ew they're related."

"it's sirius and barty"

"DONT EVEN CHAT TO ME RIGHT NOW"

"wait till you hear about kittywater"

"WHAT THE FUCK"

cut to me spending 30 minutes reading out rarepairs to her while she tries to guess who they are and crash the fuck out

the most recent one

"barty has an evil twin now"

"what? who?"

"hornkus binglefuck"

"ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME"

"he's commonly headcannoned to be pandoras failed science experiment"

"DONT EVEN FUCKING TALK TO ME RIGHT NOW"

"it started off as a pinterest joke"

"I HATE YOU"

"they ship him with grant chapman"

"HUH?????"

might as well tag her while we're at it @vyvwern

[lamermiad]

oh god i hate this fandom sometimes, especially when it comes to female characters

let women be angry

let women be evil

let women be bad

let women be complex

and not just perfect angelic victims with no real personality

[hospitalbeach]

quillkiller

scandalous journalist x canceled model

[sunseekerjo]

In love with the new single tbh

[loonylara]

rita skeeter & bellatrix black everyone