#Harry Potter Post War

[irie-kun306]

Severus Snape's body was taken and cleaned for autopsy, the wound made by Nagini was so fatal that it could not be stitched up, but.... For some reason Severus wake up.

[ms-snape]

Hi, i see that request are open.

What if Severus survived the war but didn't tell anyone. He moved far away, to another country (maybe Italy). But at home, his wife was waiting for him and she was his biggest support during the war. She refused to believe he is dead. And a few years later she would find out by accident when she bumped into him on the street hand in hand with someone else. Lots of angst. I mean….. lots of angst. 🙂

Title: Moving On

Request: Finally a request I've been waiting for one for like days.... REQUESTS ARE OPENED

Summary: I don't think I can give a better summary than the request so...

Warning: angst.... sad ending...

Word Count: 2305

Masterlist

---

In the heart of Italy, where the sun-drenched landscapes mingled with the whisper of ancient cobblestone streets, YN felt a certain heaviness. It was a weight she carried not just in her suitcase, filled with clothes and hopes for a brighter future, but in her heart, where the memory of Severus Snape lingered like a ghost. The world believed him dead, a casualty of a war that had torn apart the very fabric of their lives, but YN had never accepted that finality. She could not bring herself to mourn him as everyone else had; instead, she clung to the thread of hope that wove through her despair.

YN had been broken when the news of his death reached her—a jagged dagger that pierced her soul and left her hollow. The days that followed were a blur of grief and longing. She had wandered through her life like a specter, lost in the memories of their time together, each moment spent with Severus replaying in her mind like a shattered record. She remembered his quiet intensity, the way his dark eyes would soften when he looked at her, the sound of his voice as he spoke of potions and spells, of love and loss. It was as if he had taken a part of her with him when he vanished from the world.

Ella, her best friend, had insisted on this trip—an attempt to pull YN from the depths of her sorrow. They ventured to the quaint coastal town of Positano, with its colorful cliffside houses and azure waters, where laughter echoed around them like a distant memory. But even in the midst of beauty, YN felt numb. The sun could not warm the chill that resided in her heart. Every breathtaking view of the Italian coast felt tainted by the absence of the one person she could not forget.

As Ella tried to engage YN in conversation, pointing out the charm of the local markets and the deliciousness of the gelato, YN’s mind drifted elsewhere. She found herself staring out at the sea, imagining it was Severus standing there, his silhouette framed against the horizon, waiting for her to join him. The thought was both comforting and torturous, a bittersweet reminder of love that once was.

“YN, you can’t keep doing this to yourself,” Ella said one evening as they sat on a balcony overlooking the sunset. “You need to let him go. It’s been years.He's gone and you need to accept it”

But how could she? How could she dismiss the love they had shared, the promises whispered in the dark? Each time YN closed her eyes, she could see Severus—his furrowed brow, the way his lips curled into a half-smile when she teased him. The memories were too vivid, too real. They were the only thing that anchored her to the world, the only thing that kept the shadows at bay.

The days passed, and YN felt the ache in her heart deepen. She wandered through the streets of Positano, searching for something she could not name. Perhaps it was closure, or maybe just a sign that Severus was still alive. She explored the narrow alleys, the vibrant shops, and the azure beaches, all while carrying the weight of her unyielding hope.

Then, on a seemingly ordinary afternoon, everything changed. YN had taken to wandering alone, her heart heavy with the memories that haunted her. She meandered through the bustling market square, the colors and sounds swirling around her like a kaleidoscope of life. She paused by a stall selling handmade jewelry, absentmindedly running her fingers over the delicate pieces. The sun dipped lower in the sky, casting a golden hue over everything, and for a moment, she allowed herself to breathe.

But then, as she turned to leave the stall, she collided with someone. The force of the impact sent her stumbling back, and she looked up, ready to apologize to the stranger. But then time seemed to freeze. There, standing before her, was Severus Snape—alive, breathing, and somehow more real than the memories she had clung to for so long.

Her heart raced, a wild tempest of disbelief and hope. But as her eyes traveled down to his hand, the world shattered around her. He was holding the hand of another woman—a stunning brunette with an easy smile and laughter that danced in the air between them. YN felt her heart plummet, the fragile thread of hope she had carried for years snapping in an instant.

Severus looked at her, confusion etched across his features. The moment stretched, the bustling market fading into silence. YN’s breath hitched in her throat, a mix of joy and agony tearing her apart. She wanted to rush into his arms, to feel his warmth envelop her again, but the sight of the other woman kept her rooted to the spot, paralyzed by the pain of betrayal.

“Severus?” The word slipped from her lips like a prayer, a desperate plea for him to explain, to make sense of the scene before her.

The smile faded from his face, replaced by a flicker of guilt. “YN… I—”

But she couldn’t hear him. The world felt as if it were collapsing around her. She had spent years believing he was dead, clinging to the hope that he would one day return to her, and now here he was, a living ghost of her past, with another woman at his side. The anger bubbled within her, mingling with the heartbreak that consumed her.

“Is this why you never came back?” YN’s voice trembled, laced with a hurt that cut deeper than any spell. “You were alive all this time and didn't even come back to me, you wife? Did you choose to leave me behind?”

Severus’s eyes darkened with regret, but YN couldn’t bear to see it. The anguish she felt was all-consuming, a tidal wave of emotions crashing against the fragile dam she had built around her heart. “I waited for you, Severus. I never stopped believing you were out there, that you would come back to me. And now… this?”

“YN, please, it’s not what you think,” he said, stepping toward her, but she recoiled, the distance between them stretching like an unbridgeable chasm.

“Not what I think?” The bitterness in her voice cut through the air, sharp and biting. “You were supposed to be dead! I mourned you! I grieved for the life we could have had, for the love we shared. And now you’re here, holding her hand like I never existed?”

The woman beside him looked between them, confusion evident in her eyes, but YN couldn’t spare her a glance. Her world had narrowed to just Severus, the man she had loved with every fiber of her being, the man who had shattered her heart without a word.

“YN, I had my reasons—”

“Reasons?” She interrupted, her anger boiling over. “Was it worth it? Was it worth leaving me in the dark while you built a new life without me? I thought you loved me.”

“I did love you!” Severus’s voice rose, desperation lacing his words. “And I never stopped loving you or thinking about you, but I had to survive. The war… it changed everything. I thought you were safe, that you could move on without me.”

“Move on?” YN’s laugh was hollow, devoid of humor. “You think I could just forget? You think I could just pretend that you didn’t mean the world to me? You left me with nothing but the ghosts of what we could have been, and now you stand here, alive, with someone else?”

The bitterness spilled from her lips, a torrent of pain that had been building for years. She felt raw and exposed, like a wound that had never healed, and now it was laid bare for him to see. The anguish in her heart felt like a physical weight, pressing down on her chest, suffocating her.

Severus’s expression twisted with regret, his dark eyes brimming with unshed tears. “I never wanted to hurt you. I thought you’d be better off without me. I thought I was protecting you.”

“Protecting me?” YN’s voice cracked, the pain evident in every syllable. “You didn’t protect me; you abandoned me. I was left to pick up the pieces of my shattered heart while you… you moved on.You found someone else...”

The silence that followed was deafening. Around them, the world continued to buzz with life—laughter, music, the distant sound of waves crashing against the shore��but for YN, everything had come to a standstill. She felt as if she were standing on the edge of a precipice, staring down into an abyss of despair.

“I thought you were dead,” she whispered, her voice barely audible above the noise. “I thought I had lost you forever.”

“And I thought you moved on,” Severus replied, his voice heavy with regret. “I never meant for this to happen.”

“But it did happen, Severus.” The tears she had held back for so long began to spill over, a torrent of grief and rage. “You’re here, with.... her, while I was left to drown in my sorrow. You can’t just waltz back into my life and expect me to forget the pain you caused.”

Severus’s expression faltered, a mixture of guilt and longing etched across his features. The woman beside him shifted uncomfortably, the weight of the moment pressing down on them. YN felt the heat of anger mixing with the chill of betrayal, a volatile concoction that threatened to consume her.

“I can’t change the past,” he said, his voice low, almost pleading. “But please, YN, don’t push me away. I still care for you. I always have.”

The words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken promises and memories that felt like a lifetime ago. YN looked at him, at the man she had loved fiercely, and felt the ache in her heart deepen. She wanted to believe him, to reach out and bridge the gap that had grown between them. But the reality was too painful, too raw.

“And what about her?” YN’s voice trembled, the bitterness creeping back in. “What am I supposed to do with that? You’ve built a life without me, Severus. It feels impossible to reconcile that with the love we once shared.”

“I never meant for any of this to happen,” he said, anguish etched in every line of his face. “I was lost, and I thought I was doing what was best for you and me.”

YN shook her head, tears streaming down her cheeks. “You think abandoning me was what was best? You think I wanted to live in a world where you weren’t there? I was lost too, Severus. I was lost without you.We made a vow, we promised to laways be there for each other, but apparently it meant nothing to you”

The hurt between them was palpable, a chasm that felt insurmountable. YN’s heart ached with the weight of memories that threatened to drown her. She wanted to scream, to rage against the universe that had torn them apart, but all she could do was stand there, feeling the walls close in around her.

As the sun began to set, casting a warm glow over the cobblestones, YN felt the flicker of hope extinguish. The world around her was beautiful, but in that moment, it felt like a cruel joke. She had come to Italy seeking solace, but instead, she found herself face-to-face with the man who had become both her salvation and her tormentor.

“I can’t do this,” YN whispered, her voice breaking. “I can’t pretend that everything’s okay when it’s not. I loved you more than anything, but I have to let you go. I have to move on, even if it breaks me... I wish you a really happy life... perhaps better than the one you once had with me....”

With that, she turned away, an instinctive reaction to shield herself from the pain. She couldn’t bear to see him with her, the woman who had become the embodiment of all her fears. It felt like a betrayal—a cruel twist of fate that had stolen her love and replaced it with a bitter reminder of what she had lost.

As she walked away, the tears streamed down her face, each step feeling heavier than the last. The streets of Positano, once vibrant and full of life, felt suffocating, closing in around her as she retreated from the scene that had shattered her world anew.

Behind her, Severus called her name, desperation lacing his voice, but YN didn’t look back. She couldn’t. She had given him everything, only to be left with nothing but the echoes of what once was. The colors of Italy faded into a blur, and as she walked away from the man she had loved, she felt the weight of her heart breaking all over again.

As she reached the edge of the market, the sounds of laughter and joy faded away, replaced by the haunting silence that had become her constant companion. YN had come to Italy to escape her pain, to find a semblance of peace, but instead, she was reminded of the love she had lost and the life that would never be.

In that moment, as she stood alone in a foreign land, she realized that some shadows lingered long after the light had faded. And as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the world into darkness, YN felt the weight of her despair settle heavily upon her shoulders, an unshakeable burden that would follow her wherever she went. She was lost, and the echoes of Severus Snape would forever haunt her heart, a bittersweet reminder of a love that had been both her greatest joy and her deepest sorrow.

[fl0-333]

The Last Thought - Flo_333 - Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling [Archive of Our Own]

“Of course, I wouldn’t spend the past year needlessly pining after you or not shutting up about you to Ron but never actually doing anything about it.”

“No that would be-” She began to say but he cut her off “Insane really.” His voice was low and soft, his eyes still burying into hers and she couldn’t look away. 

“Yeah” the word coming out no more than a whisper. Their eyes met and she felt like she might combust. 

“And I’m definitely not thinking of kissing you right now.” 

“No?” The word came out as a question. 

His face was so close to hers, their noses almost grazing. 

“I wouldn’t dare.” 

Read the rest on AO3

Word count: 2905

Rating: Teen

Warnings: one use of a mild swear word.

[gertrudepetronella-blog]

Just some prison!snape headcanons (because I'm stuck with my writing):

Snape survives Nagini, but is arrested for war crimes.

He recieves a reduced sentence due to his role as a spy.

There are no Dementors at Azkaban now, and there have been some prison reforms (cause let's face it, it was pretty barbaric before - human rights what?)

Within six months Snape is baically running the joint.

He has shit on everyone (including the warden).

Rats out the worst inmates, but somehow still gets people to trust him.

But everyone is shit scared of him too.

He keeps most of the prisoners in line just with his cutting insults.

When a new prisoner is admitted first they meet the warden etc. then they are taken to meet "the boss".

He gets the odd visitor from outside, but doesn't meet with them for long and is always curt. Still he manages to persuade (/guilt) them into bringing him stuff.

The warden can't work out how he keeps getting his hands on cauldrons no matter how many times he confiscates them, and eventually just gives in and lets him have a whole brewing room.

[shinynewboots]

The Speakeasy / Hermione x Thorfinn Rowle (Chapter 2)

Summary:  Four years after the war, life is going the exact opposite of what Hermione Granger expected. She quit her internship and is now attending a muggle university and working in a cliché muggle bar to help herself get by. However, when she catches the eye of a former Death Eater, she is left wondering if her life really has derailed or if she's doing exactly what she was meant to do.

Warnings: 18+, eventual smut, post-war au, Thorfinn Rowle bakes bread

AO3 Link

Chapter 1

Chapter 3

Hermione awoke that Friday morning staring into the orange eyes of Crookshanks. The half-kneazle was meowing loudly in her face, the smell of cat breath filling her senses. Her alarm was blaring, yet she had somehow managed to sleep through it. She glanced over at the clock, and the feeling of dread washed over her.

"Shit," She hissed, sitting up abruptly. Crookshanks screeched in response and was flung to the floor from her movement. She jumped from the bed and began to rush around the room to gather everything she needed for the day.

"Sorry Crooks," She called back to her cat. The half-kneazle blinked in response. In a blur, she pulled on her jumper and grabbed her knapsack. She grabbed her keys and ran out of her flat.

She ran down the street trying desperately to reach the university in time. The night before, she had spent hours trying to finish a paper that had somehow managed to sneak up on her. It was ridiculous, and she was ashamed of herself. She was Hermione Granger. Hermione Granger didn't let papers sneak up on her.

She was halfway to the university when she was struck with the realization that she was, in fact, a witch. A witch who could apparate to the university and arrive a few minutes earlier than needed. She reached into her pocket and felt around for her wand, but it was nowhere to be found.

"Damnit," She hissed, continuing her panicked run down the street. She felt utterly naked without her wand, as though a part of herself was missing. Despite dwelling more among the muggles the past year, she always carried her wand with her. It had become her safety blanket.

Hermione finally made it to class with less than a minute to spare and was able to turn her paper in on time. She was thankful that she had transfigured it to look as though she had typed and printed the essay instead of jotting it down in a fatigued haze on notebook paper. She'd tried to type her essays on countless occasions but found she didn't enjoy the practice. There was just something special about jotting something down with a pen.

Her classes passed in a blur of discussions and debates on ethics involved with teaching in one of her education classes and the lecture on solving thermochemistry problems in her chemistry class. It was topics that her core classes covered that she had missed whilst attending Hogwarts. Science was ever-present and nonexistent in the Magical world. Most wizards would dismiss magic as having nothing to do with science, and thus rejected the idea of the concept.

Yet, Hermione had a hunch that the appearance of magic and magical properties had everything to do with science. Though not sure what she would do with the knowledge if she ever did make the connections, she still studied rigorously for her science classes simply because she enjoyed the, well, science of it all. There were rules. There was order, for the most part.

Finally, she was finished with her classes and could make the walk back to her flat, and fall into the swallowing pit that was studying and papers. She walked briskly down the London street, the January air nipping at the areas left exposed like her cheeks. The sun had begun to make its leave, and the nightlife was just beginning to take place.

Hermione observed various characters that made up the youth of London. Many of the young women, despite the unrelenting cold, still wore outfits that gave no protection against Mother Nature. Hermione shook her head in disbelief, unsure how anyone could stand to be so exposed in such weather. Of course, if she were in their place, she would have likely cast a heating charm, but that was beside the point.

So lost in her thoughts, the rough hand that grabbed her arm caught her completely by surprise. She turned to face the person, only to find a stranger's eyes staring back into her own. The man was large and had a cruel smile mixed with yellowed, crooked teeth.

"Hello, girlie," The man sneered. Hermione felt her stomach flop. She reached into her pocket for her wand, only to be met with the sinking realization that she had forgotten it in her rush out the door.

"Stay away from me," She said, pulling away from the man. Yet, his grip was iron-tight, and she could feel the spots where bruises would likely form. He put his hand on his mouth, rendering her incapable of speaking any more than a series of grunts. The hand he had on her arm slinked around her waist and came in contact with her breast. 

Hermione struggled under his grasp but it was to no avail. Her eyes began to dart around, looking for someone or something. Finally, she made eye contact with one of those scantily clad girls.

"Somebody help her!" The girl cried. Immediately, one of the workers in a bakery Hermione passed by every day on her way to school and ran from the bakery in search of the cry of distress. He pulled the man away from Hermione and shoved him. Her rescuer punched the man straight in the face, and the assailant fell to the ground in a crumpled heap, blood streaming from his face. He pulled himself to his feet and ran off in the opposite direction.

Hermione stood, frozen. She still felt the awful groping of the man's hand on her breast, and the awful smell of his breath still filled her senses.

"Granger?"

Hermione looked up at her rescuer only to meet the concerned blue eyes of Thorfinn Rowle. His hair had been pulled back into a ponytail, and he wore an apron. His hands and apron were covered in flour.

"Rowle?" She breathed out, trying so hard to focus on something, anything else other than the way she still felt the man's hands on her body. Her arm ached under her jumper, and if it weren't so cold she would have pulled it off to assess the damage.

"Granger, are you alright?" He asked slowly, pulling her focus towards him. One of the scantily clad girls, the one who screamed, came bounding towards the pair. She looked at Hermione with concern in her eyes.

"Are you okay?" She asked, worry swimming in her eyes beneath her fake lashes and glitzy eyeshadow. She placed her hand on Hermione's arm, causing Hermione to jump.

"I'm okay," Hermione whispered, her eyes darting back and forth between the girl and Thorfinn. She opened her mouth once again to speak but no words came through.

"Granger I'm gonna walk you home, okay?" Thorfinn said, removing his apron. The glitzy girl eyed Thorfinn with suspicion.

"You know her?"

Thorfinn nodded. "We're old friends, right Granger?"

Hermione looked at Thorfinn curiously but then nodded. "Yeah. Old friends."

The glitzy girl took the affirmation as legitimate and nodded. She turned to leave and join the rest of her friends.

"Wait," Hermione called. "Thank you."

The glitzy girl turned and looked at her Hermione with wide eyes. She nodded, and it was then that Hermione was hit with the sudden, unspoken rules held between females. The glitzy girl sent them a slight smile and walked away.

Hermione, still shaken, looked towards Rowle, who motioned for her to follow and allowed him to lead her into the bakery. The pleasant, warm smell of freshly baked bread invaded her nose, calming her down ever so slightly. The bakery was small, but inviting. The walls were lined with shelves of baked goods from bread to cakes and everything in between. Thorfinn left Hermione in the main part of the bakery and walked to the back to throw down the flour-coated apron he had been holding.

"Della I'm taking off early!" He called, though it was muffled due to being in different areas of the store. He emerged from the back, his hair no longer pulled back but hanging wildly on his shoulders. Hermione had so many questions built inside her head.

"Thorfinn Rowle you best not be leaving early to go to that damn pub!" A woman's voice called after him. Thorfinn rolled his eyes, and mouthed the words "Let's go".

"Thorfinn Rowle-" The woman called again, this time emerging from the back of the store. She appeared as though she were her mid-fifties, who despite the appearance of silvering hair, still held the same golden sheen as Thorfinn. Flour stuck in random splotches on her face, and she held a rolling pin in her hands. At the sight of Hermione, she dropped the rolling pin and immediately rushed to make herself look presentable.

"Thor, you didn't tell me we had a customer," She exclaimed, chastising the man. Hermione, in utter confusion at the sight before her, simply stared between the two. "Especially not a customer as famous as this one!"

Hermione outwardly gasped and looked at the small woman with more questions than she could have imagined. Thorfinn, noticing her confusion, motioned towards the small, blond woman.

"Hermione this is my Aunt, Della Rowle. Della, this is-"

"Hermione Granger," Della finished, reaching her flour-coated hand out towards Hermione, though not before wiping her hand on the apron once more. Hermione shook Della's hand, her eyebrows furrowed.

"Oh, I know what you're thinking dearie. What's a pureblood doing owning a muggle bakery in the middle of London?" Della said, chatting in a casual manner.

"Just a tad curious," Hermione replied sheepishly. Della laughed at her admission.

"I'm Thorfinn's Aunt. A squib. Got myself kicked off the family tree for it too." Della proclaimed, making Hermione think that it didn't bother her a bit that she had been kicked from the family, and might have even been happy about it.

"Anyway Della, I'm going be leaving early to take Hermione home."

Hermione shook her head. "Rowle I don't think that's necessary. I mean I wouldn't want to be an inconvenience."

Rowle gave her what she assumed she believed to be a dazzling smile. "What kind of gentleman would I be if I let you walk home unattended."

"A modern one," Hermione deadpanned. "Either way, you don't much strike me as a gentleman."

Rowle only laughed. Della raised an eyebrow at the pair.

"If you're worried about apparating, Miss Granger, you're welcome to do it here so no muggles spot you," Della offered.

Hermione's cheeks turned a light shade of crimson. "I forgot my wand at home."

"And managed to find trouble, like she's notorious for," Rowle finished for her. Della nodded.

"Then it's settled! Thor will walk you home."

"But-" Hermione started, trying to save herself from receiving any help from Thorfinn Rowle. Not necessarily because he was a bad person, evident by the way he had saved her earlier, but simply because she didn't like to ask for help. She always felt like when she asked for help, an invisible score system was put into place, and she would feel guilty until the score was even once more.

"No buts," Della said, clicking her tongue. She went behind the counter grabbed a loaf of bread and wrapped it up. She handed it to Hermione. "Here's some bread, on the house."

Della winked at Hermione. Rowle rolled his eyes at his seemingly eccentric aunt. Hermione shook her head and refused the loaf, but Della would not take no for an answer and practically shoved the loaf into her hands. Rowle made eye contact with Hermione and discretely motioned towards the front door.

Hermione turned towards Della and gave her a soft smile. "It was nice to meet you. And thank you so much for the bread."

"Don't mention it dear! It was wonderful to meet you as well."

Rowle and Hermione made their way from the shop, with Della waving at them until they could no longer be seen. Hermione shivered, as the London air seemed to have dropped even further, and a chilling wind had appeared.

"Cold?" Rowle asked. Hermione looked up at him and tried to keep her teeth chattering at bay.

"Of course not." She said, though her resolve was slipping. Thorfinn shrugged off the gray outer jacket she wore and handed it to her. She tried to push it back into his hands, but like Della, he refused to take no for an answer until she was forced to put on the jacket. It engulfed her person but provided so much warmth, and smelled strongly of spice, and the various smells of the bakery.

"Why do you work at a muggle bakery? I mean I understand the family commitment, but besides that, I can't see why you would." Hermione finally asked, the questions spilling out before she could stop herself.

"What Sweetheart, you don't think I work there because I love baking bread?" Rowle joked, looking down at Hermione.

"Somehow, I find that hard to believe," Hermione replied, smiling slightly at his words.

Rowle let out a sharp breath of air. "It's easy to work there."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean if I were to work in a wizarding establishment, I'd only hear people whispering about the mark I have on my arm. Besides, even if I didn't have that issue, the Ministry makes it pretty hard to find magical employment."

"What, how?" Hermione questioned, her eyebrows furrowed.

Rowle pulled up his sleeve and lifted his wrist to reveal the pewter bracelet he had shown her only two days prior. "Along with being a tracker, it restricts magic. So I can't even do what most jobs require in the wizarding world."

"I didn't know it did that," She breathed out, surprised the Ministry would stoop to such levels. Not only had they put the former Death Eaters on leashes, but cut off their legs as well.

"Yeah, so I can essentially only apparate. I mean I can throw a Lumos and most other first-year spells but that's it."

"So no other former Death Eaters that have on one of those bracelets can really integrate themselves back into society, under the pretense of them not being able to cause harm with their magic," Hermione reasoned. Rowle let out a humorless laugh.

"They just want to shove us back into the shadows and this," he said, raising his wrist. "Is the easiest way to do that. I mean, if the population wasn't so low I'd probably still be rotting in Azkaban."

Hermione nodded, though she was unable to imagine the huge man beside her spending the rest of his days in Azkaban. He didn't seem the type. Yet, she knew what he was capable of: she'd seen it first-hand during the war. However, she always knew the cruelty she was capable of as well. The difference between her and Thorfinn Rowle was that her side emerged victorious.

"How long do you have to wear it?"

Rowle gave her a side glance. "Not sure. I wasn't really given a timeframe."

Hermione nodded, and the pair walked in silence down the London street. They finally made it to her flat, where Hermione hastily shrugged off the large overcoat when she noticed the way Rowle's cheeks had grown red and that his hands were shoved in his pockets.

"Thank you, Rowle," She said, truly grateful but also embarrassed at the circumstances that led to such an interaction. Rowle smirked, yet Hermione could not find any malice or cruelty in his eyes.

"Anytime Sweetheart. Just try and stay out of trouble. Though knowing you, I feel you'll find that a difficult task."

Hermione narrowed her eyes and was about to retort with a smartass comment until she noticed the grin threatening to appear on his lips.

"I'll try," She replied, smiling softly. Rowle winked at her and turned on his heel. Hermione also turned towards the door but stood there unmoving.

"Hey Rowle, would you want to come inside for a drink?" She blurted, her eyes growing wider with every word she said. Rowle stopped abruptly, and spun on his heel, giving her a curious glance.

"I mean, just to help shake off the cold before you go off doing whatever nefarious and/or explicit plans you have for tonight," She continued, trying to justify her question. Rowle simply thought she was babbling, but was amused. He especially appreciated the way the crimson blush spread across her cheeks.

"I wish I could Sweetheart, but I promised some of the boys a few weeks ago I'd meet them for drinks, and they'd give me hell if I was late," He said, surprised at how disappointed he wouldn't be able to take her up on her offer.

Hermione's face fell, and her cheeks became even more red. "Oh, I mean I understand."

"Trust me, Sweetheart, I'd much rather be sharing a drink with you instead of a couple of gits," Rowle said honestly.

"It's okay, I mean I get it."

"You're working tomorrow right?"

Hermione nodded.

"How about I see you there, and you can give me a drink on the house," Rowle suggested, giving her a wink.

"Using me for free drinks, huh?" She asked, raising an eyebrow.

Rowle shrugged. "You're the one who suggested it."

"Fine," Hermione said, smiling slightly. Rowle grinned.

"See you tomorrow, Granger," He said, and with a "pop" he was gone, leaving Hermione wondering what exactly she getting herself into.

"Damn ya bastard, it's good to see you," Hadrian Mulciber exclaimed, slapping Thorfinn on the back as the man in question entered the dodgy pub in Knockturn Alley. The White Wyvern specialized in cheap whiskey and questionable clientele. The light was always dim and held an almost yellow hue, and there was always a feeling of mischief in the air.

The pub had become a favorite of many of Thorfinn's colleagues who had been released from Azkaban, though Thorfinn failed to see its appeal. The pub still played host to many cantankerous old men who still gripped about the follies of the youthful men who had taken refuge in the pub.

The atmosphere of the White Wyvern was partly the reason Thorfinn had taken to becoming a regular at the Speakeasy. That, along with the fact that he was essentially nameless at the Speakeasy. He had no faults there, and no one knew of the sins of his past.

"Thor," A round of cheers came from a crowded table that was placed in the center of the bar. Thorfinn grinned at the men. Hadrian had wrapped his arm around Thor's shoulder, rather awkwardly considering that Thorfinn was a few inches taller. Hadrian glanced up at Thor, his ice-blue eyes holding a Slytherin glint if Thor had ever seen one.

"So the lads and I figure since you were late, the next rounds on you, am I right?" Hadrian said in a mock whisper, glancing over at the lads who sat with smirks on their faces. Thorfinn shoved Hadrian from his shoulder.

"Piss off ya gits," Thorfinn laughed, turning towards the bar to order the next round. Hadrian followed him, chuckling.

"A round of ale, Sweetheart," Thorfinn said, winking at the barmaid, who blushed in response. He leaned back on the counter and looked into the curious eyes of Hadrian.

"What?" Thorfinn asked. Hadrian said nothing but instead leaned forward to sniff him. Thorfinn raised an eyebrow. Hadrian smirked in response.

"You already had a good shag today, have you Thor?"

Thorfinn didn't answer but instead leaned down to smell the gray jacket he wore, and was hit with the soft scent of a familiar perfume. It was fruity and floral, though not overpowering. Spirited. Hermione Granger's perfume.

Thorfinn looked back at Hadrian, his mouth contorted into a smirk and nodded his head. Mulciber grinned and slapped Thorfinn on the arm.

"Naughty Bastard," He laughed. Thorfinn rolled his eyes and said nothing as the barmaid returned with a plate holding the drinks. He sent her another wink and paid for the drinks before grabbing them and taking them back to the table.

Hadrian followed him grinning, and happily took a drink from the tray. Thorfinn placed the tray on the table occupied by a gaggle of colorful characters, where the drinks were hastily taken.

"Long time no see, Rowle," Rabastan Lestrange said, greeting the larger man.

"Bas," Thorfinn said in acknowledgment. He grabbed his own pint of ale and took a swig, noting that it tasted like utter piss. He'd grown used to the burn of whiskey and vodka that almost certainly guaranteed a quick, drunken haze, making the effect of the ale almost nonexistent. "I've been busy."

Rabastan raised an eyebrow. "Busy?"

"Odd jobs," Thorfinn stated, offering no more to the prying Lestrange. Rabastan gave him a peculiar look but said nothing as he took a swig of his ale.

"Mulciber says you've been shagging," Drake Travers mentioned, looking at Thorfinn with a grin. He was one of the youngest at the table besides Thorfinn. While Travers did hold the Dark Mark, he had been absolute shit at most battle spells, making most wonder where his father's cursing ability had disappeared to.

"And? Not like I have to tell all you shites the dirty details." Thorfinn said, wishing in that moment he had been able to take Granger up on her offer.

"We're your friends," Rabastan said, trying to pick Thorfinn a touch further. The men around Thorfinn were curious. In most cases when he found a witch he'd found to fuck, he'd offer them details upon first arrival. Yet now he remained quiet and utterly irritated.

"Come now you bunch o' bastards, let's leave Thor alone." Mulciber said in defense, giving Thorfinn an odd look. "How's the appeal to the Ministry coming?"

Thorfinn let out a humorless laugh. "Shitty."

"No surprise there," Rabastan muttered, his face contorted into that of displeasure.

"I wouldn't have appealed if I were you. I wish I could get out of it," Drake offered, his shoulders hunched.

"It's just ridiculous the Rowle seat is being given to the second son," Hadrian said. Thorfinn rolled his eyes and took another swig of his drink, though it wasn't nearly strong enough for the bad taste that had been left in his mouth.

"Honestly, I don't even want the fucking seat." Thorfinn huffed. "But Kiernan is just a snot-nosed kid who's barely 16."

All old families held seats on the Wizengamot. When Thorfinn was released on parole, his seat which had remained vacant for years after the death of his father, was given to his younger brother, Kiernan. However, the seats of the families who did not possess other heirs were given back to those on parole, such as Rabastan. Initially, the seat was to be held by Rodolphus. However, he did not qualify for parole, and so the seat was given to Rabastan as there was no one else to claim it. The Rowle family did have another heir to claim it, and so the seat was given to Kiernan.

"It's breaking bloody tradition is what it's doing," Hadrian muttered. He had begrudgingly been given a seat, as there were simply no other heirs.

Holding a seat in the Wizengamot was prestigious, and gave a family a sense of respectability. Thorfiin didn't really give a shit about respectability and prestige. But Kiernan was soft and had been so much younger than Thorfinn that their father had not been able to teach him the etiquette and procedure. Thorfinn simply didn't want his brother thrown to the wolves as soon as he graduated from Hogwarts.

The night passed quickly, with all but Thorfinn leaving the pub utterly pissed. For a fleeting moment, he worried about all the men getting splinched and returning to their homes in an inebriated state, but the feeling passed rather quickly.

He apparated home, and removed his jacket, pausing for a moment and putting it up to his face. He was pleased to note that, despite having grown fainter, the smell of the perfume still remained.

[toorumlk]

when they’re 19 / when they’re 24

[potterblog]

This fic is so amazing! <3 One of my top favorites of all-time!

I came back just to post this here so I could tag @ala-baguette 🥹 Knowing Where To Look is officially complete and if you haven’t read it yet you should. It’s post war, and Gawain Robards is our main man. This fic is so unlike anything else I’ve read and i just love it so much. Seeing Mary as an adult just made my heart so happy but also hurt so much. Just please do yourself a favor and read this. You won’t regret it.

[achiepy]

deserved.

[loving-daisy]

Where’s the Trophy? | Draco Malfoy x Reader

loving-daisy masterlist

Words: 8.1k

Summary: Nothing would ever make Draco happy than holding a trophy in his arms. Wait, are we talking about the Quidditch World Cup or a certain Y/N Weasley?

Inspired by Taylor Swift’s song — “The Alchemy”

Author’s Note: I had this in the drafts ever since the 2024 Paris Olympics when edits of players running towards their s/o’s became viral :)

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Draco Malfoy wasn’t the type to shy away from a challenge, and Y/N Weasley was certainly proving to be one.

Draco had noticed her immediately when they first crossed paths at Theodore Nott’s engagement party.

Despite being a Weasley, Y/N became good friends with Theodore after meeting her at some workshop for fellow print editors. Y/N works at The Alchemy, the bestselling wizarding lifestyle magazine of all time.

Every single wizard and witch keep their hands on The Alchemy for it covers basically everything you need to know about the wizarding world from the latest news and trends, ministry politics and foreign affairs, celebrity gossip, and even covering up to the current viral beauty and fashion world. To be featured in the magazine is to be popular and Theodore’s bride-to-be knew that their engagement was to be publicized by none other than The Alchemy.

Y/N was leaning against the wall with an almost bored expression, her sharp eyes scanning the room, never lingering on anything or anyone for too long. Not even him, Draco Malfoy, England’s seeker, king of hearts, and player of all players.

Most women would have been entranced by his presence, drawn in by his reputation and charm. But Y/N? She’d barely acknowledged his arrival, too busy ranting with Theo about the piled up work for all print distributors with the rising tensions of the Quidditch world cup .

Draco had made his way over, cocking an eyebrow as he interrupted their conversation.

“I’m sorry, but I couldn’t help but overhear,” he said smoothly, glancing at Theo, who gave him an exasperated look.

Before Draco was able to continue what he was about to say, he was immediately interrupted by the girl, who didn’t even look up from her drink.

“And yet, you’re interrupting,” she replied dryly, her voice cool but with just enough of a bite to show she wasn’t amused.

Draco smirked, leaning against the wall beside her. “Well, Darling, what better way to write about Quidditch than with a Quidditch player himself? Not to mention, me, the star of every game.”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “You’re really not as charming as you think you are, Malfoy.”

“I beg to differ,” he said, leaning in slightly, his tone lowering with that touch of arrogance she had come to expect. “Most women find me quite irresistible.”

Her lips twitched, but she didn’t rise to the bait. "Good thing I’m not most women,” she replied, turning her attention back to Theodore, clearly uninterested in his game.

Usually, Draco wouldn’t even bother wasting a breath on a Weasley but Y/N had dismissed him all too quickly. She had dismissed him, England’s heartthrob, as if she wasn’t interested in his good looks, or fame, or even popularity.

Salazar, she wasn’t even interested in writing about him for The Alchemy.

Draco Malfoy was not accustomed to chasing anything—or anyone. He had always been pursued, whether for his status, wealth, or simply because of his name. Relationships had always been transactional for him: a game of give and take, of power dynamics that were easy to navigate. But Y/N Weasley… Y/N was different.

At first, Draco had been intrigued. She was sharp, unyielding, and completely immune to his usual charms.

Where most women melted under his attention, Y/N only rolled her eyes or gave him a withering look as though he was just another distraction to be dealt with. He couldn’t remember the last time a woman had dismissed him so thoroughly, and it had started to feel like a challenge for reasons he couldn't quite explain.

But it wasn’t just that.

The more she resisted, the more he wanted to see if he could break through that impenetrable wall she’d built around herself.

Over time, his interest became more than a game. She challenged him, called him out on his arrogance, and refused to let him get away with half-truths or polished façades. For the first time in years, Draco felt like someone saw him for who he really was—and she didn’t flinch.

Y/N Weasley wasn’t having it.

“You’re wasting your time,” she told him one evening at a café in London, where they’d both ended up after a mutual friend’s birthday gathering.

“Am I?” he asked, his smirk tilting into something softer.

“Yes,” she said firmly, taking a sip of her wine. “Whatever this is, it’s not going to happen.”

Draco only shrugged, undeterred. ‘We’ll see.’

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

“Still writing about why men are hopeless, Weasley?”

Y/N looked up to find Draco Malfoy standing there, effortlessly stylish in a tailored coat and scarf that probably cost more than her entire wardrobe. His silver-blond hair was tousled in that maddeningly perfect way, and he wore a smirk that could charm or infuriate—depending on his mood.

“I wasn’t,” she replied smoothly, “but if you’re volunteering as a case study, I can adjust.”

Draco chuckled, pulling out the chair across from her without waiting for an invitation. “I’m sure your readers would love to hear about my charms. But I’d much rather give you a private demonstration.”

Y/N arched an eyebrow, feigning disinterest even as her cheeks flushed. “Is this your idea of flirting, Malfoy? Because it’s not exactly groundbreaking.”

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table and fixing her with his piercing gray eyes. “Oh, I can be groundbreaking when I want to be. But I’ll save that for when you admit you’re intrigued.”

“Who says I’m intrigued?” she countered, her quill tapping against the table's edge.

Draco smirked. “That little blush on your cheeks does.”

Y/N huffed, pretending to go back to her notes. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” he said, sliding a piece of parchment across the table with his contact information scrawled in elegant script, “you haven’t asked me to leave.”

With a wink, he stood and adjusted his scarf. “I’ll leave you to your article, Weasley. Don’t work too hard. You’ll need your energy—for when I take you to dinner.”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Y/N had no idea why she was even scrolling through the gossip pages of Witch Weekly. It was supposed to be a lazy Monday morning—tea in hand, parchment in front of her—but instead, her attention had been snagged by a headline she couldn’t ignore.

England's Star Seeker Draco Malfoy Spotted with Mystery Blonde at Exclusive London Bistro!

Her stomach twisted as she stared at the accompanying photograph.

There he was, Draco Malfoy, sitting across from a gorgeous woman who was laughing at something he’d said. His trademark smirk was firmly in place, the same smirk he’d aimed at her not two days ago.

Y/N snapped the magazine shut, annoyed at herself.

What did it matter who Draco Malfoy spent his evenings with? He was arrogant, self-absorbed, and entirely too charming for his own good.

At least, that’s what she told herself.

But the universe wasn’t done testing her resolve.

Later that week, as she walked through Diagon Alley, the sight of Draco leaning against a storefront with another witch at his side stopped her in her tracks. This one had dark hair and a melodic laugh that carried across the street. Draco held her hand, his expression warm and relaxed in a way Y/N hadn’t seen before.

She quickly ducked into a nearby shop, her heart racing. Malfoy was a flirt, and she wasn’t naïve enough to think he didn’t have other women hanging on his every word.

The next morning, another headline greeted her in the Prophet: Malfoy’s Match: Which Lucky Lady Has His Heart?

Y/N threw the paper aside with a frustrated groan.

Over the past months, Draco had been bothering her. The last thing she wanted was to have him bothering her even when he’s not here. The girl swore to herself that she won’t read gossip columns ever again.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Y/N was sitting in her cozy office at The Alchemy, the latest drafts of her article spread across her desk, when her fireplace flared green. She was startled as Draco Malfoy’s face appeared in the flames, his usual smirk firmly in place.

“Busy, Weasley?” he drawled.

She sighed, leaning back in her chair. “Malfoy, have you ever heard of knocking? Oh, wait—no doors on fireplaces. How silly of me to expect manners.”

He chuckled. “If I knocked, you’d have an excuse to ignore me. This way, you’re forced to hear me out.”

“Lucky me,” she replied dryly, crossing her arms. “What do you want?”

Draco’s smirk softened, turning into something almost—dare she say it?—earnest. “I’ve got a match in two weeks. England versus France. It’s a big one. It’s the finals.”

“And?” Y/N prompted, arching an eyebrow.

“And,” he continued, “I thought you might like to come. Watch me fly circles around the other Seeker. Cheer me on. That sort of thing.”

Y/N laughed, shaking her head. “You mean sit in a crowd of rabid Quidditch fans and feed your already oversized ego?”

“Precisely,” he replied, undeterred. “I’ve reserved a seat in the VIP box just for you. You’ll have the best view in the house.”

She tilted her head, studying him. “Why me?”

“Because,” he said smoothly, “you’re the only person I know who can’t stand my ego—and yet, you’ll be impressed anyway. Admit it, Weasley. You’re curious.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t hide the small smile tugging at her lips. “My answer is no.”

Draco grinned, pointing a finger in her direction. “I see what this is. This is you trying not to fall in love with me when you see me in action.” He concluded, earning a groan from the Weasley girl.

“There are a lot of other witches out there already in love with you, Malfoy. Surely, you don’t need another one.” She asserted, shaking her head at the Quidditch star.

Draco blinked, his smirk faltering for a split second before he recovered. “Ah. You’ve been reading the gossip columns, I see.”

“Hard to avoid when your face is splashed across every page,” she shot back. “Or when I see you holding hands with someone else in Diagon Alley.”

“Jealous, then,” he said, his smirk returning, though there was a flicker of something more serious in his eyes.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Malfoy,” Y/N snapped. “But if you’re going to act like you’re interested in me, maybe try not to make it so obvious that you’re playing the field.”

Draco exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “You think I’m playing you?”

“I think I don’t like feeling like an idiot,” she said, her voice quieter now but no less firm. “So if this is some kind of game to you, just say so, and I’ll be on my way. Or better yet, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

For once, Draco didn’t have a quick retort. He stepped closer, his expression softening in a way that caught her off guard.

“Y/N,” he began, his voice lower now, almost tentative. “Those other witches? They don’t mean anything. The dinners, the pictures—they’re just...part of the circus that comes with this life.”

She arched an eyebrow, not entirely convinced. “And me?”

Draco hesitated, then met her gaze head-on. “You’re different. You’re not part of the circus. That’s why I keep coming back, even when you’re determined to push me away or even make me work for it.”

Y/N wanted to believe him. She wanted to believe those gray eyes weren’t just feeding her another line. But trust didn’t come easily. Not with someone like him.

“Prove it,” she said finally.

Draco’s lips twitched into a small, almost shy smile. “Challenge accepted.”

And with that, his face vanished from the flames, leaving Y/N shaking her head and wondering how Draco Malfoy always managed to get under her skin.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Over the next few weeks, his persistence continued. He sent her notes with witty remarks, often mocking her serious work at The Alchemy, trying to provoke a reaction. He’d casually show up at places where she might be—often appearing just at the right moment to interrupt her morning coffee or during late-night discussions about the Quidditch finals. At first, Y/N remained distant, always with a polite but unyielding air.

“You’re insufferable, Malfoy,” she’d said, her eyes narrowing as he leaned casually against her desk at her office.

“And yet, here I am,” he’d replied smoothly, smirking when she rolled her eyes.

“You know, Weasley,” Draco said casually, his voice low, “if you spent less time pretending to dislike me, you might realize you enjoy my company.”

Y/N looked up at him, her gaze steady but not unkind. ”I doubt that,” she said, her lips curling into a smirk. “You’re a master at charming people, but I’m simply not impressed.”

Draco’s lips curved into a small smile. “You know, you are the first person in a long time who doesn’t buy into the act.”

She raised an eyebrow. “What act?”

“This,” he gestured vaguely, smirking. “The smirking, the charm, the headlines. It works on most people. Not you.”

“Maybe because I know better,” she replied with a teasing smile.

“Exactly,” he said, leaning forward slightly. “You see through it. That’s why I…” He hesitated, then shook his head with a soft laugh. “Never mind.”

“Why you what?” Y/N prompted, her curiosity piqued.

Draco met her gaze, his gray eyes unusually serious. “Why I care what you think of me. More than I probably should.”

There was silence between them for a moment—an odd tension in the air as Y/N considered his words.

It was the first crack in her walls. Draco showed the briefest flicker of vulnerability.

But Y/N wasn’t going to make it easy.

As much as he tried to provoke her, as much as he coaxed her with his charm, he could see that she was starting to fight back. She wasn’t giving him an inch, which only made him want to push further. After all, Draco Malfoy didn’t back down easily, especially not when he was so invested in winning.

Yet, he knew—deep down—that if he ever wanted to break through to Y/N, he’d have to stop playing the game so much. He’d have to show her that, beneath the arrogant exterior, there was more to him than the world had ever known. And maybe, just maybe, that was precisely what she needed to see.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Y/N sat in her favorite corner of the café, her fingers drumming absently against her coffee cup as she stared down at the latest email from her editorial director at The Alchemy. It had been a long day, filled with deadlines and constant back-and-forths about articles. But this new email was different.

She had expected another mundane assignment, a piece on some new wizarding fashion trend or the latest potion craze. Instead, her editor’s words jumped off the screen with a new challenge:

“Ms. Weasley,

It has come to my attention that despite England’s star seeker Draco Malfoy coming in-and-out of your office, no story is being written about him for The Alchemy.

We need you to write a feature piece on Draco Malfoy.”

She blinked, rereading the message a few times, convinced she had misread it.

“Draco Malfoy?” she muttered to herself, her eyebrows knitting together.

What the hell?

Her first instinct was to toss the email aside. She wasn’t a gossip columnist, and she wasn’t the type to write puff pieces about famous Quidditch players. Y/N prided herself on the hard-hitting, serious stories she was known for—pieces that explored deeper issues, not the insipid celebrity profiles that others at The Alchemy seemed to thrive on.

But then, as much as she hated to admit it, the thought of writing about Draco Malfoy intrigued her. He wasn’t just some athlete who smiled for the cameras and spouted the usual soundbites. No, Draco had always been a more complex figure—a product of his family, his upbringing, and, she suspected, his own inner demons. She had seen the way he carried himself, the mask he wore, and the way he navigated his fame. There was more to Draco Malfoy than people realized.

Still, writing about him felt… strange. She hadn’t forgotten their previous encounters, where he’d flirted with her relentlessly, trying to get a rise out of her with his usual charm. And every time, she had shut him down. She wasn’t interested in him—at least, not in the way he clearly wanted her to be.

But now, she was being asked to dig deeper, to find the story behind the public persona. Her professional side told her it was just another assignment. The personal side of her couldn’t shake the unease in the pit of her stomach at the thought of spending more time with him.

The first meeting with Draco was set for the following week. She walked into the private room at the trendy restaurant where they had agreed to meet, her mind still swirling with questions. Draco was already there, sitting at a corner table, his signature smirk plastered across his face as he saw her approach.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite Weasley, the woman who can’t be charmed,” Draco teased, his voice low and smooth. “How long did it take for you to come up with a way to make me sound interesting?”

The girl narrowed her eyes as she sat down, trying not to show discomfort. “You’re not the story I want to write, Malfoy,” she said, her tone sharp. “But my director seems to think you’re worth the ink.”

Draco chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “Of course, they do. Who wouldn’t want to write about me?” His eyes twinkled with his usual cocky confidence, and Y/N couldn’t help but feel the familiar irritation bubble up.

She set her notepad on the table and gave him a pointed look. “So, tell me, Malfoy. What’s it like to be the golden boy of Quidditch? The press loves you. The fans adore you. But what’s going on behind that perfect smile of yours?”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by her directness. “Is that your first question, then? Going straight for the jugular?”

“Why not? I’m here to get the truth, not some carefully rehearsed spiel.”

His eyes softened for a moment, an almost imperceptible shift in his expression, but he quickly regained his usual cockiness. “Alright, alright. It’s true—being the best is exhausting. All the expectations, the pressure to perform perfectly, to look perfect. It’s a lot more work than people think. But, hey, it’s worth it when you’re the best.”

The girl jotted down some notes, but she couldn’t help but notice the faint flicker of something in his eyes—something real, something raw. It wasn’t the image of the perfect Quidditch star she expected, but the glimpse of someone who might be tired of being in the spotlight. It was a side of Draco Malfoy that was difficult to ignore.

She pressed on, determined not to be distracted. “England’s making history with how it’s the first time that the team has entered the world cup finals. How do you feel about this?”

The boy grinned, crossing his arms in amusement. “It’s only been my 2nd year playing for England as the seeker so it honestly brings me great joy to be part of this historical event.”

Nodding, Weasley continued, “Do you have a personal goal for the upcoming match?”

Draco exhaled, running a hand through his hair, making Y/N look up at him with a raised brow. The boy was about to say something until he hesitated for a moment, gears running in his head as he thought about his answer.

“I want the trophy.” He finally answered. “Nothing else would make me happier than raising the trophy with my own hands above my head. It’s my ultimate goal. I’ll be content for life once I finally make that happen.”

The girl continued to write in her notepad, nodding at every word the Quidditch star had spoken.

“And what about your personal life, Draco? Your time at Hogwarts? Your family?”

Draco leaned forward, his smirk playing at the edges of his lips. “Now, you’re getting personal. I see how it is.”

“Just trying to get the truth,” Y/N replied, not backing down.

He met her gaze, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. ”Maybe you’ll have to dig a little deeper to get that, Weasley.”

As the conversation continued, Y/N couldn’t shake the feeling that Draco was letting her in, just slightly more than he had before. But then, as quickly as the walls came down, they were back up again. He was a master at keeping things just out of reach. She could see that now.

But there was something else—something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. For all his bravado and charm, a vulnerability lurked behind his eyes. The question was whether she could uncover it—and whether she even wanted to.

Draco stood to leave as the interview wrapped up, giving her one last lingering look. “Well, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” he said with that trademark smirk.

The reporter gathered her things, her mind racing. She’d gotten the surface-level story she expected. But something told her there was more—much more—to Draco Malfoy than she’d ever realized.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

A few weeks after the first interview at the restaurant, Y/N sat next to Draco in a quiet corner of a rooftop bar, sipping wine while the city of London stretched out before them. The sound of distant laughter and clinking glasses filled the air, but in that moment, it felt like it was just the two of them.

Draco had been quiet for most of the evening, a rare occurrence for him. His usual cocky smile was replaced with a more relaxed, contemplative expression as he stared out at the skyline. Y/N found herself watching him, the way the soft glow of the city lights illuminated the sharp angles of his face, the way his eyes flickered with thought.

“You’re quiet tonight,” she remarked, setting her glass down.

He shrugged, but there was a softness to his movements. “Just thinking.”

“About what?” she asked, intrigued despite herself.

He met her gaze, his eyes intense. “About how you’re the only person I’ve ever met who doesn’t seem to expect anything from me.”

Y/N frowned. “That’s not true. I expect plenty from you, Malfoy.”

His lips curled into a smile, but it was different than usual—less smug, more genuine. “What do you expect?”

“I expect you to stop acting like you have to be some perfect, untouchable person,” she said, her voice quieter now. “Because no one’s perfect, and no one’s untouchable. Not even you.”

Draco’s expression softened, his gaze flicking away for a moment before he turned back to her. “I don’t want to be untouchable. Just…” he paused, then looked down at his glass, tapping it lightly with his finger. “Just don’t let me screw this up.”

Y/N’s heart skipped a beat, though she quickly masked it with a teasing smile. “I think you’ve already screwed it up a few times. C’mon, do you think mocking some of my work at The Alchemy just to get my attention would actually make me fall for you?”

He smirked, but there was no malice in it. “True. But I’m trying.”

Y/N wasn’t sure why, but something in his tone—something in his eyes—tugged at her. She wanted to resist, to remind herself that she couldn’t afford to get caught up in someone like him. But with every word, with every glance they shared, the walls she’d carefully built around her heart seemed to crumble just a little more.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

As the days passed, Y/N couldn’t shake the feeling that she had just scratched the surface of something much more complex. Draco Malfoy was precisely as she’d expected in many ways: confident, charming, and completely self-assured in the public eye. But the moments between his carefully constructed exterior, the fleeting glances and small gestures, had made her realize something deeper lay beneath.

The next few weeks were filled with interviews, photo shoots, and press events. Draco’s schedule was packed with appearances, leaving him little time for anything other than his public image. But Y/N managed to secure more time with him, squeezing moments between his practices and press conferences.

Each time they met, the conversation deepened slightly. But for every step he took toward vulnerability, he seemed to retreat just as quickly.

Y/N had asked about his past and his family—subjects that usually turned him distant and defensive. Yet there were moments when she saw a flicker of something else, something more human. He’d speak of his childhood with a mixture of bitterness and longing, a sense of loss that cut deeper than she had expected.

“My father was never proud of me for anything except Quidditch,” Draco had said one afternoon, his eyes dark as they stared into the distance. “I could win every match, and he’d still find something to criticize. I never could escape his shadow.”

It was the first time he had shared anything personal, and it had taken Y/N by surprise.

“Do you remember how I told you that nothing would make me happier than the world cup trophy?”

Y/N nodded as an answer, her gaze focused deeply on Draco.

“To earn that trophy is to finally let go of my father’s disappointment in me.” He confessed, taking a big gulp at his firewhisky afterwards.

Y/N had been so used to Draco Malfoy, who prided himself on his self-sufficiency, the one who lived in the limelight and was always in control. She had never considered that, beneath all that, he might be carrying around the weight of such a complicated family history.

Yet Draco cut the conversation short the moment she let herself lean in, to ask more, to dive deeper into that pain. “Anyway, enough about that,” he’d said, standing up and brushing off the moment as if it were nothing. “What else do you want to know?”

And so, the reporter continued to write. At first, she focused on the public figure of Draco Malfoy—the successful, well-loved athlete who was more than just a face in the crowd.

But with every interview and moment spent with him, she started questioning what she was genuinely uncovering. She was digging, yes, but she wasn’t sure whether Draco Malfoy's story intrigued her—or the man himself.

It wasn’t until one late evening, long after the sun had set that Y/N realized just how much her feelings for Draco had shifted. She had been assigned to cover a charity event where Draco was being honored for his work with the wizarding community. The room was filled with celebrities, athletes, and wealthy families, all gathered to celebrate Draco’s accomplishments. It was the perfect opportunity for him to shine and be the golden boy again.

But there, at the back of the ballroom, she caught him standing alone, leaning against a column with a glass of champagne in hand, his eyes distant, staring out over the crowd. She had always thought of him as the center of attention, always surrounded by people who wanted to be near him, but this moment—how he looked almost… lost—took her by surprise.

The girl approached him cautiously, unsure if this was the same Draco Malfoy she had spent the past few weeks getting to know.

“You look like you’re having the time of your life,” The girl remarked dryly, unable to help herself.

Draco’s lips curled into his trademark smirk. “Oh, you know. Just enjoying the company of people who love me.” He replied.

But the lightness of his words didn’t quite match the heaviness in his eyes. The girl caught a glimpse of the façade he had built so carefully—he was pretending, and she saw right through it.

“Do you really enjoy these things, Draco?” she asked, her voice softer than she intended.

He looked at her then, really looked at her, as if weighing her words. There was an unsettling quiet in the air between them, and for a long moment, neither of them spoke.

“It’s what’s expected of me,” he finally said, his voice low.

Y/N’s heart softened at his words, and she could feel the walls he had built around himself, those barriers keeping everyone at a distance. This was a side of Draco she hadn’t seen before—the vulnerability, the uncertainty.

Before she could say more, there was a call from across the room—another colleague, another guest. Draco straightened up, wiping the moment away like it had never happened. “Duty calls” he said, his mask back in place. “I’ll see you later, Weasley.”

But as he turned to walk away, Y/N felt the weight of the unspoken words between them. She was beginning to realize that this story she was writing about Draco Malfoy wasn’t just about uncovering his public life. It was about something far more complicated that had crept up on her without warning.

She wasn’t just writing about Draco Malfoy anymore. She was trying to understand him.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

It was a quiet evening when Draco invited Y/N to a secluded spot near a pub, a place far from the bustling streets and prying eyes. She had been hesitant at first—Draco Malfoy didn’t exactly seem like the type to indulge in quiet, intimate settings—but something about the way he had asked, the sincerity in his voice, made her say yes.

When she arrived, she was surprised to find that it wasn’t a grand, lavish affair. It was just a small, private garden lit by hundreds of softly glowing lanterns, the gentle hum of music in the background. Draco was already there, standing by a small stone bench, a hesitant look on his face as if he wasn’t quite sure what to expect.

“Malfoy, what is this?” Y/N asked, her curiosity piqued as she took in the peaceful setting.

He gave her a small, sheepish smile. “I thought you might like something...different. Somewhere, we could talk without the usual distractions.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You? Trying to be quiet and intimate?”

Draco chuckled, running a hand through his hair. “I’m trying something new. I don’t exactly have a lot of experience with...romantic gestures.”

Y/N’s heart skipped a beat. That was the last thing she’d expected him to say. Draco Malfoy—arrogant, smug, unapproachable Draco—admitting he didn’t know how to do this. For a moment, the world seemed to stop, and all she could see was the vulnerability in his eyes.

He stepped toward her, offering her his hand. “I thought we could start with a walk. Maybe later we can... see where the night takes us.”

Y/N hesitated, but then she found herself taking his hand, her pulse quickening as his fingers brushed against hers.

They walked through the garden together, the soft glow of the lanterns casting a golden light over them. The path was lined with roses and jasmine, their sweet scent filling the air. Draco occasionally glanced at her, his smile more natural now, and Y/N found herself smiling back without even thinking about it.

After a while, they reached a small gazebo, draped in ivy and surrounded by flowers. Draco led her to the center, where a small table had been set up with a single candle flickering in the center. He pulled out a chair for her, a small gesture, but it made her heart flutter in a way she couldn’t explain.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” Y/N said softly, her voice betraying the warmth she felt. “It’s…”

“Something I wanted to do,” Draco interrupted gently. He placed his hand on hers, his touch warm and reassuring. “Something I wanted to show you. That I can be more than the person you think I am.”

Y/N looked up at him, her breath catching in her throat as their eyes locked. There was no smugness in his expression now, no arrogance. Just sincerity—something she hadn’t expected from him, but found herself yearning for.

“I know I’ve messed up,” Draco continued, his voice low. “And I know I’m not perfect. But I want to try. I want to prove that I’m not just some spoiled, arrogant Quidditch player. I’m someone who’s willing to do this...to try for you.”

Y/N felt her walls begin to crumble. Every part of her had been bracing for him to let her down, for this to be just another game, another way to keep her interested. But something about the way he was looking at her, the way his hand remained gently resting on hers, made her believe him.

“You don’t have to prove anything, Draco,” she said quietly. “I just need to know you’re not playing games.”

He smiled, his eyes softening. “No games, Weasley. I’m not that stupid.”

The way he said it—so earnestly—left no room for doubt. She could feel the truth of his words, and for the first time, she realized how much she wanted to believe in him.

The evening went on, the quiet intimacy of the garden wrapping them in a cocoon of soft light and silence. It wasn’t grand or extravagant, but it was enough. Draco had finally shown her a side of him that was real, and in that moment, it felt like the world was just the two of them.

By the end of the night, as they stood together under the stars, Draco took a deep breath. “So, what do you think? Is this enough to make you reconsider that I might be worth it?”

Y/N’s heart fluttered, and she smiled, the answer already clear. “I think I’m starting to believe you.”

Draco’s face lit up, and he pulled her in for a hug, one that felt more tender than anything they’d shared before. And as Y/N rested her head against his chest, she realized she wasn’t just falling for him—she had already fallen.

“You have no idea how much I want to kiss you right now,” he murmured, his voice rough with desire, but still holding back, as if waiting for some sign from her.

Y/N’s heart skipped a beat, and she opened her eyes to meet his, the raw emotion in his gaze pulling her in even deeper. “Then why don’t you?”

The words had barely left her lips when his other hand slid around her waist, pulling her closer, until there was no space left between them. She could feel the heat of his body against hers, the tension crackling between them, making it impossible to think clearly.

Draco leaned in, his lips just inches from hers, and Y/N’s breath caught in her throat. For a moment, everything seemed to slow—time stretching out as they hovered on the edge of something they both knew could change everything.

A sudden sound broke the silence. The rustling of leaves. A faint cough.

Y/N and Draco both snapped their heads to the side, a rush of disappointment and frustration sweeping over them. Standing just at the edge of the garden path, a figure was barely visible in the dim light.

"Sorry, didn't mean to interrupt."

It was a familiar voice—one Y/N would recognize anywhere.

"George?" she called out, her words laced with a mixture of surprise and annoyance.

Draco stiffened beside her, his eyes narrowing as he turned to face the intruder.

"Couldn't find you two anywhere in the pub, so I figured you might be here," George Weasley said, stepping fully into the light with his characteristic grin. He raised a hand in apology. "Did I ruin something?"

Y/N let out a soft sigh, the tension that had been building between her and Draco instantly evaporating. The weight of the moment slipped away, replaced by the sudden, unwelcome intrusion of her older brother’s presence.

"Bloody hell," Draco muttered under his breath, rubbing his forehead in irritation. "I was about to—"

George, completely unaware of the emotional wreckage he’d just caused, smiled and raised an eyebrow. "About to what? Kiss her?" He gave a teasing glance to Y/N. "I mean, that’s the only reason I can think of you two standing so close."

Y/N could feel her cheeks burning, the awkwardness of the moment too much to ignore. "George," she said, trying to keep her voice steady, "what are you doing here?"

"I told you, I was looking for you," he said with a shrug. "But I’m happy to leave you two to whatever… this is." He made a small gesture between them. "Just don’t do anything I’d do, alright?"

Draco shot him a glare, clearly less than thrilled with the interruption. "You know, George, I’m really starting to wonder what exactly you’re insinuating."

George chuckled and held his hands up in mock defense. "Nothing, nothing. Just wanted to make sure you weren't tying my little sister up in some crazy love affair."

Y/N couldn’t help but roll her eyes. “Can’t you go bother Fred?” she said, hoping to push her brother along.

But George just shook his head. “Nah, he’s busy at the shop. Anyway, I’ll leave you two to it. Just don’t blame me when it’s not my fault you two don’t kiss already. It’s been hanging in the air since I walked up.”

With that, George turned to leave, his footsteps growing quieter as he disappeared down the path.

Y/N exhaled, feeling a mix of relief and annoyance flood through her. "Well, that was awkward," she muttered, running a hand through her hair.

Draco’s posture had relaxed, but he was still watching her with an amused yet frustrated expression. "I can’t believe that just happened."

And just like that, the moment was lost—not by their own choice, but by fate and the mischievous timing of her brother. Yet, in that space between them, something still lingered, the anticipation hanging in the air like the faintest whisper of what might come next.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

As the season finale approached, excitement buzzed throughout the wizarding world. The final game of the Quidditch World Cup was drawing near, and Draco Malfoy’s England team was on the cusp of victory. Every publication and every media outlet, was buzzing about the upcoming match. It was a culmination of years of hard work, and Draco was poised to lead his team to the win.

But as much as the excitement of the game filled the air, it wasn’t the only thing occupying Draco’s mind. Y/N Weasley had been a constant presence over the past few weeks, her insightful questions and perceptive eyes causing something inside him to stir.

It wasn’t about the chase anymore; it was about how she made him feel like someone with something real to offer, something that had nothing to do with his past. With Y/N, he wasn’t Draco Malfoy, the heir to the Malfoy fortune, the former Death Eater, or even the star Seeker of the England team. He was just Draco.

And now, as the final match loomed closer, something in him knew that he needed her there. He wanted her to witness the moment he had been working toward his entire life, to see him in his element at the peak of his career.

There was a vulnerability in that—asking her to witness his success, to be there as something more than just the journalist writing on his feature for a magazine.

The question came as a text one evening, just a few days before the big game. Y/N was sitting in her apartment, reviewing her notes for her article, when her phone buzzed.

“You’re coming to the final game, right?”

The girl stared at the message momentarily, her fingers hovered over the screen as she debated how to respond.

“I wasn’t planning on it. You’ve got plenty of people in your corner already.”

She hit send before she could second-guess herself, but a new message appeared from Draco moments later. “And you think they’re the ones I want there? You should come. I want you to see it. All of it.”

She felt a strange flutter in her chest at his words.

“Fine, I’ll be there. But don’t expect me to cheer for you.”

Draco’s reply was quick, playful, but there was an undertone of sincerity. “I’ll take what I can get. See you there, Weasley.”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The day of the match arrived, and Y/N found herself standing in the VIP section of the stadium, her heart beating faster than she would have liked. The atmosphere was electric, the stands filled with enthusiastic supporters. Draco had ensured that she had the best seat in the house—front and center, right near the team’s private box.

As the match kicked off, Y/N was fully aware that she was there not just as a reporter, but as someone who was beginning to care, in a way she had never intended. She watched Draco carefully, noting the way he moved with precision, the intensity in his eyes, and the confidence in every pass, every dive, every goal.

There was something magnetic about watching him play, not just for his skill, but for the quiet determination that seemed to flow from him.

During the halftime break, Y/N made her way up to the private box, where Draco was standing alone, looking out over the field. He had removed his goggles and gloves.

“You’re doing well,” Y/N said, stepping up beside him, trying to keep her tone casual.

“You came,” he said, his voice a mix of surprise and something else. He looked at the girl carefully. There, Y/N stood, wearing a black England Quidditch jersey with Draco’s last name on the back, the number 7 emblazoned proudly across it.

His heart skipped a beat. He hadn’t expected her to wear it, let alone wear it like she was wearing it for him. A small thrill ran through him.

“I said I would,” Y/N replied, her voice steady despite her heart racing.

Draco gave her a broad smile. “You look cute with my last name on your back.” He complimented, Y/N’s cheeks immediately turning red.

Silence engulfed their atmosphere for a while before Draco decided to break it.

“Do you think I can win?” he asked quietly, a rare moment of honesty breaking through his usual bravado.

She met his gaze, her own heart unexpectedly softening. “I think you’ve already won,” she said with quiet certainty. “No matter what happens in the game, you’ve already proven everything you set out to achieve.”

For a moment, Draco said nothing, but his eyes softened, and Y/N saw the vulnerability he had kept hidden. He took a step closer to her, his voice low. “That’s the thing about winning, Weasley. It never feels like enough. Not until I’ve got everything I want.”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The game resumed, and Y/N’s focus shifted back to the field as Draco and his team pushed forward, the final match unfolding before her eyes.

On the pitch, Draco kept his focus sharp, scanning the skies for the glint of gold, but his mind wandered to her more often than it should have. Was she watching? Was she rolling her eyes every time the announcers praised him? Did she regret coming at all?

When he finally spotted the Snitch, his heart surged, not just with the thrill of the chase but with the knowledge that Y/N was here to see him succeed. He dove with precision, ignoring the French Seeker on his tail, and his fingers closed around the Snitch in one fluid motion. The crowd erupted, and his teammates surged toward him, but Draco’s gaze immediately lifted to the stands.

As the crowd cheered, Y/N found herself caught up in the moment's energy, but it wasn’t the victory that held her attention. It was Draco. She watched as he raised his arms in triumph, his face a mix of relief and elation, his hard work finally paying off.

The crowd erupted as the final whistle sounded, the golden snitch clutched tightly in Draco Malfoy’s hand. The scoreboard flashed the win: England - 310, France - 290. The stadium was a cacophony of cheers, chants, and magical fireworks lighting up the Parisian sky. His teammates swarmed him, their triumphant shouts blending into the roaring crowd. But Draco’s mind was already elsewhere.

He didn’t hear the commentators dissecting his final play or the announcer calling his name as the match’s MVP. All he could think about was her—Y/N Weasley, standing just past the enchanted barriers separating the players from the spectators.

As the crowd surged forward, Y/N made her way down to the field, determined to catch him before the madness of victory consumed him completely. She found him near the edge of the pitch, his teammates surrounding him, all celebrating their victory. But Draco’s eyes found hers immediately, cutting through the noise and the chaos.

For a moment, the world around them seemed to fade away. There was no crowd, no reporters, no fans clamoring for his attention. There was just Draco and Y/N—two people who had been circling each other for weeks, testing boundaries, pushing limits, and now, standing on the edge of something neither of them were prepared for.

Draco handed off the snitch to a teammate, brushing past the photographers calling his name. “Where are you going, Malfoy?” one of his teammates shouted, but Draco didn’t bother answering.

The trophy could wait. The celebrations could wait. Everything could wait.

By the time she saw him weaving through the crowd, his hair mussed from the game, a bead of sweat tracing his temple, he was already too close to ignore.

“Where’s the trophy, Malfoy?” she asked, her voice teasing and dripping with sarcasm but her eyes betraying the pride she felt.

“Don’t care,” he said simply, his chest still heaving.

“What kind of star player skips the celebration?” she quipped, but her words faltered as his hands found her waist. In one swift movement, he pulled her over to him, his fingers curling into the soft fabric of her coat.

“The kind who’s got better things to do,” he murmured, his voice low.

Her witty comeback dissolved as his lips crashed into hers, the kiss hard and desperate, as if he’d waited his whole life for this moment. The stadium, the cameras, the spectators—all of it faded into the background. It was just them, wrapped in the kind of alchemy that couldn’t be planned or controlled.

She tasted like red wine, and Draco thought, for once, he might actually have won something worth keeping.

When they finally broke apart, Y/N’s breath caught in her throat as she saw his gray eyes. “You’re insane, Malfoy,” she whispered, her fingers still gripping the front of his jersey.

“Maybe,” he replied, brushing his forehead against hers. “But I’m yours.”

As the crowd chanted his name and his teammates hoisted the trophy, Draco stayed rooted in that moment with her, knowing that whatever happened next, nothing could compare to the magic of Y/N Weasley in his arms, grinning at him.

He looked at her for a long moment, and then, in a move that surprised her, he leaned in, brushing his lips lightly against her cheek in a far more intimate gesture than anything he had done before.

“Thank you, Y/N.” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion she hadn’t expected. “For being here. For seeing me.”

Y/N stood there, her heart racing as she tried to process the shift in their relationship. She hadn’t just witnessed his victory. She had seen him, indeed seen him—for the first time. And now, everything was different.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

On my final conversation with star-seeker Draco Malfoy, there I stood, on the sides of the Quidditch pitch, asking him “Where’s the trophy, Malfoy?”

But guess what? He just comes running over to me.

signed,

Y/N Weasley | Senior Editor at The Alchemy

[theatreslave]

Not even in a romantic sense but Severus and Hermione being professors together would be hilarious because as the two youngest of the professors they would end up being besties.

Snarky Snape being miffed that Granger shows up way more prepared to be a Professor than he was.

Hermione lowkey annoyed that Snape didn't warn her not to go to the weekly poker night that Sprout puts on.

Them sitting next to each other at the head table during sorting and whispering one word predictions to the sorting and communicating with eyes and eyebrows.

People thinking they hate each other because they are constantly bickering but both of them find it fun and invigorating when they have to deal with dunderheads all day.

Snape seeking out Hermione when weird women hit on him.

Hermione complaining to Severus about her attempts at dating and he's her very sarcastic voice of reason.

Competitive as hell about test score averages.

Competitive as hell about house points.

Snape finding out Hermione doesn't like quidditch because she hates flying and him holding it over her as the one thing she can never excel at.

Hermione finding out Snape's actual stance on bullies when he punishes slytherins for bullying a gryffindor.

Discreetly handing hangover potions to each other.

Dumping detentions they don't want to over see on the other.

Both of them having bad hair days.

[karo-li]

im living in a post-war grimmauld place. damn this fanfics 🤛🏼

[maddybthorne]

One of my favorite things in the Harry Potter fandom is how we all *know* Lucius Malfoy is so fucking tired of hearing about Harry Potter.

It (of course) starts when Harry Potter defeated Voldemort, the gossip and hero worship (or hatred) he could not escape, he’s a well known public figure he needs to be able to socialize with the general population. It’s fine, he told himself, it will die down in a few years. Then I will be free of Potter.

Then comes his son’s first year. September 1st 1991 he gets a letter from his son. The first words are “Harry Potter refused to be my friend” nothing about the sorting besides a footnote. No he gets five paragraphs detailing his son’s interaction with Potter. It’s fine, he told himself, my son will eventually get over this (he never does). Then I will be free of Potter.

Then Voldemort is resurrected. And all he talks about is Harry Potter. Capturing him, torturing him, killing him. Doesn’t matter what the conversation starts as. It will always turn back to Harry Potter. It’s fine, he tells himself, my lord will eventually kill the boy. Then I will be free of Harry Potter.

The battle of Hogwarts. Harry Potter is dead. Lucius feels a deep sense of relief for the first time in roughly 8 years. His son can’t keep complaining about the boy, the dark lord has succeeded and the general public will surely be banned from speaking of the boy. He’s finally free.

And then. After being hit by a killing curse in front of his eyes. Harry Potter takes off his invisibility cloak and shows everyone he’s alive. And then he wins the war.

And Lucius dies a bit on the inside. Not because his lord is dead. Not because he will probably be locked away in Azkaban.

No. It’s because now more than ever, everyone will be talking about Harry Fucking Potter.

I’d like to believe it drove him to a mental breakdown.

(And then, post war he’s just chilling as a hermit or something, maybe in Azkaban, relieved that he can’t really talk to people so they can’t bring up Harry Potter. And his son walks in and says he wants to introduce his new boyfriend.

And it’s Harry. Fucking. Potter.

He tries to jump out a window.)

[profoundmakerdreamerss-blog]

I hate, hate golden trio bashing fics. They have such a ride-and-die friendship like bro they raided a bank together then fled on a dragon they stuck together through so much — while having fights like normal friends do, but the best thing about them? They get back together. No matter what. Thus, coming out of a literal war in one piece, together; if that doesn't tell you how much they love each other then I don't know what to tell you.

[i-crave-the-forbidden]

Harry got to the editing software before Severus has the chance to post this..😔

[accio-sriracha]

Remus 12 years after losing all of his best friends at once.

Remus going to Hogwarts to teach and constantly feeling like he should turn a corner and they would be there, waiting for him in their school robes, telling him all of the crazy things they had planned for the day.

Remus getting close with Harry and seeing all of his old friends in him.

He sees Lily in his passion and understanding.

He sees Sirius is in knack for mischief and carefree laughter.

He sees Peter in his youthful positivity and desperation for validation.

And he sees James everywhere. In his face. In his voice. In his willingness to always do what's right. In the tick of his jaw when he's angry and the way his hands shake when he's gone through too much.

And it's hard.

It's so fucking hard.

Because who is Remus if not a mixture of all of these people too?

Remus is Sirius' smoking habit and short temper.

Remus is Lily's academic aspirations and hope for a better future.

Remus is Peter's late night snack routine and knowledge of wizarding chess.

Remus is James' eye for trouble and slight abandonment issues.

Because Remus spent the majority of his life leading up to those tragic events with all of them. And after a while, you start to become the people you love.

You become bits and pieces of them.

You become your best friend's birthday as the password to your safe.

You become your ex-lovers favorite color as the shade of paint on your walls.

You become your childhood crush's mother tongue as the language you picked up learning for fun.

You become your study partner's habit of biting the end of their quill as a quirk you can't seem to get rid of.

You become a mixture of all of the people who have touched your lives.

And it hurts.

Because Harry and Remus were mixtures of the very same people.

Only Harry had no idea who they were.

And Remus couldn't stop them from haunting him.

[shinynewboots]

In the Aftermath / Hermione x Antonin Dolohov (Chapter 1)

Summary:  In response to the low post-war population, the Dark Lord proposed a solution. The half-blood and blood-traitor women were to be given to the male members of a pureblood house. These women would be chosen by Death Eaters to carry on their family names and blood (for if the Dark Lord gave his blessings for the mixing of blood, who were they to argue?). The muggle-born women were to be left for those of lower prestige and lower rank. Or, more accurately, as willing (unwilling) toys for the most odious of Death Eaters.

Warnings: 18+, Dead Dove Do Not Eat, eventual smut, angst, dubious consent, grief, dark post-war fic, NSFW, implied SA

AO3 Link

Next Chapter

AN: Hello All! This is a major rewrite/edit/revamping of a story (Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow) originally posted on fanfiction.net when I was still in high school. I will leave the old story up there but will be making major changes to the plot and character development in order to better flesh out the story and characters. I hope you all are ready for the ride because this story will be taking a different direction than the original!

Also, very excited to writing Hermione x Antonin once more

Most fugitive muggle-born, half-blood, and blood-traitors had been picked down one by one. In the beginning, after the battle had been lost, they scattered like roaches. There was no true leadership left in the resistance movement and so it was easy enough to find various safe houses. They stupidly hid in hordes, clinging together. Occasionally, one or two would fight, however the others would look on with hopelessness shimmering in their eyes. However, as time passed, it grew harder to find the fugitives, and so the bounties placed upon them were astronomical.

Not every fugitive was returned to Azkaban. Most of the males were killed simply because they brought more trouble than they were worth. The Weasley family, for example, was almost completely terminated except for three of the children.

Life continued.  

It was hard to remember anything before the slaughter. There was killing, raping, torture at every turn. Muggle-born, half-blood, and blood traitors lost all status in the newly built society and faced this societally accepted oppression.

This new reshuffling of society and catastrophic lost of life after the war led to an unprecedented maelstrom of problems: low population from casualties, low fertility among pureblood witches, and a lack of “suitable” partners to conceive children with.

There were whisperings of course, throughout the ranks. Rumors began to spread, and suddenly, the idea of complete pureblood supremacy began to seem impossible.

The whispers remained only that until the scandal of the year broke the headlines: Rodolphus Lestrange had impregnated a muggle woman. This news led to great uncertainty throughout the Death Eater and Pureblood ranks. Would they have to resort to Muggle women to carry their heirs?

The Dark Lord proposed a solution. The half-blood and blood-traitor women were to be given to the male members of a pureblood house. These women would be chosen by Death Eaters to carry on their family names and blood (for if the Dark Lord gave his blessings for the mixing of blood, who were they to argue?) The muggle-born women were to be left for those of lower prestige and lower rank.

Or, more accurately, as willing (unwilling) toys for the most odious of Death Eaters.

April 5, 1999

Antonin Dolohov held an indescribable amount of disgust for the decree declared by the Dark Lord. Of course, he never told this information to his fellow Death Eaters except for a select few trustworthy as even the thought of it would be treason. His acquaintances, if he could even call them such, had lined up at the opportunity to be in possession of their own play toy.

Even Rabastan Lestrange, a man he had come to trust in a short amount of time, seemed to find little problem with the law. After the scandal with Rodolphus, Rabastan seemed to mature overnight. Despite the inevitable wear that sprung from years in Azkaban, Rabastan had still managed to retain a youthful, somewhat cruel spirit. Now, however, the lines in his face had deepened and his eyes had grown weary.

There were many nights that Antonin and Rabastan spent in the Lestrange parlor with a glass of Fire Whiskey and a bitter tongue.

The war had ended with the death of the Potter boy. Once the battle was over, and the spoils of war taken, it did not take long to realize that there was no grand plan of “after”. No one said anything, of course. It would be treason to voice such thoughts aloud. Yet, Antonin found himself somewhat lost (as many others on their side had) as he looked towards the future. What future were they rebuilding?

It was after one of those nights of deep intoxication that Antonin found himself waiting with Rabastan at the Ministry, as lines of women entered the room one by one. The smell of rot and piss carried by the group was only barely concealed by the artificial scent of flowers.

As he and Rabastan looked upon the row of women (girls, really. All of age, but most were only a few months out of Hogwarts) with hollow cheeks and sickly skin, Antonin could not identify who he hated more: Rabastan who convinced him to come, or himself, who agreed.

The girls, though they were imprisoned in Azkaban, were always presented in a special room deep within the Ministry. Initially, the “choosing” room was a damp room in Azkaban, however there was little turn out from the Death Eater population. Few were willing to return to a place where they spent many maddening years.

The girls wore the dirty, striped rags of Azkaban prison. Some had bruised faces. Others still had the tears of dried blood stuck in place that told of past punishments. They were connected by glowing shackles on their wrists that emitted a power surge of energy.  

A few of the girls cried silently, while others held no emotion on their faces. They knew what it meant to be chosen by a Death Eater. It was a coin toss as to whether they would be treated kindly or tortured brutally upon arrival. One of the girls chosen prior had committed suicide a few weeks after being selected by one of the more depraved of the bunch. Since then, curses had been placed upon the girls to ensure that any suicidal thoughts or actions were snuffed out quickly.

It was abhorrent.

Alecto Carrow seemed to take pleasure in her position as warden to the new women’s ward in Azkaban. Her cruel eyes and yellow sneer in the direction of the girls was disconcerting. Upon further examination, Antonin spotted a large, blunt ring on one of her fingers that seemed the exact size as some of the bruises that marred the girls’ skin.

Rabastan looked over the girls, the excitement worn away as he took in the appalling sight.  Antonin chose to stare at the floor.  

They weren’t alone, as a handful of other Death Eater’s had taken interest in the girls as well. Some more than others. There were specific “choosing days” once a month in which interested individuals could come choose (or replace) their chosen mate (or toy).

Walden Macnair looked utterly thrilled at the prospect of picking out a new toy. There were rumors that he had already broken the first one. Young Theodore Nott, followed by his father, was a sick shade of green. It was highly likely he had attended school with most of the girls before him.

“Finally convinced to pick one out, Dolohov?” Macnair sneered. Antonin, the large man that he was, stared down at Macnair.

“Not today,” He stated, his tone stolid.

Macnair scoffed and walked over towards one of the girls, her gaze focused firmly on the floor. He grabbed a handful of her dull, black hair and pulled her head back, revealing her face. She could have been attractive in her past life. However, it was difficult to tell from the scars on her face.

“What’s your name, bitch,” Macnair growled. The girl glanced around, searching for anywhere else to stare besides Macnair’s sweaty face. Her dead eyes met Theodore Nott, who held his hand over his mouth, likely to keep anything unsavory from coming back up. They looked about the same age.

Cold eyes still on Theodore, the girl answered in a raspy voice. “Cho.”

Macnair smirked, releasing Cho from the grip he held. He glanced over at Alecto. “This one. I want this one.”

Alecto gave a shark’s smile. “Maybe you won’t break this one.”

A flash of fear passed over Cho’s features as Alecto removed the restraints placed upon her. The girl would have a better chance at life in Azkaban.

Macnair left with Cho in tow. Antonin could not feel worse for the girl. Theodore Nott and his father left as well, likely because Theodore could no longer hold the contents of his stomach.

Throughout the exchange, Rabastan had kept his eyes locked on a girl that Antonin could only describe as wispy. She had white, blond hair that was matted around her head. Her lip was split and her nose somewhat crooked as though it had been broken.  Antonin watched as his friend took a step towards the willowy girl.

“The nargles seem to have found a hive in you” She said, her voice soft and distant. The trance she held Rabastan in was broken by the barking of Alecto for the girl to “only speak when spoken to”. Rabastan glared at the squat woman.

“Please remove her restraints,” He said.

“You don’t want that one. She’s barmy,” Alecto jeered.

“Remove her restraints,” He growled, the statement no longer a request but a demand. Alecto huffed but did as she was told, though she pulled on the wispy girl more than necessary.  The girl smiled at Alecto as the last of the restraint was removed.

Alecto looked as though she wanted to murder the girl right where she stood, however one glare from Rabastan led Alecto to stand down.

The trio left the cold, “choosing” room and walked towards the office where Rabastan would sign papers official making the odd girl his. It reminded Antonin of purchasing an owl.

At least an owl could defend itself from its owner.

The girl, whose name they learned was Luna, turned out to be pleasant even as everyone around her decided her fate. Rabastan was utterly captivated by her presence, causing him to write down most of the information in his paperwork incorrectly. Dolores Umbridge, or the Toad, as most Death Eaters dubbed her, grew very impatient with his mistakes, though refused to say anything in fear of the Lestrange name.

The Toad eyed Luna up with a curled lip, and Luna did just the same. The blatant loathing was not lost on anyone save for Rabastan. Once the paperwork was done, Antonin was all too ready to leave the tense air that had built.

“Umbridge!” A voice shouted, accompanied by the sudden opening of the office door. In the doorway stood Amycus Carrow with a meek girl in tow. He threw her to the floor at Antonin’s feet.

 A magical signature, his signature, seemed to tease him as he took in the girl at his feet. Her very being seemed to call to him in the same way his wand would. Another extension of his hand. He could feel the magic reach for him as it seemed to bleed from the girl, tendrils of energy pawing at the legs of his trousers.

“What is the meaning of this Amycus?” The Toad shrieked in her shrill voice. Amycus sneered, and glanced down at the tiny girl with a rat’s nest for hair.

“She’s already been claimed, Dolores! She has the fucking stench of another wizard’s magical signature all over her!” He raged, spitting ruefully on the girl. The Toad gave out a ‘tut’. Amycus shoved his way to Umbridge’s desk, stepping on the girl in the process. The cat pictures that covered the office wall meowed in unison.

While Umbridge and Carrow argued back and forth, Antonin and Rabastan made no move to stop Luna as she made her way over to the girl and crouched down. She moved the girl’s hair so that her right cheek was visible. Luna softly touched the girl’s cheek, wiping the spit away.

“Hermione,” She whispered. The arguing stopped as the room became focused on the two girls.

“I will have you know, Amycus, that Hermione Granger has not already been claimed. I saw to that myself!” Umbridge huffed indignantly.

Antonin could not keep his eyes off Hermione Granger. He’d had encounters with her during and after the war, however the most vivid he could recall the was Battle of the Department of Mysteries. She’d silenced him, taking him by surprise. In response, he hit her with a curse of his own design. Her internal organs should have contracted into themselves, crushing her internally.

She should have been dead.

He wasn’t ashamed to admit that he still thought of her occasionally, wondering if his curse had left any lingering effects. It wasn’t everyday someone survived one of his curses. Was this why he could feel his magic bubbling beneath her skin?

“Check then. I tried to bond her to me, and the bond was rejected completely.”

Umbridge scoffed and moved from around her desk, taking her wand out and pointing it at Hermione. She whispered an incantation. The Toad frowned as a glowing line began to form from Hermione’s breastbone to hip.

“How is this possible?” She whispered in bewilderment. She looked at Antonin, suspicion in her eyes. “It’s your magical signature.”

“What the fuck Dolohov,” Amycus growled, pulling his wand from his pocket. Antonin returned the gesture, his eyes glinting dangerously.

“I wouldn’t, Carrow,” Antonin stated, his voice low. Amycus Carrow might have been a brute, but even he had enough sense to realize there was no logic in engaging in a fight he wouldn’t win.

“Remove your magic, Dolohov. She’s a mudblood. My mudblood.” Amycus stated. Through the exchange, Luna had helped bring Hermione to her feet and the two stood in the background, watching the exchange of Hermione’s fate.

“I don’t believe so, Carrow. In fact, it sounds as though she’s mine.” Antonin smirked, eliciting a growl from Carrow. Carrow was quick, but Antonin was quicker, especially with Rabastan behind him, wand drawn.

Wand still trained on Amycus, Antonin backed away until he had reached Hermione, putting a soft grip upon her elbow. The touch alone was electrifying as his magical signature within her was reunited with its master. He felt his blood begin to sing and the hair on his arm stand on end. “I’ll be taking her with me.”

“Mr. Dolohov, there are still piles of paper work to be completed,” The Toad shrieked. Antonin put a steady arm around Hermione and began to guide her from the office.

Antonin gave no response, instead choosing to continue his impromptu adventure. He pulled Hermione further until she simply gave out and fell to her knees. Her breathing was shallow, and her body trembled as she fell. Antonin grabbed her and pulled her into his arms, taking her to her salvation.

Watching the scene, Rabastan grabbed Luna’s hand to leave. Unable to help himself, he turned back towards Umbridge and winked, booming laughter emitting from his lips.