#drarry wip

[oflights]

The Star Splitter, a Harry/Draco fic by oflights, NOW COMPLETE.

Summary: On a routine time travel assignment to the past, Draco stumbles upon 7-year-old Harry Potter and witnesses his neglect and mistreatment by the Dursleys. In the moment, there is only one solution, even if it goes against all his training as a Time Agent: he has to bring Harry back to the future with him.

In which Draco burns his life down for the sake of his former school rival.

Notes: The Star Splitter is now complete! It has 32 chapters and clocks in at 219k words.

thank you so so so so much to everyone who read along, commented, left kudos, bookmarked, recced, sent asks: you have made this a phenomenal posting experience unlike anything else i've ever done, and i am so incredibly grateful to you! i'm also grateful to the folks who may start reading this today or over the weekend. i hope you all enjoy this fic; it was so lovely and fun to plot out and write, and i'm so excited to share it with you.

also check out both playlists, if you'd like: regular playlist | orchestral playlist

thank you to everyone who was excited about the snippets and voted in the poll!! i hope you like this, and let me know what you think!

read from the beginning.

[batsbratsandbarbedwire]

3. Been back on my Drarry bs in my spare time (between all the other fandoms I got back into recently), don't know what ... maybe public play ish? If you're feeling smutty of course. But magic allows for better chance of not getting caught. Unless they're into that? Idk. Magic is also great for fuck or die and that's always fun toooooooo

Harry Potter is a sick bastard. Always has been, as long as Draco’s been concerned. His gaggling gang of Gryffindors have no idea how sick their little hero is, and Draco isn’t exactly eager to share the news. Potter is his sick bastard, and he has no qualms about keeping it that way.

He does like sitting here amongst them, though, and feigning the pretty little boyfriend. The reformed Death Eater. The proof people can change. Harry Potter’s war prize, or so the more fun of the bunch has called him. Dean Thomas is funny, Draco is not loath to admit, and there are subtle, cutting undertones of sex laced in every word that oozes from his pretty little lips. Draco can always appreciate a friendly seduction. It’s why he set Thomas up with Blaise. He and Blaise have the same sultry presence, and they’re an absolute show when they’re together.

The rest of the lot are lost causes. Draco likes them, they’re always a fun time, but they’re nothing like Harry. Not a single one of them, Granger, Weasley, Longbottom, none of them are capable of appreciating Potter like Draco can. 

Potter’s arm is wrapped casually over Draco’s shoulder. It’s a quiet night at the pub, and the unlikely group has tucked itself into the back corner, the one with the circle table that all of them can squeeze around comfortably. Granger and Weasley, the cliche that they are, are tucked into one end of the wrap around booth. Then there's Longbottom, Luna, Pansy and her Weasley–the most redeemable of the Weasley’s, the Dragon Tamer–next to Potter and Draco, flanked on the other side by Blaise and Thomas, who Draco has come to realize likes only the end seat. An easy way out perhaps?

Potter’s fingers are dancing at the collar of his shirt. His thumb has already slipped under the fabric and he’s rubbing it gently back and forth over the very tip of the scar that dances from there all the way to Draco’s other hip. 

Draco knows he’s smirking. He can practically taste it on his own lips. There’s no reason to be, to anyone else maybe. But Draco knows exactly what Potter is thinking, so he leans forward, claps his hands in front of him on the table, and taps his own wrist with two fingers. Potter catches the movement and his thumb presses harder against the edge of Draco’s scar. He wants to play.

“Has Mother gotten back with you about the Hydrangeas?” Draco asks, not having seen Longbottom in almost a week. 

Draco sits back, leans further into Potter’s side, and drops his hands to his lap. He runs the two fingers over his wrist gently, knowing Potter’s eyes had darted down to watch the directive. We’ll take it slow, he’s saying, we’re entertaining guests.

“We’ve almost gotten them stark white. There’s a bit of that natural beige tint near their centers still, but her spells have worked wonders compared to everything Professor Sprout has tried,” Longbottom said. “Narcissa’s been altering things a bit for the delicacy of the petals, we think that has been part of the problem, but we should have them all white by June.”

“You’re going to be the picture of purity, Granger.”

“Who knew Granger would be such a demanding bride,” Pansy chirps, and Granger’s eyes pop up to her before dropping down to the table in embarrassment.

“Should we talk about your seventeenth birthday, darling?” Draco asks, eyes still on Granger.

The Dragon Tamer snorts, loud and amused, and Granger looks up at Draco with a tiny, appreciative smile. 

“The dramatics with this one, love,” Draco says, nodding towards Pansy, but talking to Granger and Granger alone. “You should have heard her. I need everything to be as black as my soul. The sheer amount of teenage angst was unsettling. Besides, we all know Potter had the blackest soul of them all back then. Pansy tried, though, didn’t she?”

Potter coughs out a loud laugh at the Horcrux reference, Weasley’s jaw drops almost dramatically, as though he’s in some sort of gauche film, and Granger starts giggling. She was generally a quiet drunk. Rum seemed to snap all of the excessive knowledge right out of her, and Draco thought it was quite nice to see her actually sit and enjoy herself every once and awhile, rather than being the picture of control.

“You know she pensieved it for me once,” The Dragon Tamer says, and a dangly silver charm that’s hanging from his right ear glitters dangerously in the low light of the pub. “Her coming of age party. Everything really was black. Even the food. Though I think she may have tampered with the memories a touch. They got a bit fuzzy at parts.”

The table is a giggling, sloppy mess, and Pansy sits up in her seat, smiling despite herself. “You have enough to handle when I’m at my worst now, you don’t need to know my worst back then.” She flips her hair over her shoulder and straightens the line of her back and Charlie bumps her a bit, shoulder to shoulder, and Draco is amused by how taken they are with each other. 

“I bore the brunt of that for you, didn’t I, Charlie?” Draco says. “Sixteen year old Pansy? You’re welcome for that.”

“In that case, next round is on me, yeah?” he waves over to the bar, the charming silver glint dangling at his jaw.

Blaise leans forward to get the Dragon Tamer’s attention and says, “Then I deserve a double don’t I? Had to deal with sixteen year old Pansy and Draco.” He catches Draco’s eyes and flashes him a predatory smile. “Potter,” he sneers in a perfect imitation of Draco, but his teeth gleam prettily. Thomas lifts a hand to wrap around the back of Blaise’s neck and the two look at each other, sharing a quiet smile as the table erupts in a chorus of Potter, Saint Potter and Harry Bloody Potter. It’s become a bit of a challenge, who can sound most like Malfoy, but nobody is anywhere as good as Blaise, nobody but Potter himself who sounds eerily like Draco.

In the distraction, Draco flicks his wrist and Potter goes momentarily rigid mid-laugh. He was caught off guard, and Draco’s smirk is back. It’s just a little sensory charm. One Draco slaved over learning to do wandlessly and nonverbally. It’d taken him half a year to perfect, but it was worth it because Potter’s nerves are now haywire. Just his thumb rubbing over Draco’s scar is enough to send a wild pleasure running down to his gut. He squirms, and Draco runs his two fingers over his wrist again. We’re entertaining, Potter.

Potter listens. He always listens so well. So he makes a joke about his friend’s poor attempts at mimicry and then he belts out his own name in the perfect rendition of Draco. His arm tightens around Draco’s shoulders, pulling him closer into his side. That means his thumb slips further down the scar, and he’s likely close to overwhelmed by Draco’s heat pressed completely down his side. He hides it well enough, but Draco can feel the tremble in the thigh pressed up against his own.

The table erupts in groans. Weasley actually boo’s. Potter smirks, and Draco does too, but only because his influence on Potter is tantalizing and seeing his own expressions mirrored back at him from Potter’s face is a little breathtaking. He moves his hand from his own lap to Potter’s. He just rests it gently there on his knee, and his legs fall open a little. Draco can feel how on edge he is. Potter is so tense, wrapped around him. He rubs his thumb in small, innocent circles, but Potter is so sensitive that he’s practically rigid under Draco’s touch.

“Of course Harry would have it down,” Luna says, and Draco smiles at her indulgently because this is always Luna’s take. “He was probably more obsessed with Draco than Draco was with him. Wrackspurt patterns never lie, you know.”

“We don’t talk about sixth year,” Potter says and Draco laughs because they sure as hell do talk about sixth year. Potter still has a sick sort of obsession over what happened in Myrtle’s bathroom. It’s only in front of everyone that they can’t really go there, and especially not under the sensory charm.

“What about third?” Thomas says lowly, and Harry groans so quietly that Draco barely hears it. It’s mostly a soft rattle in Potter’s chest. Thomas’s teeth are sharp, like Blaise’s, but the telling gleam is in his eyes. They’re such a light green, and gleam dangerously against his dark skin. He knows something the rest of the table doesn’t seem to, judging by Wealey and Granger’s faces.

“Play nicely, love,” Blaise says and Thomas is practically glowing in his amusement. 

Potter turns his face into Draco, a subtle show of his embarrassment, but he goes rigid, and Draco knows it has something to do with the brush of his hair against Potter’s cheek. He likes that enough without the charm.

“Are we going to embarrass the Gryffindors or are you going to tell me about it later?” Draco speaks in a whisper, but knows it’s not enough that the Dragon Tamer and Blaise and Thomas won’t hear. 

Thomas grins something feral and Blaise turns to him. It’s something magnetic and Draco prides himself in this Merlin made match he’s helped develop.

“Harry didn’t learn any decent privacy spells until at least 6th year, did you Harry?”

Ron groans and Potter has resigned himself to the conversation. He seems more than a little amused by it himself, now.

“At least I learned one at all,” Potter says and Thomas and Blaise are both suddenly all teeth.

“Someone had to pick up the role of entertainer where you left it off,” Thomas says, then he turns to look directly at Draco. “You know, Harry has always been a morning person. It just took him years to realize I was, too. Didn’t it Harry?” Thomas had put on an air of casual indifference, leaned forward there, with his chest pressed to the edge of the table as he spoke to Draco, but he was smug. It was probably clear to everyone in the entire pub who bothered to care that he was smug. 

Granger erupted into aggressive giggles, and Draco didn’t have to look up at him to know that Potter was smiling at her. He had the softest fondness for Granger. She was and always had been so brutally behind Potter’s every move, in a way that nobody else ever had been, that some part of Potter practically melted for her. He loved her so aggressively that Draco couldn’t help but feel the same protective indulgence of her. There was no brushing aside any part of Granger, you begrudgingly admire all of her tendencies, no matter how overwhelming they could potentially be.

“The rest of those arseholes would sleep till noon if you’d allow it.”

Draco looked to Weasley who shrugged and Longbottom smiled in good nature, “we weren’t all that bad, mate.”

“All I’m saying is Harry could probably rattle off a pretty good ‘Potter’ by third year, couldn’t you Harry?”

Potter was close to shivering against Draco’s side. He pulled away a little, so he could turn and look Draco in the eye. His eyes dropped down to his lips, then to the collar of his shirt, and finally back up to his eyes. He grinned. It spread slow across his face, something Draco would swear he’d picked up from Lucius. 

Visits to Azkaban had become another strange fascination of Harry’s. 

“Yeah, I bet I could have,” he said after a moment. Weasley groaned loud enough for the whole table and Pansy was positively delighted. 

Charlie returned and she leaned over to whisper something to him. He just shook his head, and a tuft of orange hair fell into his face, blocking the glint of silver dangling from his ear. 

“Why do we always learn too much about Harry on pub night?” Weasley called out to the masses, likely making the rest of the pub occupants jealous. Maybe even intentionally. Granger giggled and turned her face into his shoulder. 

Draco smiled at her fondly. It couldn’t be helped. 

“Because he likes it,” Draco said. 

Potter pressed into his scar. Draco dropped his hand to Potter’s thigh and rubbed gentle circles into the fabric of his jeans. Potter went rigid. 

“I think I’ve found my dress,” Hermione said suddenly. She had to be taking pity on Weasley. “But I can’t show you because Ronald’s here.”

“Boo!” Pansy hollered. She threw a balled up napkin towards the center of the table. “Beat it Weasley. We must see the dress.” 

“Where do you suppose I go?”

“Line to the loo should keep you occupied for a time,” Thomas grinned. 

Weasley jerked around. There was a line. He groaned again. It seemed to be the sound he was most comfortable making. 

“Shoo, Ronald. Give the girls a moment,” Blaise said with a wiggle of his fingers. 

Weasley put on the dramatics. He rolled his eyes and scraped his way up from the table, but he was smiling as he went. As he should be. He was marrying Granger.

Granger pulled out her wand with an intricate little twirl. Then she held her fist out in front of her, fingers up, and when she uncurled them a little replica of her dress appeared. 

Of course Potter and Draco had already seen it. They’d scoured the shops with her, setting up appointment after appointment after she’d been discouraged with finding something she was truly happy with. It’d been on Narcissa’s insistence that they visit a friend of hers in France that they’d found it. 

The dress was a beautiful satin number. It loosely hugged Granger's body, with just enough structure in the bodice that it sat prettily and delicately against her frame. It was like the stark white upgrade of the jaw-dropper she’d worn to the Yule Ball. 

Luna was going on about the benefits of silk on a wedding day, applauding Granger for her brilliant choice. Draco wasn’t going to be the one to tell her it was pure coincidence. 

Pansy was crooning. Talking about hair and veils and diamonds. 

Potter leaned back against Draco. They’d done their job helping to find it in the first place. 

Blaise let out a low whistle and Granger looked up at him shyly. It was normal that Blaise threw people off their game. Normal for people to be shy around him. It was just strange that Granger was, too. When Draco had first started coming around for Potter, she’d walked right up to him, demanded an apology, and reminded him that he’d deserved being punched in the face in third year. 

“I’m jealous, darling,” Blaise said, “you’re going to look nothing short of ravishing. Don’t think I wasn’t absolutely fawning over you when you showed up draped in silk with Krum dangling off you as arm candy. There wasn’t a boy in Hogwarts who didn’t need to catch his breath.” His teeth were gleaming in that predatory way and it didn’t help that Thomas was grinning beside him. A twin pair of sparking grins. 

Draco could feel the burn of Potter's skin getting hotter against his side. Could feel it shining through him. Another shiver as Potter rubbed at the top of his scar, and Draco ran the back of his fingers along the side of Potter's thigh.

A hard exhale. Draco smiled at Granger. Let his fingers drift up and pressed down into the soft, relaxed muscle. Don't get caught, Potter.

[ghostofnoir]

WIP Snip

Thank you for the tag @faiell *I’m still thinking about yours. What a gift you are 🥹

An excerpt from the slowest writer on earth. Who is grinding out this long WIP one overwritten paragraph at a time 💪🏻 Sharing is so vulnerable!

———

Draco turned to face Harry. Harry did the same.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Draco whispered, a hint of vulnerability seeping through. Harry could feel it ache in his chest.

He didn’t know what the look on his own face betrayed; maybe Draco thought it was pity. But Harry thought it might be closer to the look of a man who knew with absolute certainty in that moment that he was fucked. He couldn’t help but let his eyes roam over Draco’s face as he took him in fully, standing face to face. The flickering picture lights bounced the saturated colours from the painting Draco stood next to onto his pale skin, highlighting his sharp angles and dipping into his hollow, concave shadows.

“You know, I’ve never seen you outside of London,” Harry mussed as his eyes roamed, as if Draco himself were a newly unearthed classical portrait to be appreciated for the first time.

“You haven’t seen me in almost a decade.” Draco unfolded his sleek black coat from his arm and pulled it on. The collar stood high and stiff on his neck, elegant and impenetrable, softened only by the plaid cashmere scarf he layered. The scarf’s varying shades of grey brought out his silver, midnight-misty eyes and made them more poignant. Harry realised then that they were a singular colour that he had never witnessed on anyone else. “Do you find I’m easier to tolerate on foreign soil?”

“Draco, I think I can help you–”

“Help me?” Draco scoffed. “There’s a reason people go untraceable, Potter. You shouldn’t have even been able to find me in the first place.”

“I also shouldn’t have been able to defeat Voldemort,” Harry responded calmly without missing a beat. Draco didn’t flinch at the name, which was at least refreshing. “Or be one of the few known Wizards in history to have resisted a powerful Imperius Curse before I even finished puberty. Or mastered the complex nature of wandless magic by eighteen. Or have an eight-year-long seamless Curse Breaking record, never once having broken my hold over volatile dark magic, but here we are.”

Something flashed in Draco’s eyes. He opened his mouth to say something. Harry had no doubt that he was about to be on the receiving end of a scathing retort to what Draco had probably perceived as Harry’s inflated ego, in need of being brought down a few notches. He had just simply stated the facts though, and that had been the shortlist.

Instead, Draco frowned, put his head down, and withdrew a pair of black leather gloves from his coat pocket. Harry watched, transfixed by Draco’s refined hands gripping the supple material. Even Draco’s veined knuckles somehow managed to be attractive. A single onyx-stoned gold ring was the only thing that disrupted the slender lines of his fingers, catching Harry’s attention like an alarm and bringing him back to the moment.

“Why did you go untraceable, Draco?”

“To be left alone.” His voice was flat as he carefully pulled on his gloves. “I thought that should have been pretty obvious, even to you. But if it wasn’t, it is now. And it might be a hard concept for you to grasp, but you need to respect that.” He dropped his hands by his side and turned to walk away.

“Go back to London, Potter,” he added without turning back; his long strides had already taken him halfway down the corridor, his voice echoing in the cavernous room behind him.

“But I’ve already booked my stay,” Harry called after him.

Harry stood and watched Draco’s tall, stark figure disappear like a phantom through the museum’s back doors into the frigid January afternoon.

———

Tagging to share if you like @dracoandthehounds @romaine2424 @greattemptation @roseharpermaxwell @drarrymyheart @starquestingfordrarry @fluxweeed @garagepaperback @apricitydays-lazynights @hoko-onchi-writes @elskanellis @gotoemopunk @annanother-thing -and anyone else who would like to join 🤍🤍

[thusspoketrish]

WIPPET SNIPPET!!!

I'm almost finished with this massive Drarry story + art that I've been working on, and I'm a bit nervous (and so thrilled, really! haha) to share it with you all! To ease into it, here's a little snippet + my Harry for you. I hope you enjoy it! xx

Many thanks to my lovely friends: beta reader @youknowyoudid and alpha reader @dewitty1. Ya'll are keeping me sane as we cross this finish line together! Love ya both, MWAH!

Draco tries to put Potter out of his mind until the object of his thoughts appears in the arts and crafts room. 

Potter shuffles in, clad in threadbare joggers, a plain white t-shirt, and a dressing robe, his feet snug in slippers that have seen better days. Despite the late hour, he appears to have just risen from a deep slumber. The telltale signs of medication linger in the slight droop of his eyelids and the sluggishness of his movements. His eyes, however, betray a sharpness, a keenness that sweeps across the room before settling on Draco. 

Draco’s hand falters, and the paintbrush he’s holding slips from his fingers, clattering to the floor. He remains rooted to the spot, his gaze locked with Potter’s. There’s an unmistakable tension in the air as Potter slowly advances towards Draco’s Nest, each step measured, each movement deliberate. 

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Potter’s voice slices through the air, dripping with disdain, sending a shiver down Draco’s spine. 

His words, though slow from the effects of medication, carry an undeniable threat that causes Draco’s heart to slam against his ribcage. He lowers his gaze to the table, his hair falling like a drape to shield him from Potter’s piercing stare. The room feels suffocating; each breath he takes is a struggle against the rising panic and regret threatening to drown him. He grips the edge of the table, his knuckles white, desperate to hold onto the last shreds of his composure in the one place in hospital he thought was safest.

[garagepaperback]

wednesday wip snippet

tagged by the wonderful @epitomereally (i'm obsessed with their gorgeous wip, heavenstruck! go read!). i wanna read things by @yiiiiiiiikes25 (their wip. well. well. no more words will need to be written when they finish this. my whole fucking goddamn heart, this thing.) and @eleadore who i don't know if has a wip. but. my greedy ass will take anything from you two, i want dead darling doc scraps, i want everything/anything/all.

okay! excerpt from my current wip, a barely lit path:

-

“You can put those down now—if you want, if you can keep yourself still enough.” Draco pulled off, grabbing for a silk-threaded, floral cushion and nudged the garden under Harry’s waist.

Propped up and melted yet, Harry lowered his arms, fingers stuck and then splayed on the sheet below, empty-palmed as Draco's grip settled on his knees, only just beginning to convince them apart. “Good. You’re being so good for me, Harry.” There was a low, warm hum of humiliation at being handled this way, being set like a table—but Harry found he liked it. Needed it, just plain wanted it. 

And, Harry had been inside how much Draco wanted him. Like this it was different and the same, Draco could lick the desire right out of Harry, to taste it and take it. It only seemed to beget more—more aching, shivering, clenching want, so much satin-sat excess he could barely move.

He didn't even have to. Draco arranged him carefully. He stroked along Harry’s calves and further up, spreading him open, tracing into the softer, lusher skin until Draco sighed, stopping just there. He rested his chin on Harry's slung-wide thigh, cherry on the tips of his ears and slathered down his cheek. “Just ask, Harry. You only need to ask for what you want.” 

Arduous, a difficult thing. He couldn’t look.

Harry’s voice came out ground-down, eyes squeezed shut back to velvet black. “Will you use your tongue,” his breath splintered halfway through and then he made himself—he tilted his head up, looked anyway, “please. Sir.”

[s0lifuge]

~wip snip wednesday~

just in the mood to share what i'm working on! 30-something faked-his-own-death NYC lowlife draco...

“Hey, D,” a deep, familiar voice greeted him, though Draco couldn’t put a name to the face of the person who pushed his way through the crowd towards him. When the bulky young man was within distance, he reached out and greeted Draco with a loose, profoundly American handshake. It was a gesture Draco had gotten accustomed to participating in, he replicated its casual intimacy easily. The young man, Draco remembered, was a first-year Social Work student, quite passionate about helping the youth growing up in the same rough part of town that he did. He worked three jobs on top of his full time studies to pay for his tuition.  And, apparently, pressed tablets of Draco’s home-brewed uppers. “I hope you’re well,” Draco said pleasantly as he got out an Altoids tin that did not contain any mints.  “Surviving,” the young man responded noncommittally. “Are these from the same batch?” “When did I see you last?” Draco asked. He truly had no idea. At this point, every individual day behind him had melted together into a waxy, salty slurry of hedonism and paranoia.  “Yesterday,” the man slurred, taking another sip of the beer can clutched in his fist tightly enough to slightly deform the shape of the metal. For a moment, Draco felt bad. The potion he had adapted to create his little money-makers was not meant to be used that frequently. Combined with the muggle pharmaceuticals he used to potentiate the potion, he couldn’t imagine the brew had become any safer. Then again, he’d been high off them for a decade, and he was perfectly fine. “Yes, it’s all the same,” Draco replied, shaking off the guilt as best as he could. “I’ll take two,” the young man requested, “I think it was a weak batch.” Draco shook his head casually as he opened the Altoids tin. He could see his interlocutor’s eyes light up at the sight of so many pills within arms’ reach. As quickly as he could, Draco grabbed out two and dropped them into the man’s waiting palm. “Tolerance is a son of a bitch,” he corrected the man, who didn’t seem to hear him as he rooted around in his jeans for his coin purse. Quickly, he counted out the correct amount of Dragot and paid Draco summarily.  “Have fun with it, yeah?” Draco asked as he surreptitiously pocketed the wizarding money in case any muggle eyes were watching. Barriers were so much more loose in the community he had found himself in. It was hard to know who was in the know. Draco watched as his customer downed both pills with a gulp of beer.  “Always do, D, thanks,” the student replied politely. “I’m gonna go…” he trailed off drunkenly, unable to think of a better excuse for leaving the moment the deal was done, “Nice chatting.”  “The pleasure’s mine,” Draco replied dryly, neither sincere nor insincere. He gave the man a nod as he disappeared back into the crowd. Draco shifted on his feet, and noticed they were tired. He could have something to eat, maybe, if there were chips on a table somewhere in the kitschy, low-budget apartment. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d sat down for some food.  Or he could have another pill.

...this inevitably leads to a drarry hookup, naturally

as for tags, @smehur what are you working on??

[rockingrobin69]

Draco Malfoy: avid reader, passionate horse-lover, biscuit-inhaler, and always, always composed. Even when stuck in his old ancestral home for a dreary season, and especially when things start spinning out of control. With creepy Lord Riddle and weird murderous schemes and, worst of all, rude stable hands intent on 'saving' the proverbial 'day'. Yes, he's keeping oh-so composed, thank you for asking. Victorian era sort of mystery with murder! Romance! Horses! Humour! And Draco who's finally learning to, ah, let go of the reins.

In Defence of Good Taste

Choice tags: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Draco Malfoy is a brat, Draco Malfoy is a horse girl, dom/sub, mystery, secret identities, how to say gently: daddy issues

Excerpt:

“Hold!” a voice he didn’t recognise. Draco paused with a curious brow raised. “No-one’s allowed to take this mare. You’ll be so kind as to put her back, my lord.”

“How do you mean?” Draco frowned.

“She’s the young sir’s own horse, and he doesn’t allow anyone to ride her. If you’re a guest of Lord Malfoy’s, then you’re free to pick any of the other, most excellent steeds.”

Draco didn’t know whether to be amused or outraged. “Are you saying Isolde is not most excellent?”

“Well, if you ask me, she’s a little bit prissy, terrible temperament, and altogether not so—hey!” when Draco rounded behind her and stabbed an accusing finger in the man’s chest. “You’re—oh.”

“Oh,” Draco breathed out, dangerously. “Oh, indeed. One more word about my horse, and I’ll—who even are you?”

The man—boy?—gulped, bright green eyes wide behind round glasses. “I’m Harry. And you’re—”

“Draco,” as venomously as he could spit it. “Draco Malfoy.”

“Oh.”

He was shorter than Draco, but wider, a strong-looking build. Possibly around his age, give or take a year or so. Dark skin and darker hair, wide brow and respectable jawline. And stupid, as was painfully obvious from his remarks about the world’s best horse. “You’ll have to apologise, of course,” Draco smiled icily.

“I’m sorry, my lord, I didn’t realise—”

“To the horse.”

They looked at each other for a long moment. Harry opened and closed his mouth twice. “To the—horse?”

“Apologise to Isolde. For someone to speak of a divine creature so coarsely is an offence to nature herself. Apologise, now.”

Harry’s mouth was slightly open. He had very red lips. “I,” he said, and gulped, “am. Sorry. Isolde.”

“For speaking so coarsely,” Draco offered helpfully.

“For speaking so coarsely. You are of course a divine creature and I regret besmirching your name with my foul mouth. Is that enough, my lord?”

Read In Defence of Good Taste, new-shiny wip, prologue and chapter 1 posted on AO3!

[tackytigerfic]

hello hello! how about 'flower' or 'tree' for the WIP words game? 🌷🌳

Hello my lovely! Thank you for this - lots of results for both of these though mostly from works already pubbed. I have the opposite of green fingers btw, maybe me writing plants into my fics is just wish fulfilment!

This is from forced marriage/Dudley's magical baby/wards falling/on the run WIP:

“Get upstairs, Dudley,” Harry said briskly, “and take your mum with you. Hide, if you can.” He didn’t bother watching Dudley as he slunk out of the room, powerful shoulders rippling as he hung his head. Harry was in fighting mode, and it made Draco feel a tiny bit better. Harry had never let him die before, chances were he wasn’t going to start now. “They’ll come in from front and back.” Harry was at the curtain, eyes narrowed as he peered into the garden. There was still no sign of them, but here and there Draco could see a shimmer of something, like a ripple against the privet hedge and the rose bush and the big magnolia tree. “They’d be stupid not to take advantage of the house. We’re like rats in a cage. The good news is that they probably don’t know there are so many of us here. Draco, how did they track us down?” “Could be anything,” Draco said queasily. “I didn’t think to check anything like that. Fucking stupid. We’ll need to run some scans, later. If… if we…”  Harry looked around at him from the window, wand hand flexing as he drew from his holster. He smiled, that heartbreaker of a thing. “Yeah, let’s do that,” he told Draco. “When we get out of here, we’ll do that.”

[skeptiquewrites]

WIP Snip

thank you for the tag @tackytigerfic and @wolfpants! this is a little ditty that i'm finally finishing ft disaster politician harry potter, and an overworked draco moonlighting as his press secretary.

“Well, what if he thinks you're holding a grudge, or you don't trust him? Not to bring up the war or anything, but you testified for him and never spoke to him again.” 

“That can't possibly be it.” 

“Imagine this. While you were in your hermitage—” 

“Godric’s Hollow is hardly a hermitage—”

“Being broody and tormented and glaring at the paparazzi—”

“Post traumatic stress is much less sexy than you're making it seem—”

“Selling knick knacks to villagers—” Penelope knew it was Quidditch supplies and was just trying to rile him at this point.

“I wish your constituents could hear you, Pen. You have lost it.” She grinned.

“Draco, similarly brooding and tormented, was here with Percy and the rest rebuilding this place brick by brick. And now he's working for you. Bit of an upset, no?” Penelope finished with a flourish. As if on cue, the voting bells started ringing. 

tagging @the-starryknight @nv-md @maesterchill @mintawasalreadytaken @saintgarbanzo @elskanellis but only if you'd like

[oflights]

wip snip 5.1

i've been tagged a bunch of times over the past few weeks to post wip snips and only had the last few chapters of star splitter to post, so i bailed. i finally have something new to preview!! have a bit of the gilmore girls fic, still in progress. 🥰

Just about 8 years ago, the bell over the doorframe jingled violently as Draco Malfoy threw the door open and swept in, already talking. “Bloody hell, that snow is abominable,” he was saying. He hefted a bundled, starfish-shaped form that would turn out to be a toddler by his hip, a pram scooting behind them and leaving a wet trail on Harry’s floor. With a flick of his wrist, the pram had folded up and nestled in the corner of the dining area, dripping there ignored, as Draco descended upon the counter much the same as he did almost every day.

“You, there—please tell me this place has something warm to—” And then Draco froze, because back then he had not done this every day; this was the first time, and more specifically the first time he had seen Harry Potter in the flesh since their eighth year of Hogwarts.

“Malfoy,” Harry had said, eyeing the puffy bundle warily. He didn’t know it was a toddler then; every bit of Scorpius was covered up and radiating Warming Charms. In hindsight, he was probably sweating, but Harry was to later learn that Scorpius had been a quite agreeable child until he learned to read—an apparent mistake that Draco despairs of having made a few times a week—and he made no complaints even dropped onto a stool as he was, propped up against his father.

“What are you doing here?” Draco, then Malfoy, had demanded. He looked utterly thrown and somehow offended, as if Harry’s existence in his own place of business was a grave insult to him.

“This is my place,” Harry said, and then as an instinctive response to Draco’s disbelieving scoff, he added, “I own it.” He’d hoped Draco would pick up on the implied threat—don’t be an arse or I’ll kick you out.

...

“This place is called Al’s,” Draco said accusingly. “You’re not Al.”

“Nope, I’m not. I’m Harry.” When Draco stared at him, Harry clarified, “Harry Potter.”

“I know you’re—who is Al, then?” Draco went pale beneath his winter flush. “Wait. Did you name this place after—Dumbledore?” He whispered the name as if ashamed, and Harry supposed that was about right, though it garnered him little sympathy.

Harry let that dread sit on Draco’s face for a few moments before he said, “No, it was already called Al’s when I bought it. Didn’t feel like changing the name.” He had changed everything else about it, though, spending one exhausting summer converting it from a pub no one really liked to go to anymore to a greasy spoon that people liked much more.

...

Harry had not opened this place and kept it open so he could be insulted and bullied; he was long past the time in his life when he would accept that, especially from the likes of Draco Malfoy. And so he opened his mouth once again to tell Draco to get out—ignoring all the questions he had for him, like what he was doing in this town, out in the snowstorm, carrying some sort of doll, maybe?

Before he could say so, and even before Draco could interrupt, the doll made a noise that made Harry startle and drop the rag he’d been wiping down the counter with. The doll made another noise, reached out, and grabbed the rag.

“Mine!” the doll said, lifting its head until a nose poked out of its bundling. That was when Harry realized that what Draco had set down on the stool was a toddler.

“Not yours,” Draco said as Harry tried to process this. “Let it go, Scorpius, it’s disgusting!”

“Oh,” said Scorpius, in a very wobbly sort of voice. His head tipped up so much that Harry could now see wide eyes, which were a complex hazel shade that made him really start to wonder what Draco was doing with a toddler. Said eyes were glistening slightly, and to accompany the look, Scorpius said, “Okay,” in the saddest little voice Harry had ever heard. He dropped the rag back on the counter; he could barely move his arm in his heavy, puffy coat.

“He can have it,” Harry said quickly; he grabbed up the rag and tried to hand it back, unable to deal with that stricken face.

[draqo-pctter]

mine for the summer; a drarry summer romance for the one direction fanfic fest

wip, 2/13 • rated m, mature

// i can’t believe it’s already here! i’ve been working on this darling fic since january (??) & i’m so excited to share with the class! drarry is the reason i joined fandom, & while i may be “known” (ew?) for my dramione works, drarry will forever & always be my otp

happy reading 🫶🏼 click here to read on ao3

[thusspoketrish]

WIP SNIP

OKAY! TAKE TWO! Thank you to @smehur for the tag!

Guys, I'm so silly. I had originally posted a snippet but forgot that the fic is for an anonymous fest! Whoops! Now this one, not for an anonymous fest! Anywho! It’s Halloween night, and married Harry and Draco are hoping to enjoy a romantic evening with a few scary films and a big bowl of popcorn. But their quiet evening is disrupted by an endless stream of trick-or-treaters—some of them more trick than treat. Also tagging (again, sorry!) @orangepellets @lizziedrip @xxspideyrebellexx @vukovich @sortofshea @newskyillusion @fictional, I'm so eager/curious to see what ya'll have been working on lately! No pressure to participate, though! xx

There, at the end of the drive where the streetlights barely reached, a shadowed figure stood watching him. 

Harry squinted, brows furrowed in confusion. The person was blanketed in darkness, just on the outskirts of the moon's silvery stream of light, their form indistinct. He couldn’t make out any details—just the unsettling outline of a person no taller than the hedges, standing perfectly still.

Frozen for a moment, Harry called out, "Hello?” his voice steady but edged with a sharpness. 

No response.

The figure didn’t move at first; it simply lingered there, a part of the shadows. Harry stepped forward, believing he must be mistaking a branch for a figure, but then, without a word, the shadowy figure turned and walked away, disappearing into the night.

A faint unease crept through Harry like winter’s first chill, breaking his skin into gooseflesh. He shivered, wrapping his arms around himself as he quickly stepped off the porch and cautiously made his way toward the end of the drive, his defensive instincts kicking in. He glanced up and down the road, seeing no one. His unease began to fade as he returned to the house. It was probably just some nosy teenager pranking him on Halloween or a local curious about the new residents. After all, the house at the end of Helix Road had remained empty for almost two decades.

As he shut and locked the door, Harry’s mind drifted back to when he and Draco first saw the two-story house. It had been charming in a way that caught them both off guard—an old Victorian with ivy creeping up the white brickwork and a wide porch with a teal-coloured door that seemed to beckon them in. They had fallen in love with it almost immediately. It was close to the Muggle primary school where Harry taught PE and the basement was easily converted into a lab for Draco’s potion-making. Everything had lined up so perfectly that it almost felt like fate.

The estate agent, of course, had tried to be discreet during the initial showing, lowering her voice as if the very walls might overhear her and seek retribution. She whispered that the house had a haunted history—perhaps even a lingering ghost or two. Harry had snorted at the idea, and Draco had rolled his eyes in amused exasperation. They’d faced Voldemort, Death Eaters, dark curses, prophecies, war, and death. A ghost or boggart would be a welcome distraction compared to what they’d endured in the fifteen years since the end of the war. “Haunted” was hardly a threat; it was practically a warm welcome to their usual brand of crazy. He had assured himself that they would handle whatever entity lingered in the shadows here without ever breaking a sweat. 

But now, as he stood in their foyer, his hand still resting on the doorknob, concern wormed its way into his thoughts. It was nothing, he reassured himself, a harmless shadow or an annoying local, and no reason to alarm Draco. Draco would only smirk and say it was his overactive sense of vigilance getting the better of him again.

[oknowkiss]

hollow or underneath for the ask game please!

thank you!!! i went with hollow. :) this is from an unposted getting back together WIP, in which exes drarry keep running into each other at the soho whole foods.

“Are you being purposefully antagonistic?” Harry grabs Draco’s basket without asking and begins shuffling items around. He's put produce on the bottom of his basket, like a sociopath. “I know it thrills you to see me in pain, but these tomatoes are innocent. Why punish them?”  Harry stands, fist gripping Draco's bag of chemically-modified tomatoes, too bright for this time of year. He dangles them in Draco’s face, only tries a little bit to not think of other things he’d like to dangle in front of Draco’s soft (always so soft, how?) pink lips. "You think I enjoy bearing witness to your pain? How very nineteen nineties of you." Draco snatches the tomatoes and his basket back, "You going all hot and bothered, on the other hand...”  “Or that,” Harry says, voice hollow.

[s0lifuge]

a wip post to motivate me to keep writing...

the premise of this fic is that draco & harry find some Interesting Artefacts in sirius' old room when cleaning out grimmauld place:

Not expecting much, you carry the hatbox over to the stripped mattress and drop it on top. Your fingers make quick work of the zipper and you flip the top open. At first, you’re not sure what you’re seeing.  The most salient thing in the hatbox is the large amount of light pink goop inside. It’s conglomerated in a phallic shape on one side of the box, but whatever muggle material the dong was once made of has melted into goo over years of neglect, tainting nearly everything in the box. Some items are just completely destroyed, corroded away by contact with the foul stuff.  “Merlin’s sweaty arsecrack,” you curse, casting the levitation charm to put the squishy ruined dildo, and everything stuck to it, in the bin. As it floats by, Draco recognizes what the object is. He doubles over in laughter at the horrified look on your face, then composes himself in time to stop you from speechlessly throwing the whole box out at once. “Wait!” Draco calls out, grabbing the levitating box out of the air and placing it back on the bed. “Are you kidding me? This is hilarious!” he exclaims, pulling out a pair of nipple clamps. “Do you think he-” “Draco!” you complain, “That’s my Godfather!” “And he’s my… Second cousin, or whatever…” Draco waves off your concerns, pulling out two emptied bottles labelled Draught of the Living Death, “But doesn’t this make you curious?” he asks, putting the bottles aside and retrieving a little ebony snuffbox. He pops it open, revealing an unknown tan powder.  “Give me that,” you say, grabbing the drugs out of Draco’s hand and tossing them in the bin before he can do anything stupid.   “Excuse me!” Draco whines, and you just smile at him amusedly. “I wasn’t going to-” “-Yes, you were-” you cut him off. “-Yes, I was,” he admits sheepishly. “But look at this!” he distracts, and pulls out something that’s been blessedly spared from the ruin of the plastic goop. It’s a thick strip of natural-toned snakeskin finished with tarnished d-rings that meet in the middle, bound together by a dark silver lock. “Your Godfather wore a collar!” “Ew?” you ask, unsure of how it makes you feel. On one hand, ew does cover it, when it comes to knowing a little too much about your deceased loved one’s sex life. But on the other hand, finding a collar is almost like finding a wedding ring for a wife you never knew he had. It piques your interest. “Who gave it to him?” “How am I supposed to know?” Draco replies, picking up the very last thing in the bottom of the box - A stack of muggle porno mags. You cringe as he thumbs through the volumes, lingering on each cover to cluck his tongue. The first few, the most ruined by melted dildo, show hardcore scenes of the (single, double, triple) penetration of busty women by well-hung men. The next couple magazines in the stack show women in corsets with red bottoms from spanking one another. Then, Draco thumbs his way to the last few pornos at the bottom of the pile, and to your surprise, you find no women on them at all. The men on the last few magazines are engaged in equally salacious behaviours together, if not more so.  “Oh, wonderful,” Draco says, picking up Boys In Chains and flipping it open to the centrefold, a blonde twink not dissimilar to himself bound to the ceiling by an elaborate rig of ropes, his erect penis hanging heavily from his waist. “Hm,” Draco says, considering it. As he turns the magazine to the side for another view, something slips from between its pages and falls onto the bed beside him.  You pick it up. It’s a home-made pamphlet of some sort, made of folded white paper and inked with shaky lines. You read the front page. Deeper, Darker Arts: An Intermediate Guide to Magical Edgeplay, it says. “Edgeplay…?” you ask, confused, and Draco’s head snaps up to attention. Without asking, he grabs the zine out of your hands and flips it open. Reading over his shoulder, you find yourself speechless.

this is a collab with @short666bread as per usual >:)

[drarrymyheart]

Word excerpt: mouth

This is an excerpt from one of my long WIPs. When will this fic see the light of day, you ask? Maybe around the end of the year???? Someone give me an arbitrary deadline.

Hermione was sitting on one end of the musty brown couch, holding a cup of tea on the armrest and fiddling with some papers in her lap.  There was a second cup of tea on the coffee table and Harry picked it up and curled into the opposite corner of the couch, drawing his knees up to rest his heels on the edge of the cushion.   “Thanks,” he murmured, taking a sip.  The tea felt sharp in his mouth as it flowed along his recently-brushed teeth.  Harry grimaced. Hermione just nodded.  She set down her cup and papers on the table, then shuffled to the centre of the couch, pulling one leg onto it, facing Harry. “How are you feeling?” Hermione squinted, assessing him again.  Her lips were downturned and her eyebrows drawn together.  “Ron said you’d been ill.” Harry shrugged.  He wasn’t ill.  He did, however, feel like a troll was sitting on his chest and like his head was full of wrackspurts and like his eyelids had a permanent sticking charm on them, but those didn’t feel like things he could say.

this is also completely unbeta'd, no one has looked at it but me, so, it is where it is.

[evergreensandthunderstorms]

My first ever ficlet, an unbetaed oneshot. This was inspired mostly by “Danger Granger” from the inimitable Vukovich’s Fearful Trill. @vukovich thanks for writing that, Danger Granger lives in my queer little head rent free.

•••

The Golden Trio — not so golden anymore. Still always together, though. They walk like shadows of each other, nearly in step, rarely apart. Weasley slouches to the height of the other two. Looks at the floor like a criminal. Granger walks like she’s tiptoeing, and flinches at loud laughter. Potter’s eyes are the only thing about him that look alive, and they don’t look sane, wildly casing every room for an exit, a threat, anything but another pair of human eyes.

This is my first impression of them, two years out from the war. It’s grim.

It’s also my second, third, and four impression of them, the first weeks of my apprenticeship.

That is, until Antonin Dolohov wipes the slate clean.

When it happens, I’m in the ministry canteen. Sipping a tea, and watching them, as always. They huddle at a table in a corner near an emergency exit. Weasley looks like he’s talking the other into eating — not that it’s going well. Granger takes a bite of an apple looking for all the world like she’s being forced to eat a kitten at wand point. Potter doesn’t appear to hear the entreaties, concerned as he is with something in the middle distance: a fly? Those eyes track like a starving predator’s. Then they meet mine.

I have no time to process the jolt of adrenaline that rushes through me. There’s a bang and a scream. Black robes. A flash of red light. I freeze, still staring at the Ruined Trio.

They rise in unison. The mask clears from Weasley’s face, revealing in its wake a bloodthirsty sort of glee. Granger may well have disapparated, except the witch who puts her back against Weasley’s and grabs Potter’s hand, already firing curses — was that green light? — looks just like Granger did when I saw her at the Battle of Hogwarts. Incensed and vicious, single minded, and absolutely loving this.

Potter, though. I chance one more glance before my muscles obey my mind’s screaming command to hide under the table. His shoulders have relaxed down, his chin is tilted up. He’s bloody smiling, holding a shield over himself and his friends with — with what? His wand is spitting spell after spell, and his left hand is held loosely in Granger’s. He looks taller and broader. A wayward curl falls over his forehead. He licks his lips.

It’s a dance they’ve clearly danced many times, each of them stepping and spinning in time. I realize most of their spells are nonverbal when I watch Weasley say something and the other two laugh quickly, not missing a beat in their choreographed battle.

Dolohov and company are dispatched ten seconds after they entered the room. Four neat Incarcerouses and several bloodied faces. No one else in the room has time to pull a wand.

Granger leads the trio languidly forward. She gestures at Dolohov. I think of the smell of vodka and piss that used to saturate the dungeon at Malfoy Manor. Weasley waves a disguise detector spell over Dolohov. Granger is already speaking the words before it flashes blue — no polyjuice, no glamour.

“Avada Kedavra.”