#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.

[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!

[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

[haventcomeupwiththetitleyet]

Warning: WIP, please read the blog description

Prologue

Harry was floating mindlessly through the uptown of Little Whinging, which he wasn't allowed for obvious reasons, but staying at Privete Drive was rendering him numb. Even number than he was at the moment. At least half busy lunch time streets with people sliding lazily in the syropy afternoon sun did a better job at distracting him from watever had happened at the tournament than aunt Petunia's creepy singing.

The shock and the loss that had awashed him right after have subsided leaving him empty and devastated like a shore after the wave with a random pebble and broken shells.

He was to get his shit together, to come up with something to produce a plan now that everything had become real. But coming up with brilliant ideas was Hermione's fort while strategizing was Ron's. And Harry suddenly felt severly underage, all of them. Endlessly behind and lacking in so many regards. It wasn't smuggling a baby dragon out of the casle anymore. Not even a runaway prisoner. Shit got real and so fast, Harry felt positively stuck.

So instead he continued sneaking to town, hiding at diners that were far too scarce, listening to people's mandane conversations and pretending that that dull normal life was his.

He was having tea and some tasteless pastry that he had bought with the muggle money, the twins mannaged to exchange for him, contemplating his surroundings. He slided his gaze from a man in a checked shirt with the most miserable expression Harry had seen to a woman in a tracksuit who was trying to manage a set of three children at once. Highly unsuccessfully, which made a man at a table across scrunch his face in a badly concealed disdain. The suit he was wearing was out of place, too nice for a third rate diner.

Harry froze, his insides clutched in a vicious grip, mind paralized with terror. He thought for a second that Dudley might have spiked his food with his 'good stuff'. But no, he barely had any food at that house, certainly not today. Hands clammy he checked his wand.

At least he had the sense to take it. He wasn't supposed to go out he thought helplessly. Hermione was going to kill him for getting into trouble. Of course, if Lucius Malfoy sitting next table in a pricey muggle suit didn't do it first.

[pineisnotanapple]

A drarry WIP snippet I guess because I've never posted anything re my WIPS so why not! As shit as it might be :)

-

"Could ask you the same thing, Malfoy," he slowly opened his eyes to a scowling Draco Malfoy because of course he's here at Harry's Yoga studio, well, it's not Harry's of course but he goes frequently enough.

"I don't see how that's any of your business but if you must know Granger recommended this class to unwind and relax and so I must once again ask, why are you here?" He said before laying his mat down next to Harry's.

"Well I don't see how it's any of your business but if you must know, Hermione said meditatation would help prevent any more outbursts and this place was the closest"

"Well that's settled, then. I'll sign up somewhere else" he sits cross legged in his stupid yoga pants, for fuck's sake it's not like he needs to show off his stupidly pointy nice arse to relax

"You don't need to do that, I was honestly just surprised."

"Why because it's.." Draco whispered "Muggle?"

"No! Merlin! It's just that someone never takes the early shift because some of us need beauty sleep, Potter, we don't all want to wake up scruffy grumpy prats"

[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

[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.

[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.

[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.

[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.

[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 >:)

[rockingrobin69]

In celebration of joy

This is actually a snip from a wip (700 words) and also a ‘hey I’m alive’ and most of all, it’s a (humble!!) present for my pride and joy @ihopeyoubothstaysafefromharm who is out there being the best in us etc. etc. Joy, I love you, I love you, I love you. And so does this special lil guy.

The coffee machine went on a strike on a Tuesday, roughly around nine. A big notice all over the screen, CHANGE FILTER that didn’t relent no matter what Draco attempted. He changed the damn filter, three times. Changed the water. Emptied and reloaded the bean tray. Nothing worked: the notice remained, and the smell of coffee pervaded the kitchenette, made his eyes water.

The manual was in Italian, which, according to his CV, shouldn’t be a problem. Apparently there was a world of difference between chatting up pretty boys in the Piazza and fine mechanics. Apparently, Draco was equally rubbish at both. And the coffee machine, blast it to high hell, kept at its pouty, childish rebellion.  

He didn’t even like coffee. Did have an espresso every once in a while, half in punishment, half-reward. Drowned it in sugar until no flavour was discernible, went on a glucose-fuelled paperwork rampage, terrorising the office till the inevitable crash. But he liked making coffees for some of the others—liked being trusted with a task he could perform. The coffee machine was tricky, needed a gentle touch: the frothing settings, the roast, all had to be perfectly calibrated. Usually he had it. And now, change filter, and no coffee in sight.

He's going to have to go back to Harry empty-handed.

Going to have to look him in the eye and say, hey, so, remember when you hired me, all that long month ago, and I promised I’d do my very best? Right. Yes, failed at the most basic of tasks today, what else could you expect. Also, please don’t fire me.

Draco rubbed his eyes a little harsher than recommended. Bore the angry flashes behind his eyelids, tried to breathe. Why must everything be a panic, why couldn’t he just. Be normal about this. Be a man, not a muppet, for a change.

Opened his eyes, grit his teeth till the world un-blurried itself. Took a deep breath. Went back to the manual, skimmed till he found the right place, and tried again.

In the end he ran down to the Costa across the street. Took him exactly forty minutes and twenty-three seconds to get back at Harry’s office door, red-faced and soaking wet, but with the flat white he’s promised. Tried not to look too smug about it as he sauntered through, gently laid the cup (still hot, he thought, he hoped) next to Harry’s computer screen.

“Thanks,” murmured Harry, not even looking up from the folder open on his desk. “Mm, that smells nice.”

Draco allowed himself a little smile. “No problem, Mr. Potter.”

As he knew, that zapped Harry’s attention back to him. He flushed so easily, and so sweetly too, fixing his glasses on the bridge of his nose for an excuse to use his hands. Calling Harry Mr. Potter always had the same effect—sometimes, when Draco was feeling rather cheeky, he even threw in a Sir, just to watch him flail.

“Erm. Yes. Thank you, Draco. Are—why are you wet?”

“Hmm?” looked down, remembered. “Oh. It’s raining again.”

Harry turned his head to the window, stared for a moment. “Yes,” he said, chewing on a poor lower lip. “Yes, it is indeed.”

Winding Harry up sure was one of the biggest perks of the job, but Draco actually had work to do. “Anything else, Mr. Potter?” (couldn’t help himself, he just couldn’t). “If you wouldn’t mind, the paperwork for Mr. Dougherty’s case requires further attention.”

More of the fidgeting. “No, no, that’s quite all right. Certainly, er, important that you get to it.” Draco nodded, and was already at the door when he heard, “Wait, why does the cup say Costa?”

Rushed out of Harry’s office without closing the door behind him. The prat never did anyway. Went back to the kitchenette, opened the manual, and a pocket dictionary from the shop right next door to blasted Costa. (The Dougherty dossier was compiled and completed two days ago. Not his fault he was good at his job). Stared the machine down until it bowed before him, spilled its mechanical guts.

He’ll get it, eventually. He thought. He hoped.