#harry and merlin decided fuck subtlety

[abstractdiagram]

I love all of you that read the prologue. I have a rough draft of chapter one here. Very rough. But I’m like oddly happy with a character choice I made and I hope I did it justice. Darlins, I love when you use the little heart button. I’ll explode of happy if y’all start leaving comments. Even if they’re just about grammatical mistakes or mischaracterizations. @zenyteehee as always you’re on my list of favorite humans. I hope my reasonings hold up to others’ scrutinizing. I think it will. But I won’t know if y’all don’t tell me. Hint hint. Nudge nudge. Not-so-subtlety-gesturing-to-the-comment-button.

Chapter One

“Oh Merlin’s left ass cheek and fucking bollocks too!” Harry cursed, loudly, mixing Wizarding and muggle swearing in an impressive tirade as the white nothingness coalesced into “fucking King’s Cross sodding goddamn Station!” He roared his frustration and flung himself onto the newly appeared bench. Burying his face in his hands he continued to mumble curses.

An enthusiastic clapping made him scramble to his feet and reach for his wand before he recognized the person standing in front of him.

“Nice one Harry! I haven’t heard some of those words put in that order before!”

“Fred?” Harry was gobsmacked.

“In the… well… not flesh I suppose… but… erm… yeah!” Fred stood in front of him, almost sheepish looking as his 20-year-old self. With a sharp pang Harry realized that George looked so much, much older now.

“What the fuck.” Harry plopped back to his bench. “I take it I died. Again.”

“Well… yeah. Mate, you got in a wrestle with a Focus. You couldn’t ~afFord~ the cost.” Fred wagged his eyebrows at his stupid joke and Harry couldn’t decide if he wanted to slap the look off his face or hug him for remaining the same old punny Fred. He groaned in response.

“So why am I at King’s Cross again. I mean, seriously, how many times do I have to die and not …” Harry waved his hands in wobbly arcs through the air. “Go. You know. Move on. Whatever.”

Fred perched on the arm rail and put his feet on the bench next to where Harry sat. He sat with his elbows on his knees and leaned forward to prop his head in his hands. He looked a bit like a gargoyle hunched on the end like that but it wasn’t as funny as it should have been. Harry was tired. If he was going to die then why couldn’t he just do it properly for once and get it over with.

“Here’s the rub.” Fred’s smiling face grew serious as he focused on Harry. “You’re the most recent Master of Death, yeah?” He made a short cutting motion with one hand when Harry opened his mouth to argue. “No, don’t interrupt. You know as well as I do that you had all three Hallows. Well, Death, they know it too. They also know that you, as Master, have to make the choice. Consciously and without doubt.”

“What choice? To die? Didn’t I do that when I turned myself over in the forest to Voldemort and let him kill me?! I had the Hallows by then. I got the bloody stone by acknowledging that I was going to die.” Harry’s face was dark and angry and his voice grew louder and louder as he spoke. “Didn’t I ~choose~ to die then? Didn’t I just choose to jump in front of that car to save those women? I knew what could happen. I did it anyway. Didn’t I choose death then? How can anyone tell me, least of all Death themself, that I haven’t chosen to fucking die?”

Fred waited patiently for Harry to finish and said calmly, “But did you?” Harry thought that if looks could kill the glare he leveled at Fred just now would have put his ghost or spirit or whatever back into the hereafter but Fred just looked back, almost sadly. “Think. When Voldemort hit you with that spell didn’t you find yourself in this very place? Didn’t you decide then that you would come back? You could have moved on then. But you didn’t. And now, did you really think through the idea that you might actually die if you and your tragic nobility leapt into the road? No. You didn’t. You can’t lie and tell me you thought that much ahead. You’re too much like a Weasley - leaping before you look. And you’re far too much a Gryffindor.” Fred grinned, but it was weak and didn’t reach his eyes. “You just thought of saving the damsels in distress.”

Harry couldn’t argue. He ~hadn’t~ thought beyond as far as whether or not he’d be fast enough to push at the girls. He acted on gut instinct and foolish lack of self awareness. He sighed.

“So I can choose again.”

“Yeah. But. You have to be aware of what you’re choosing.”

“It’s not that hard. Stay dead. Leave here and go” he made the wavy hand motion again. “Or go back to my life.”

“Not quite… you see… well, your body is pretty fucked up right now. Right mess you made of yourself. They’ve moved you to St. Mungo’s from the muggle hospital but you’re in a coma. Broken bones. Squishy inner bits trying to become squashy outer bits. Possible brain damage, though how we’d be able to tell with you - oi!” Harry had swatted at him but half heartedly. He appreciated the attempt at levity, glad in some ways that even years dead, Fred remained himself but still annoyed at the whole bloody situation. “Anyway. Yeah. It’s not much of a life at the mo. And Death has a third option. Sort of a holding pattern idea in a way. Since you’re all sorts of fucked up Death has offered you a place in the life of someone else.”

“What? Like. I would kill some one and take their place kind of thing? No way! I’d rather live in my own body and wait to wake up.”

“Well, mate, there’s no guarantee this body will wake up. Even Death doesn’t know the future. Or at least they’re playing it close to the chest if they do. But no. You wouldn’t have to kill. It’s hard to explain. Especially second hand. Honestly I don’t know why Death can’t explain it themself. You’d almost think they’re afraid of you.”

“Wouldn’t you be afraid of your ~Master~ if they showed up pissed off and confused?” Harry asked wryly.

“Ah! I bet that’s it. Death’s a scaredy robes!” Fred laughed and leaned back on the arm rail. He chuckled for a minute before sobering and continuing. “Right. Well. The way I understand it is that you’d basically take over a life that ended elsewhere.”

“Great. Like a zombie? I can see the headlines. ‘Zombie Savior Back From the Dead!’ Skeeter’d have a fabulous time spinning ~that~ one.”

“Heh. No. Not like a zombie, though I guess if you wanted to argue semantics… but no. Think if it like this. Your body is pretty well buggered but your spirit is still kicking around. Well, the other guy, his body is fine but his spirit moved on. You would inhabit that body. Death said something about keeping enough memories from the other person so you’d be know who you are now and what happened in the past but it’d be all you in control now. Your entire self including your magic and memories and skills but a different body. Until you decide to come back to your body or die all the way.”

“There’s gotta be a catch. I could just go inhabit the new body, walk up and say, ‘hey guys, it’s me, ignore the bloke in the bed there, I’m fine.’ I’d never need to -go- back to my body. I could just prove I am who I am to the right people and go on about life as if I wasn’t Harry bleeding Potter ‘the Boy Who Lived Twice.’ I could finally be anonymous.”

Fred rubbed at the back of his neck sheepishly. “Yeah. About that.” He trailed off.

“Oh for Merlin’s sake what is it?” Harry was growing irate again.

“Well, you wouldn’t be guaranteed a body in the same time frame or timeline as it were. You could come back and do as you said, yeah, but the odds are slim. You could come back in a different era. A different place. Anywhere in the past in fact. Death explained it better but the gist is… well. You know what the muggles say about the butterfly effect?”

Harry snorted. “It’s come up. Some rubbish about how a butterfly can flap its wings in New York and in Hong Kong you get rain instead of snow. It’s a quaint way of saying that every action of every thing affects the actions of everything else in infinite ways.”

“Precisely. Ok. What do you know about the multiverse theory?”

“The what now?” His head was spinning. This was confusing as fuck, made worse by it being told to him by the dead brother of his best friend.

“Multiverse. It’s the idea that for every action/non-action there’s a universe where it was the truth. In one multiverse the butterfly flaps and it rains. In another the butterfly is still and it snows. In a third the butterfly gets eaten and Hong Kong gets eaten by a giant squid. All three are true in their own slices of the multiverse. There are other realities where you died instantly as a baby. Where you stayed dead in the Forbidden Forest. Where you were too late to save the ladies and they died but you lived. It all exists in its own little slice.”

“What’s this multiverse got to do with me? If every choice I make now will become its own reality, what does it possibly matter what I pick? This is mind-bogglingly confusing.” Harry pinched the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses.

“That’s what I said,” Fred was gentle, calm and he leaned forward to place a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “It boils down to this. We don’t know when, who, or where you’ll end up if you choose to live another life while waiting to see how your current physical situation plays out. We do know it’ll be in the past and we do know it won’t affect the future as you exist and know it because it’ll be in a different slice of the multiverse where you being there already happened. It’s time travel without worrying about erasing yourself from existence essentially because that’s probably already happened elsewhere in another slice. So I guess the catch is you could end up in a slice of muggle reality where you’re being chased by a dingosawer.” Fred grinned and shook Harry’s shoulder as he finished.

“Dinosaur. And humans didn’t exist at the same time as they did.” Harry muttered dully.

His head hurt. Not knowing when or where he’d end up was a terrifying concept. Fred had said he’d keep his magic and his skills, so he wouldn’t be at as great a disadvantage as he could be in any given situation but what if …

“What if Death puts me in the body of a newborn? Would I be the world’s smartest infant even if I couldn’t focus my eyes or lift my own head? What if I wake up as this person in the middle of some conflict and just get killed again in a few hours or days? Would I come back here, again? What if -“

“Harry, I have it on pretty good authority that should you choose this option you won’t be placed in such predicament. You’ll be roughly the right age, in no immediate danger, and probably still male.” Fred wagged his eyebrows. “Though if you ended up a 23 year old girl I can’t say it’d be too bad would it.”

“Can I see what … what’s going on with me in the current world?”

“It’d probably help you decide, yeah?” Fred slid down off the arm rest and sat on the bench proper. He waved his arm in front of them in a large sweeping gesture and an image appeared in front of them, almost like watching a telly.

Harry could see the whole of the hospital room. The body in the bed looked small and broken in the white linens, the monitoring charms hovering above showing a slow heartbeat and low blood pressure among other lines and numbers he didn’t comprehend. Next to the bed in an old wooden chair sat Hermione. Her eyes flicked from monitor to Harry once in a while but mostly she sat gazing into a middle distance lost in her thoughts. Behind her, Ginny slept in another wooden chair, looking worn and uncomfortable. Harry focused on the other side of the room where a tall, lean, white-blonde haired man stood taking notes and checking potions.

“Malfoy.” Harry whispered. “I forgot he’d become a healer. One of the best too I was told. He must have had a field day with this…” but as he watched Draco finished his note and quietly crossed to where Hermione sat. He put a gentle hand on her shoulder and she didn’t startle.

“Hermione,” Draco’s adult voice was deeper, duskier. “You should go get some rest. We’re doing everything we can and you know you’ll be the first to know if anything changes.”

Hermione reached up and squeezed his hand where it lay. “I know Draco. It’s just… it’s just not easy, you know? He survived so much already and I feel like we’ve seen him come back from the edge so many times that this… a bloody drink-driver of all things!” Her voice grew louder as she spoke. “Harry faced dragons at 14! A basilisk at 12! Lord Fucking Voldemort as a baby!” She was shouting now and Ginny had startled awake and come to put her hand on Hermione’s other shoulder.

Harry’s heart hurt. She didn’t swear often and it was almost always because of him that she did.

Ginny shared a look and a nod with Draco. “C’mon ‘Mione. Let’s go get some tea. Mum’ll be down soon and Malfoy said he’ll contact us.” She pulled a now sobbing Hermione to her feet, and, sharing one last sad glance with Draco, she led her crying friend out. The visual faded as Draco put Hermione’s chair back against the wall and then he too exited the room.

Tears were hot on Harry’s face. “I’m not ready to be dead yet. Are you sure that going back to my own body won’t just, like, jumpstart me and let me wake up?” Fred shook his head no. He didn’t want to leave his friends like that. He wanted to live. But he really didn’t want to be the broken person in the bed either. Third option it was then.

“Fine. Let’s get this multiverse thing started. If I have to wait then I may as well be living while I do it.”

“You’re sure? You made your choice?” Fred was watching him carefully.

“I have.” He stared back at Fred for a long second before blinking.

When he opened his eyes the next instant Fred, and King’s Cross were gone.

[knitter-eggsy-universe-archive]

Oh shit. Fingers crossed everything ends up ok.

Fuck, half the agency is going.

[drarrymybeloved]

a gift for @isamijoo​ as part of the Wheel of Drarry Mini Exchange🥰💞thank you to @curlyy-hair-dont-care​ for the beta!

wc: 1.7k | rating: G

Not All Heroes Wear Capes, But Mine Sure Does

Draco Malfoy, Editor in Chief of Witch Weekly Magazine, eyes his watch and then the stack of paperwork on his desk. He knows he should stay and get through at least half the pile before lunch, but there is also a photoshoot going on in Studio B right this very second that he wouldn’t mind overseeing. Only because the photoshoot is such an important project for the magazine. Not because of the presence of a certain someone at said photoshoot, not at all.

I’m the Editor in Chief of the damn magazine and I can go wherever I like, he decides. He nods his head as if confirming his own thoughts and exits his office to head towards the studio.

Draco had begun working at the offices of Witch Weekly soon after he finished his community service sentence. Starting as a lowly clerk, his ability to charm and enamour as needed, had him slowly but surely climbing the ranks.

Now, at twenty-five, Draco is the youngest Editor in Chief in the history of Witch Weekly. Soon after his promotion, he had recruited Pansy as a columnist and Blaise as a photographer, both of whom are involved in today’s shoot.

And what a shoot it is, Draco thinks with more than a little satisfaction. Featuring the Golden Trio, the rest of the Weasley clan minus Percy who was “just too busy to make it”, Seamus Finnegan, Dean Thomas, Neville Longbottom, Luna Lovegood, the Patil twins, and Lavender Brown, it’s going to be printed as a special edition with all proceeds going to the War Orphan’s Trust. Incidentally, it’s also one of the most— if not the most— star-studded spread in the magazine’s history. Blaise will photograph all the volunteers in various costumes and get-ups, while Pansy will interview them on the side.

When the idea was first proposed, Draco had been sceptical. While the others were less recalcitrant, Potter was well-known for his dislike of modelling of any kind. He hated being in front of a camera, and everybody in the press corps knew it. Without Potter, the venture wouldn’t necessarily fail, but it would definitely not generate as much profit. Draco had meant to ask formally, perhaps through an official letter bearing the magazine’s seal. Instead, he found himself asking Potter at the weekly inter-house pub night, a tradition started in eighth year that— inexplicably— continued well past Hogwarts. Surprisingly, Potter had agreed with minimal fuss. He wasn’t happy about it, but he had agreed nonetheless.

Reaching the studio door, Draco takes a moment to brush non-existent dirt off his suit jacket and straighten his already straight tie, before pushing open the door. There are a fair amount of people milling around, talking and laughing. He can see Weasley, Finnegan and Thomas near the refreshments table. Charlie Weasley is talking animatedly with Luna while Longbottom listens with a bemused expression. Ginerva and George are slowly turning singular strands of Hermione’s hair purple as she talks passionately with Lavender. The Patil twins are having their makeup done, and Bill Weasley is being interviewed by Pansy.

Draco takes all this in with a cursory glance, his attention instantly drawn towards the man currently posing for the camera, like a compass finding true north.

Harry Potter stands in front of the camera, wearing a gladiator’s skirt cinched with a belt adorned with a golden lion, a red cape adorning his broad shoulders. A sheathed sword hangs at his waist. On his feet are black leather sandals, the straps of which rope around his muscular calves. Without his trademark glasses, his eyes look impossibly brighter. His bronze skin practically gleams under the lights. Presumably, someone had applied oil on him at some point. Draco hastily pushes away all thoughts of hands and oil and Potter out of his mind. Potter’s hair looks artfully tousled instead of its usual mess— a near-miraculous feat if you ask Draco. He makes a mental note to jot down the name of the hair stylist for future photoshoots. The thought is there and then gone because just then, Potter draws the sword hanging at his waist, and Merlin and Morgana, Draco was not prepared to see Harry bloody Potter looking like a hero out of a Greek legend.

Draco lets out an involuntary whimper.

“Hello, Draco.”

Draco quickly snaps his gaze away from Potter to find Hermione looking at him with an amused expression. The purple streaks are gone from her hair— she’d probably known what Ginerva and George were up to the whole time. Meanwhile, Draco had been so busy ogling Potter, he hadn’t even seen Hermione approach him. He flushes faintly and attempts to sound like the Editor in Chief of a major publication rather than what he actually feels like— a schoolboy with a pash. “Hello, Hermione. I hope everything is going smoothly?”

Hermione grins. “Yes, it’s all been rather fun actually. Reminds me a bit of Sunday lunch at the Burrow, what with so many people around.”

“Good, that’s good to hear,” Draco says distractedly, attention already straying back to Potter.

“Harry’s looking rather good, isn’t he?” Hermione asks nonchalantly, following Draco’s gaze.

“What? Oh, yes, yes of course. Now that you mention it, he is. That is, I mean, the stylists did a brilliant job. Especially with his hair, it usually looks like a bird's nest,” Draco lets out a strained chuckle, his cheeks burning. He never should have come down here. Merlin.

Hermione presses her lips together, her eyes bright with amusement. “You should tell him that yourself, he’ll like it,” she gestures behind Draco.

Draco turns, and sure enough, Potter’s coming off the set towards them. He doesn’t even stop to change into regular clothes, for fucks sake. How is one supposed to hold a conversation with him looking like that?

“I’ll leave you two to it then, got some catching up to do with Parvati,” Hermione says, grinning wickedly. Before Draco can say another word, she’s already gone.

Cursing internally, he turns to face Potter, determined to keep his attention on Potter’s face and his face only. Not that that’s not distracting enough. Pushing the unhelpful thought away, Draco opens his mouth to greet Potter. What comes out is, “That’s quite a get-up you’ve got going on.”

Oh joy, already off to an excellent start. Draco cringes internally but forces himself to smile in what he hopes is a pleasant manner.

Potter laughs sheepishly. “Yeah, I do feel pretty ridiculous in all this. They’ve even strapped a bloody sword on me. I barely know how to handle it.”

“Looked like you were doing alright, actually,” Draco says before his mind can catch up with his mouth.

“Oh, er, thanks Draco,” Potter smiles bashfully, bringing his hand up to ruffle his hair. Draco’s eyes helplessly follow the flex of his bicep.

Snapping back to attention, he grasps for something other than Potter’s sword-wielding skills to talk about.

"I have to say though, I was quite surprised when you agreed to this. It's no secret you dislike photoshoots immensely," is what he lands on. It’s something he’s been wondering about and he wouldn’t mind knowing what made Potter agree to do this.

“Yeah, I don’t much like being treated as if I’m some celebrity and I’ve never been good in front of a camera. I would have said no but well…” he trails off, looking at Draco intently. “You’re the one who asked, so,” Potter shrugs as if that clears everything up.

Draco blinks. In a dazzling display of eloquence, he says, "What?"

Potter flushes, but he looks determined. "I agreed to do this because I know this photoshoot is important to you. Not just this shoot, the magazine as a whole. I know that you’ve worked hard to make it into something much more than just another gossip rag. So, um, you know, I did it for you,” he rubs the back of his neck, his face flushed crimson. “It also helps that it’s for charity,” he adds, chuckling awkwardly.

Draco gapes. “But...why?” he manages, bewildered.

“Draco,” Potter huffs. “Because I care about you. As in, I have feelings for you. I thought you would have guessed by now, it’s not like I’m great at subtlety. Pretty much everyone else knows,” he smiles nervously.

 Oh. Oh.  

“You have feelings for— wait, everyone knows?” Draco demands. “And no one thought to tell me?” He hates his friends, really truly despises them all.

Potter’s eyes crinkle with the force of his smile. “Wait so, what are you saying?”

Draco rolls his eyes, attempting to sound cool and collected even though he feels practically giddy. “I’m saying, Potter, that I have had “feelings for you” as you put it, for an embarrassingly long time. And everyone knows,” he says, cheeks pinking. “Well, everyone except you, apparently,” he amends.

Potter laughs delightedly. “To be fair, you didn’t catch on to my feelings for you either.”

“We’re rather ridiculous, aren’t we?” Draco says, laughing ruefully.

“Well, we’re both in the know now, so how about we go for a celebratory dinner?” Potter asks, eyes bright.

“Good idea,” Draco says, attempting— and failing— to keep a straight face.

“Potter!” Pansy’s voice cuts across the room.

“Time for your interview it seems,” Draco says.

“Yeah, although I do have some questions for her myself,” Potter says, squinting at Pansy.

“Oh, I will absolutely be having words with her. And Hermione,” Draco huffs.

Potter smiles at him, and it’s such a wide, unrestrained thing, Draco’s heart misses a beat. “I’ll see you after, then?” he asks.

Draco nods, smile softening. “Pick me up at seven, you already know the address.”

Potter flashes him one last smile before walking towards Pansy’s corner.

Draco watches him go with what is most definitely a besotted smile on his face before turning around to leave. His steps falter when he sees all of their friends staring at him, expressions torn between unbridled glee and despair. He frowns— until he catches sight of Ron glumly handing over a handful of Galleons to a triumphant George.

“You absolute pillocks, did you place bets on Harry and me?” he asks in disbelief.

“It’s a lucrative business,” George winks.

“Sorry Draco,” Lavender says, not looking sorry at all as she pockets the coins Padma grudgingly hands her.

“I hate you all,” Draco informs them cheerfully as he heads towards the hallway, professionalism be damned. He hears them laughing as he steps into the hallway, but he’s too elated to be properly pissed off at their machinations. He’ll get back at all of them soon enough, but for now he has a stack of paperwork to finish— he can’t be late for his date after all.

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[colubrina]

Never have I ever... written a Hermione Riddle/Draco Malfoy fic!

I did once, but so many people said it didn’t work I pulled it.  But I will copy at 2K words of it below the cut for you.

from never have I ever

Hermione did hate having to pretend.  

She’d whinged to her father at first.  “But why,” she’d said.  “And if I can’t be your daughter why can’t I just be a half-blood.  Why this?”  

Her father had delivered one of his lectures on power and manipulation and pointed out how she’d learn far more about what people really thought if she watched them as a supposedly powerless outsider.  “How people treat the weak, my darling, will let you see their characters.  That will be useful to you when we,” he’d paused.  “You know.”  

She did.

It didn't mean she liked it.

As she got older, however, she realized he was right.  People revealed things to her they'd never share with a pureblood, or even an established half-blood.  Ron Weasley, her housemate and theoretical friend, had parents with a hilarious fascination with Muggles that masked bone deep prejudice and he was one of the supposed liberal faction, part of Albus Dumbledore little crusade of light.  Her father laughed until tears ran down his cheeks when she acted our Arthur Weasley asking about rubber ducks.   Theodore Nott sneered in a rather pro-forma way at her blood status and then, once her academic prowess became known, sat with her in the library if no one else was around.  

"Pragmatic," her father said approvingly.   She lent Theo notes, borrowed his, and never commented how he failed to notice her in public.  She found his quiet competence restful and understood the constraints that kept him, son of a Death Eater, pureblood scion, and member of Slytherin from being friends with the Muggle-born Gryffindor.  Those would change.

Draco Malfoy, however, was a different matter. ��He had no subtlety.  He was rude and vulgar and a crude little show off.  As they got older he started to eye her when he thought she wasn't looking and she looked back.  He became pretty, so very pretty, and she began to fantasize about how he'd react when he found out who she was.   She liked to picture him confessing long suppressed love and apologizing.  "I just didn't know what to say," she imagined him muttering.  "My father… you know.  I thought he'd disown me if I… can we start again?"

She doubted that would happen, however.  The idea of Draco Malfoy admitting he was wrong seemed unlikely, and she had no intention of humiliating herself to pursue him.  No matter how much she liked his cheekbones, or the way his eyes flashed when he was being clever and cocky, he'd be unlikely to ever show up at her door with flowers in hand willingly, even when he did find out she was Tom Riddle's daughter.

Not that she'd want a boy who only wanted her for her heritage anyway.

She hated admitting her father was right.  

And she hated that she wanted the smug bastard.  Stupid Draco Malfoy with his biting wit and pointed laugh.  She did, though.  She wanted him a lot more than Ron Weasley, who she flirted with in order to disguise her growing fascination with Malfoy, and she wanted him more than Cormac McClaggan, who couldn't take a hint to go away, and she wanted him more than Harry Potter who, thank Merlin, was as uninterested in her as she was in him.  She decided she'd have him, too, because she was the Darkest princess their world would ever know, the only child of Lord Voldemort and Bellatrix Black, and if she wanted a boy she'd have him.  Her father laughed and told her she was a minx but he was happy to give her any toy she wanted.

So she smiled at Malfoy, and every time he sneered “Granger” at her in his arrogant, nasal voice she smiled a little bit more.  

When her father finally made his move and took over the Ministry, sending Harry Potter on a fool's errand with what appeared to be a toy from the late, unlamented Dumbledore, a used Snitch, and a book of fairy tales she looked forward to seeing Draco Malfoy's expression when her true identity was revealed.  She beamed at her father as he presented her to his followers and their children at her eighteenth birthday party.

Theodore Nott looked like a mystery had finally been solved and smiled at her;  you'd have to know him well to see the relief in his eyes when she smiled back but she saw it and enjoyed the confirmation of the sudden shift in her status.  Greg Goyle just looked confused that Hermione Granger was someone else, someone important.  Draco Malfoy, however, looked horrified.  She could see him tallying up his sins in his brilliant mind and his pale face got paler still when he realized just how many there were.  It was beautiful.  It was everything she'd hoped for.

Lord Voldemort said, “My lovely daughter has sacrificed so much as I regained my strength.    We needed to hide her from the likes of the Order of the Phoenix until the time was right but We could have hidden her as any number of things.  Instead We decided to hide her as the lowest of the low so she could watch all your children and determine who was truly trustworthy.”  He turned to Lucius Malfoy.  “Don’t you agree, Lucius,  that such a sacrifice on her part deserves recognition.”

Lucius Malfoy, properly nervous at being singled out mumbled that of course, that he hoped his family had never been seen as lacking in support.  Voldemort had to wave his hand at the man in annoyance to get him to stop.  

“She’s asked for one little gift for her birthday,” Voldemort said.  He regarded her with delight.  “A request that shows Us she is truly her mother’s daughter.”

Many of the assembled Death Eaters looked increasingly nervous at that proclamation.  Even before Azkaban, Bellatrix had been unstable.  Now she hadn't even been permitted to attend her daughter's party because of her insanity and unpredictable violence; the idea Hermione might take after her mother scared them all.

Hermione managed to avoid licking her lips as her father crooked his finger and beckoned Draco Malfoy forward.  “Congratulations, Lucius,” he said.  “You’ve just given your only son to Our daughter for her birthday.”  

“My Lord,” Lucius whispered but someone next to him had the presence of mind to step on his foot and shut him up.

“Darling,” Voldemort said to Hermione.  “Remember, don’t break your toys.  It’s not like I can get you another one.”

“I promise,” she said as she smiled at Draco Malfoy, who looked like he was trying not to pass out.  “I’ll be good.”

“That’s what she said about the unicorn toy,” Voldemort said fondly.  “Little hellion snapped it in half in three days.”  The Death Eaters all laughed.

That was when Draco fainted.

. . . . . . . . . .

When he came to he kept his eyes squinched shut and tested his limbs and determined he didn't seem to be tied up in any way and he could even feel the familiar pressure of his wand against his hip.  When he risked opening his eyes  he was in a bland room and Hermione Granger - no, Hermione Riddle - was curled up in a large, beige chair with her nose in a book; she didn't seem to realize he'd regained consciousness.  He studied her through the fringe of his hair.  

She was as damnably beautiful as she'd been for years.   Her dark hair sprang out around her face and, now that he was looking, he could see the similarity to his Aunt Bella's own locks, though Hermione's hair was more of a rich brown than the black of her mother's.  He knew her eyes were dark, so dark he'd gotten caught in them a few times, always yanking himself away with a muttered slur.  There were girls you dated, girls you married, and girls if you got caught with your mother burned you from the family tree while, quite possibly, your insane aunt tortured you to death.  He'd known which category Hermione was in.

Or, well, he'd thought he'd known.

Fuck, he'd been wrong. So wrong. He couldn't have messed this up worse if he'd set out to ruin his life on purpose.

He considered knocking her out and making a run for it but dismissed the idea as that of an idiot.  Where would he go?  To the Order?  He hated them anyway, and if he showed up on their doorstep telling them Harry Potter's Muggle-born friend was really Lord Voldemort's only child they'd laugh themselves sick before dumping him at St. Mungo's, where he'd sit, trapped, until Hermione felt like fetching him.

She turned a page.

"Do you plan to kill me?"  he asked.

She looked up at that.

"Can't stand the thought of the filthy Mudblood not being quite what you thought?"  

Draco thought he heard a little bitterness under that and thought with more than a little rancor that she didn't get to be the pissy one in this situation.  She was the one with all the power, as she had just demonstrated by demanding he be handed over to her as a gift.  "It seems like a reasonable question," he said.  "Or hurt me? I'd like to get it over with if that's the plan."

Her jaw tightened and he was shocked to see she seemed upset.  "I wasn't planning on it," she muttered.

"Do I get to ask what the plan is?"

She slouched lower in the big armchair until it seemed to swallow her and finally said, "I didn't really think past the part where I got to see you be shocked and horrified that I wasn't the nobody you thought I was."

Draco pulled himself upright and sat so he leaned against the headboard and looked at the girl who was huddled into the chair and looked more like a lost soul than the terrifying dark princess she'd been at the earlier celebration.  "Did you like that part?" he asked, the words coming out more gently than he'd meant them to.

"Yes," she admitted.  She looked up at him through lashes so long and dark he'd have thought they were enhanced magically if it weren't for the way he'd seen the woman wear cosmetics only once in all the years he'd known her.   The lashes were real.  "I liked that part quite a bit if we're being honest."

"I would have," he said.  "If you'd been a shite to me for years and then you found out I was young Lord Voldemort?  I would have reveled in that."

"I've fantasized about it for years," she admitted.  "Every time you were an arse I thought, just wait.  You'll see."

Draco bit the inside of his mouth and swallowed hard.  She'd thought about him for years.  She'd wanted him for years.  "Why me?" he asked, trying to keep his voice light.  "You could have had anyone.  Could have anyone. I'm sure if you wanted half a dozen boys to wait on you, your father would hand them over."

"He's always spoiled me," she said.  "When I was home, that is.  I think… he wanted to make up for having to hide me with the Grangers."

"Why me?"  he asked again.  

The sun shone in through the sheer curtains and dust motes swirled around and he watched them sparkle for an eternity before she said, "I wanted… you're so… it's stupid and it's pathetic."  She closed her book with an audible snap and stood up on her impossibly long legs.  "Never mind.  I've had my fun seeing you turn white and faint like that.  You can go and tell your father I released you."

Drqco stood up and took a step toward the door and then stopped and looked at the way she stood, half-resigned, half-defensive.

"Go," she said again.

He'd always thought he'd known what category she fell in.  It was the out of bounds category. It was the not-to-be-touched category.  It might not have been fair, it might not have been right, but bravery and battling the world wasn't something he did, not even for a pair of dark eyes that glistened right now as the woman they belonged to folded her arms across her body.

"I'm a coward," he said, reaching one hand out to cup her chin.

"I do know that," she said.   She sounded sullen.  She had her lip thrust out in a classic gesture of sulky petulance he suddenly found unbearably adorable.

He lowered his mouth to that lip. "I am not, however, stupid," he said right before he kissed her.

[lovelylanden]

Comfort

Where Harry comforts a distraught Draco Malfoy.

Note: This cute little drabble was requested by a wonderful anon. I’m not sure if this is exactly what you asked for and I’m sorry this took forever to actually post! Any other blurbs would be lovely if you’d like to see anything else of mine. Brace yourself for slight angst and otherwise tons of fluff ahead. Much love and enjoy x

Word count: 1k

---

Draco stood in the main hall of the Manor, frozen. The house was like an empty vessel and a sharp crash and crack causes him to jolt in surprise. The blond wizard hated loud noises and mysterious ruckus from the otherwise vacant Manor wasn't helping the cause.

Draco was rather jumpy and skittish; this behaviour had started nearly two months into getting his dark mark. Voldemort was never one for subtlety and loud bangs accompanied with pained screams often echoed off the pristine walls.

"Merlin Merlin Merlin," Draco chants timidly as he scurried toward the noise, wand raised. He knew he would never be able to harm the intruder so when he finds a house elf standing in the middle of his kitchen, he lets off a sigh and lowers his wand. That was what the noise had been. The house elf had Apparated.

"Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Malfoy, sir but Master Harry Potter has sent me to deliver a message,"

"A message?" Draco asks with confusion, eyebrows furrowed. "What did he want?"

"He wanted to know why you shut out your Floo and didn't allow him through your wards,"

Draco suppresses a groan at this. He had been avoiding Potter for a reason. "Because I don't want to see him," He says softly, watching the house elf’s ears turn in, thinking. 

“But why?” They ask after a moment and Draco shrugs. 

“Didn’t want to bother him,” 

“You’re not a bother to Master Harry, Mr. Malfoy,” The house elf says quietly. “Mr. Potter is very worried about you so please... let him back in. Please,” Another sharp crack, much like a stiff whip rushes through Draco and suddenly the boy is alone. 

The blond sits on his kitchen floor, eyeing the place the house elf had once been with gritted teeth. Of course Draco was being a bother to Harry. Surely the boy was tired of finding Draco a crying mess in the majority of the many many rooms in the Manor. With tears in his mercury eyes, Draco stands, walking over to his fireplace and reopens his Floo. If Harry decides to try again, so be it but if it didn’t, Draco would try his best not to be disappointed. 

***

The roar of Draco’s Floo is unheard from the boy’s place in the middle of the dining room. Harry steps out of the fireplace and when he calls Draco’s name, is greeted with silence. This puzzles the boy and he makes his way up the spiral staircase to Draco’s room with furrowed eyebrows. 

When he finds the blond boy sitting in the middle of the room with a case of empty flasks beside him, all colour drains from his face and his heart drops down into his stomach. “Draco?” He calls again, voice barely above a whisper as he walks farther into the room. When Harry takes a better look at the other wizard, he finds his face to be passive and relaxed, pupils blown as he stares into space. “Draco, what did you do? What did you do, my sweet boy?” He asks worriedly, bending down beside him.

Harry goes to investigate the few vials left at the boy’s side and the strong scent of citrus and peppermint hits him like a slap in the face and Harry swears quietly. He knew exactly what this was; it was a highly addictive potion that Draco had often used after the war that left you void of all emotion and feeling. “Fuck, Draco.” He whispers and grabs the boy’s bicep, Apparating them to St. Mungos. 

“Healer Potter?” A fellow nurse says as soon as she sees Harry in the middle of the waiting room floor. 

“Anastasia, I need you to take Draco to the rehabilitation ward. Give him an IV drip. He’s been taking Chromia X again. I don’t know how many vials but it needs to get flushed from his system as quickly as possible,” The nurse nods, now focused at the task at hand and helps Harry put the blond into a wheelchair before taking him off to the respected ward. “That’s why Draco had been avoiding me,” Harry frowns and collapses into the first chair he sees, hand in his unruly hair, completely at a loss. 

***

“Mr. Malfoy is asking for you,” Harry looks up at this, surprised at how long he had been waiting and jumps up from his seat, breath caught in his lungs. He follows the Healer down many corridors until he arrives at room B182 to find Draco laying in a hospital bed in a gown with an IV stuck in his right arm. 

“Draco,” He murmurs, stumbling over to the bed toward the half conscious wizard. 

“Harry,” The boy whispers, droopy eyed and pale. “I’m sorry,” 

“Shh, don’t apologize, love. It’s okay. You’ll be okay,” He grabs ahold of his hand and gives it a gentle squeeze. He felt slightly uncomfortable knowing a nurse and fellow coworker was watching Harry’s interaction with the Malfoy but paid no mind, pressing a kiss to the back of his palm. 

“Lay with me, please,” He whimpers and Harry nods, waiting until the respective nurse leaves. It was a squeeze to fit the two of them into one small twin bed but the two manage. Draco burrows into the hallow of Harry’s neck as the boy runs his fingers across Draco’s dark mark. 

“I’m sorry,” He apologizes again into the other boy’s neck before placing a lazy kiss there. 

“Why did you do this, Draco?” Harry asks softly. 

“I was tired of hurting. And I... I was scared. I was scared of how much I liked you and I was afraid I’d screw something up so I started distancing myself from you. Then I found those vials in my cabinet and I slipped back into old habits,” 

Harry says nothing at first, only kisses Draco’s palm again. “We’ll get through this together,” He promises and Draco nods, curling closer into Harry’s embrace, knowing now how foolish he was to shut the boy out. 

“Always saving the day,” Draco murmurs drowsily. “Must be your saviour complex or something,” He says and Harry doesn’t have a chance to respond before the boy is asleep. 

“Anything for you, my boy,”