dusting harris

my problem with the ‘harry becomes lord of 2/¾/5 ancient noble houses’ trope is so unbelievably petty because its that fic writers don’t take it to the potential extreme. like, okay, you wanna make harry the bossest of bitches i get that, i understand, i have that urge too from time to time, but c’mon, be a little more creative about it please

so how about a fic where harry goes to gringotts after the fighting is all over to try to make peace with the goblin nation because this boy does not need more problems and after much hostility and some groveling and promises of future payments for damages caused a plucky goblin lass comes and shuffles harry into her tiny cube office to discuss the nature of his financial situation

(this is a grave insult among goblins. getting handled by a female, first of all, because they are supposedly less capable bankers, hello misogyny among other species, and because they consider anyone who needs help with his money to be lower than cave scum. harry doesn’t know about his. and if he did, he wouldn’t care because he does, desperately, need help)

and plucky goblin lass (who we will call PGL for short) brings out this MASSIVE tome of parchment and slams it down on her desk. a cloud of dust rises. harry sneezes and gets a terrible feeling. some of the parchment is mildewing. the stack is taller than his hand is wide. this can only end badly

PGL tells him that he’ll need to read the entire book to fully comprehend the new scope of his property and harry kind of weakly says “what??”

and it turns out that heyo, when the death eaters swore to follow voldemort with all their lives and souls and magic in their little racist hearts they actually swore a modified liege lord oath which also has the coincidental side effect of ceding all titles (and property connected to said titles) held to the lord in question too. haha how funny who knew

and that’s an ongoing thing. so voldemort was the de facto head of two dozen magical houses at the beginning of the war and he just picked up more as he gained more followers and he probably could have just voted himself and his crew into every position of the government and run the country like that if he cared to do it but voldemort was not about dat political life. he wanted change and he wanted it now. he wanted to MAKE AMERICA MAGICAL BRITAIN GREAT AGAIN. so he started a civil war and just never informed his loyal death eaters of that little fact because they didn’t need to know.

and you might think that gringotts vaults are tied into bloodlines but they’re really not. the malfoy family vault belongs to whoever is the current head of the malfoy family. normally, that’s a malfoy and his malfoy spawn becomes the next head and so it passes through the family, accumulating inherited wealth. it was a working system until voldemort got involved and exploited the ever-living hell out of it.

now this all becomes harry’s problem because it turns out that Right of Conquest is an actual thing. what was voldemort’s is now his and voldemort has has the time to accumulate A Metric Fuck Ton of stuff.

also connected to titles are votes in the wizengamot. and whoo boy, this is where harry’s problem becomes really really really problematic. because the noble families squabble over those votes like children, hoarding them and passing them down, occasionally trading them for advantageous marriages and such, but mostly jealously guarding them like the politcal gold they are. it’s such a bitterly tight-fisted market that any one family has ~maybe~ three or  four votes.

and now harry bloody potter has a hundred of the things and a completely unintentional stranglehold on the government. whoops

and then hermione would shotput harry straight into the wizengamot against his protests and things would become so hilarious i just

some jerkass attempts to increase his own salary for doing basically nothing

“how about no,” harry and his hundred votes say.

somebody attempts to tighten restrictions on where magical creatures like vampires and werewolves can work

“how about no.” harry crosses his arms. “actually, how about we repeal those bullshit laws already in place that make it almost impossible for werewolves to get a job right now, hmmmm? and how about we put something in place to catch abusive owners of house elves? and make sure they get paid? and vacation days? and healthcare? actually how about we get healthcare for EVERYBODY HOW ABOUT T H A T?”

ten generations of purebloods cry out in horror. look upon him ye mighty and despair.

the years after voldemort’s defeat don’t go down in history as The Golden Era. in fact, thanks to harry bloody potter (and some incessant nudging by hermione granger), they go down as The Decade of Frankly Astonishing Strides Toward Equality *cough* enforced by a semi-plutocracy.

(all thanks to a third tier plot never really explored by a would-be dictator YOU’RE ALL WELCOME)

gracelesschoice  asked:

What if Voldemort didn't offer Frank or Alice Longbottom a chance to sacrifice themselves for their child, his offering to spare Lily was only a whim based on a prior request to do so. What if he killed Alice and Frank without hesitation, and was able to kill defenseless little Neville. Then just to be safe, he tracked the Potter's down too. What if Snape didn't find out in time, and Lily was murdered without thought, and Harry shortly after.

What if Voldemort went after Harry and Neville, and gave no one a chance to die for them? What if both Chosen Ones died as children?

Gosh, we didn’t want to pull our punches today, did we. Okay, well, I guess here we go–

Because Voldemort wasn’t gone, because there was not a sudden flood of peace–they didn’t send enough Aurors to take down Sirius Black.

Instead of standing laughing in the street when they came to arrest him, Sirius ran. He Apparated away and went to find Remus, because they still had work to do.

That first meeting, after Remus got the news of Peter’s “death,” of everyone’s, was a difficult one. It was outside the wreck and ruin of the little cottage in Godric’s Hollow and that only made it worse. It had been the only place Sirius had been sure Remus would go that night.

“What a Halloween, eh, Moony?” he said from the bushes and Remus almost cursed him right there, until Sirius managed to shout and dodge and wave his hands enough to explain that they’d switched the Secret Keeper. Sirius started laughing when he saw Remus start to believe him, and it wasn’t the mad laughter of a man who had lost everything, because Sirius hadn’t, not quite.

When Remus buried his head into Sirius’s shoulder, outside the slightly smoking shell of Lily and James’s home, they both cried like the children they were.

In a different world, they would have had this reunion in the scarred confines of the Shrieking Shack, thirteen years too late. In a different world, Sirius would have been gaunt, grimy, gasping with demented fury. Remus would have been washed out, threadbare. They would both have looked far too old for their ages, but there would have been a boy with messy hair and his mother’s green eyes staring accusingly out at them. In a different world, Harry would have hated Sirius until he understood, and then he would have loved his godfather for the rest of his life.

If you asked them, the boys crying on Lily and James’s doorstep, or the skeleton of a wanted man and the wan ghost with the beast living under his skin– if you asked them which world they preferred, they’d have an easy answer for you.

But what did happen, in this story where they buried the Chosen Ones too early and there was no love to bring them back? They kept fighting. The war did not end. Voldemort had seven Horcruxes and he thought he was immortal. For now, he was.

In this world, there was no prophesied boy. Love was not magic; it was only soft touches and quiet words, promises they could not promise to keep. An extra piece of chocolate tucked into a packed lunch. A mother’s favorite earrings passed down and down, hand to hand. Love was not magic. It did not resurrect.

Halloween Night 1981 was one more night in a long fight, to almost everyone. This was not the first time whole families had been lost. This was not the last time they would bury children.

But that night, Augusta Longbottom withered. Peter Pettigrew shivered, somewhere, welcomed into plush halls with open arms. Petunia Dursley found only the milk on her doorstep in the morning.

When Remus took Sirius back to one of his safe houses, Remus drank the same way he had in that other reality–in mourning and not any kind of celebration. But this time, he did not drink alone.

Only Dumbledore curled in on himself over lost opportunity, knowing exactly how much hope they’d lost in those two houses, now empty, now cold. He knew about the prophecies, Sybil Trelawney’s hoarse forgotten promises. He knew how powerful Tom had become and he knew how much weight they had been hoping to put on the shoulders of those two lost boys. He knew Harry had had his mother’s eyes.

(Albus did not know, however, about Neville’s first word or that Harry had refused new, magical toys to instead chew and slobber on Lily’s favorite, soft old doll, which she had carried from a Muggle world to a magical one.

Dumbledore thought about the war that night. It would save lives, this old man and his tired soul, that this was how he mourned. But there were more opportunities lost here than a war one day won; there was a grief here that had nothing to do with strategy.)

“We are lost, Minerva,” Dumbledore said.

Professor McGonagall was trembling, thin and severe with it. “You don’t think that,” she said and she was right. But it was a night to believe thoughts like that. In the morning, there would be new plans, new hopes, but not on this Halloween. Dumbledore took out a lemon drop and sucked on it. Minerva found the fire whiskey. The sun rose, eventually. They called a meeting of the Order the next day.

There was no prophesied boy, but there was still this–dozens of shadowed young faces looking up at Albus and not running, even at the very end of the world. Dumbledore looked out at his chess pieces, pawns and queens; his children and his friends; his collateral damage. He had the beginnings of a plan swelling in his chest.

It would take them decades to get their hands, quietly, on every Horcrux. Tom Riddle had to think they were secret. He had to think he was safe. It would take them almost decades, but one day he would be mortal again.

These dozens of faces–they were mortal now. Alastor Moody could feel mortality in the aches of old broken bones; Andromeda rewrote her own last name, refused to fear sea serpents, and refused to pretend that the serpents could not swallow any one of them whole. Remus and Sirius felt empty, gaping holes in the seats around them, and they made crude, expansive, joyous toasts to friends’ memories.

When Molly first reached over and held Arthur’s hand, they knew this was something that could not last. That was why they held hands, held on, held tight.

Keep reading

It was an average saturday, one where you didn’t expect anything out of the ordinary to happen. Draco was at peace. He was lounging on the sofa, sipping his cup of earl grey tea while Harry finished up the dishes from that morning’s breakfast.

When the knock came, Draco rolled his eyes in distaste. It was probably a muggle salesperson. He simply toyed with his mug, waiting for Harry to get the door. He was much better at handling that sort of thing. Harry turned the taps off in the kitchen, and Draco heard him sigh. He passive-aggressively muttered “I’ll get it, then.” before heading to the door and opening it.

Draco felt the mood drop. He glanced over and saw Harry’s shoulders stiffen, as though bracing himself for something that would never come.
“What are you doing here?” He demanded. Draco frantically felt for his wand. Harry never used that tone with strangers, which meant that he was probably in danger. Draco couldn’t bear the thought of yet another conflict with a dark wizard from his past.

He heard a muffled exchange, and, moments later, Harry returned with an uptight looking couple Draco didn’t recognize. Judging by their stiff nature and the way Harry was glaring at them, he figured they were the Dursleys.
They sat down across from Draco, who slid his feet to make room for Harry. He sat down beside Draco, trembling slightly. Draco fought the urge to wrap his arm around Harry’s waist, the way he normally did when he was struggling with his memories. Instead, he settled with a steady glare directed towards the Dursleys, who were already shifting uncomfortably.

“Harry. We’ve come to apologize. The way we treated you… it was wrong.” Petunia arranged her eyebrows in a pleading expression. She hadn’t taken her eyes off of Harry once. Vernon was currently locked in a glaring match with Draco, who knew without a doubt that he would win this fight. He allowed himself a small smirk when Vernon finally blinked and studied the floor.

Harry seemed ready to burst with buried energy and resentment. “I don’t need an apology. I never wanted one. All I wanted was for you two and Dudley to be safe during the war. I… I never wanted to see you again. It’s obvious you’re only here to feel better about yourselves.” He paused, fiddling with his hands and shaking his head.

“I’ve outgrown you,” he continued. “I’ve made a life for myself. I don’t need your pity.” Petunia swallowed audibly, her wide eyes seeming to search Harry’s for some lost emotion. “We didn’t just come here to apologize, Harry. I was sorting out the attic the other day, and I came across this. I want you to have it.”

She then reached into her handbag and presented a small package to Harry. After struggling with the wrappings for an agonizing minute, Draco reached over and tore through the paper. Harry shot him a grateful smile. He pulled out a rather ratty looking blanket, which seemed to be alive with dust and age. Harry gave a small gasp and ran his hand along it, his eyes welling up with tears.
“Th-thank you.” He managed, glancing back up at Petunia. Vernon grunted. “We figured you’d want it. It was your mother’s, after all. The blanket you came to us in.”
Harry nodded numbly, his eyes fixed on the blanket once more. “I really appreciate this. I thought you would’ve tossed it by now.”

He smiled a watery smile up at Petunia, who returned it.
“You really are your mother’s son, you know.” She observed. She then promptly stood, straightening her dress and beckoning for Vernon to follow her.

“I’m glad to see you’re doing well, Harry. Your boyfriend seems… well, nice.” Draco shot her a sarcastic smirk, narrowing his eyes. Harry might have forgiven her, but Draco had spent enough nights curled up with Harry, sitting through his tears as he relayed the abuse and neglect he’d endured. Forgiveness wasn’t his strong suit, especially when it came to people mistreating Harry. It was one of the reasons he couldn’t forgive himself.

“Thank you. He is…” Harry said, closing the door behind him after exchanging a few last words with Petunia. He immediately let out a sob, which sent Draco bolting towards him.

“What’s wrong, love?” He cooed, bringing Harry close and patting his fluffed up hair.
“It’s just… I-I’ve been trying to forget what happened… but… it never goes away… and then they came and… it just brought it all back, you know?” He managed between ragged sobs. Draco shushed him softly, taking him by the hand and leading him back to the sofa, where he flopped down dramatically. Draco snuggled beneath him and held him close.

“Harry… it’s okay. You can forgive them if it makes you feel better. I couldn’t but, well… you know me.” Harry snorted, burying his face into Draco’s neck as he held him there, still crying slightly. He looked up at Draco, tears clinging to his black eyelids.

“I’m so glad I have you.” He murmured. Draco just smiled down at him, a lump forming in his throat. He didn’t know what he would do without Harry, and if he was honest, he loved having someone to comfort. With Harry serving as a human blanket, they fell asleep like that together, Harry’s hair tickling Draco’s chin, their hearts slowing as they gave in to the exhaustion. As far as Draco was concerned, there was no blanket warmer.

Beta’d by @horned-serpent thank u ilu 💕

The Year’s at the Spring: An Anthology of Recent Poetry. Compiled by Lettice D'Oyly Walters. Illustrated by Harry Clarke. New York: Brentano’s, 1920. First edition. Original dust jacket.

ONE night as Dick lay half asleep,
Into his drowsy eyes
A great still light began to creep
From out the silent skies.
It was the lovely moon’s, for when

He raised his dreamy head.
Her rays of silver filled the pane
And streamed across his bed.
So, for awhile, each gazed at each —

Dick and the solemn moon —
Till, climbing slowly on her way.
She vanished, and was gone.

Disney  Fics 👑

DISNEY AU’S

DISNEYLAND AU’S

Teacups (25k)

Louis works as Peter Pan at Paris’ Eurodisney while Harry’s the mad-hatter who works at the teacup ride, and just so happens to be the annoyingly gorgeous man Louis is in love with.

Eight Days of Falling in Love with Him (wip)

Harry Styles takes an eight day trip to Disney World to build a photography portfolio to be a Disney campaign photographer, he accidentally falls in love with Peter Pan.

Faith and Trust and Pixie Dust (10k)

Harry Styles and his son, Lucas, are spending four days at Disneyland for Lucas’ sixth birthday. Louis Tomlinson is Peter Pan there, and takes a shine to both the boys. He gives them tickets to a Peter Pan show that night, and spends the evening with the two before spending the night with Harry. Lucas and Harry both find themselves getting attachd to Louis, and Louis finds the same himself.

Wide Eyes and a Cynical Heart (wip)

The one where Louis is poor and cycnical, Harry is rich and romantic, they teach each other things they didn’t know and fall in love along the way. Plus Niall and Zayn are closer than they should be, and Liam thinks he’s Mycroft Holmes.

more fics

anonymous asked:

Hi, I was wondering if you are taking requests? If not, then please ignore this, or sit on it for a while and decide. Tom did not build her up from nothing; he broke down the walls around what she didn't want to acknowledge. The book that housed a fraction of soul looked into this lonely, angry child and for just a moment saw a shadow of himself. Or basically: What if, Ginny was sorted into Slytherin?

Hm. So you seem to be asking two different questions here, and you don’t seem to know that they’re different. They’re both interesting stories probably, but I think what I’d like to talk to you about here is that nonequivalence. 

You’ve asked for a dark!Ginny, one who secretly hates, who secretly relishes in pain or dismissal, one with a hidden superiority complex and a violence in her that’s cruel enough to match a young, arrogant Tom Riddle. The youngest of seven, forgotten and left behind, belittled, bitter, and the orphaned boy who orphaned so many more in his time. 

It’s not quite my type of story, that–my Ginny is not a kind beast, but she is not a cruel one either–but it could certainly be a story. 

But then–

Or basically: What if, Ginny was sorted into Slytherin?

This is not the same question. Did you know that? 

Slytherin, despite everything, does not mean evil. It certainly doesn’t mean that on my blog, but even in canon– this is where you find Regulus Black, who died to stop old Tom. This is where you find Draco Malfoy, who was an ignorant, whiny, and self-important child, but hardly an evil one. This is where you find Andromeda Tonks, who loved so hard and so fierce and so well that she ran from superiority, wealth, and family to marry into a Mudblood house that was so much warmer than her childhood home ever had been. 

And Slytherin!Ginny is a story that would fascinate me. The traits of Slytherin– ambition, cunning, adaptability, selfishness, and possessive love– these sit well on the youngest Weasley. She falls in love with Harry day one and never gives up on it. She transforms herself to step out from waiting in the eaves for him and lives for her own self, and it’s that bright creation of her daring self that wins him in the end. She goes after things with a single-mindedness that delivers– in love, in Quidditch, in kissing boys and defending Hogwarts until the end. She breaks rules. She loves hard. She doesn’t give up. She belongs in Gryffindor, sure– bravery is a watchword; her red hair is a war banner– but she would not be out of place in Slytherin. 

And what a story that would be? The silence in the Great Hall when the name “Weasley” got followed by “SLYTHERIN.” Mrs. Weasley’s face when owls flap through the Burrow’s windows, carrying Percy’s concerned note and Ron’s dubious scrawl and Hermione’s anxious ‘Dear Mrs. and Mr. Weasley, I’d thought you’d like to be informed…’ (Fred and George of course just laughed and laughed and laughed into the silence and fell off their bench at the Gryffindor table and got bruises on their bums.) The way the Weasley parents would stress and wonder and pace and ask what did we do wrong– but in the end, the warm Weasley Christmas sweater that would arrive in the mail at the Slytherin table, a G knitted into the front, all brilliant in silver and green. 

But the worries Ginny would have that first year, as the diary ate her from the inside, as it did cruel things with her hands–she’d have the same fears that are written up there in that ask as certainties: that being Slytherin meant she was secretly wrong. That her loneliness and her anger, her ambition and all her little selfishnesses meant she walked in the same skin as Tom, the ghost-boy who was using her hands to strangle chickens and write threats and hang cats by their tails and let out monsters so they could murder schoolchildren for the sake of their blood. She would worry she was like him and she would be wrong. 

But this is what I would want out of that story– that growth, that realization, that reclaiming. You can be lonely without lashing out. You can be angry without being cruel. You can be ambitious without stepping on other people to get there. Ginny is good– a Ginny with green on her herms is still good. She is sarcastic and a bit dark in her humor, casts a mean Bat Bogey and is jealous about Cho and fiercely defensive of Luna– this is true in a lion’s House or a snake’s. 

I want Fred and George playing Exploding Snap with her and teasing her for not cheering for them in Quidditch matches. I want her to find Millicent’s temper as hilarious as she finds Luna’s oddities, and to threaten a hex on anybody who calls Millicent fatty just as quick as she threatens the ones who call Luna loony. I want Harry to conscript her to help him spy on Draco and her to take to espionage like a duck to water– because you’re a Slytherin, he says, and she laughs and says, no, because I’m a nosy little sister and always have been. 

When Ginny stays her sixth year, during the Carrows’ reign and Voldemort’s months of power, I’d want her to spit cruel words at Death Eaters and to hide her wand up her sleeve, and to stand between children and their abusers. I’d want her to marshal an army in the Room of Requirement, with Luna and Neville and every other scared, willing soul. This was her home. These were her people, her family, the things she was willing to fight for. 

When they told her–their firebrand, their war banner–that she ought to have been in Gryffindor, I hope she laughed, I hope she fumed, I hope she proved them wrong. She was here for her friends, the way Regulus betrayed Voldemort for Kreacher, the way Narcissa lied to save Draco, the way Snape spent his adult life atoning for Lily, the way Andromeda left everything behind for Ted Tonks. 

I would want Ginny to wear green proud by the end of it. I’d want her to know the evil was in Tom’s shadow, not in her, not in the color they both wore. I’d want Hermione to look up histories for her of Slytherins who saved children and fought good wars and taught and loved and built things meant to last– because ambition is about going after what you want. What in that is evil? Selfishness is about understanding that you yourself have value. What in that is evil? Cunning is about creativity, quick-thinking, rolling with the punches and paying attention– what in that is evil?

Do you know the sort of evil you can do in the name of fairness? Do you know the sort of damage you can do with bravery, with not knowing how to back down, not knowing how sometimes there is a need to give, to adapt? Do you know how you can cut with cleverness, what sort of scornful superiority can live in those high towers? 

These are stories about choice. You choose your House. You choose how to live your House. Be brave, be cunning, be fair, be curious– all of those have their dark wizards. I refuse to believe otherwise. 

“It shouldn’t be snowing so soon.” Harry is staring at the sky, the snow dropping on his face before he notices her staring at him. “Hm?” His hum is higher, out of confusion as to why she’s looking she presumes, and Y/N lifts her hand to his cheek.

“Your cheeks,” she murmurs, a grin broadening on her mouth, “Oh, your cheeks Harry!” She cries out, fingertips denting the cold skin, “I’ve never seen you blush before.”

“Blush?” Harry asks, hand lifting to cover hers, “I’m blushing?”

or 

Harry is still very smitten with this human, and Y/N loves a bunny

(PART 1)

Keep reading

draco’s boggart hc pt.2

here’s part 1 (they’re not related, but just in the sense that they’re both boggart hcs (pls check it out i just want some love :’)))

this hc was inspired by the lovely @drarry-ponderings and her original post (go check it out!! and follow her; she’s beautiful and an excellent artist and an overall amazing person xx)

and ohhh man here we go


  • Harry and Draco were going to move into Grimmauld Place.
  • They’d been dating for three years, but they finally decided to move in together after their engagement.
  • Grimmauld Place hadn’t been lived in since the war (5 years ago), and the dingy old house was due for some serious cleaning.
  • A month into the great cleaning, and the two had made a lot of progress. The house was already looking loads better than it had during the war; they were done renovating the basement and the first two floors with only one more floor and the attic to go.
  • Harry and Draco were in the first room of the third floor, and Merlin were there a lot of drawers to clean out. Most of them had been filled with dead puffskeins and doxies, along with some trinkets of the House of Black that Kreacher had stashed.
  • “Draco, magic isn’t enough. I feel like I’m going to choke on the dust,” Harry said as he pecked Draco on the cheek. “I’m gonna go get the vacuum, okay?” He dashed out of the room before Draco could protest.
  • Draco huffed in frustration and moved onto the dresser standing in the corner of the room. It was made out of dark oak and intricate carvings of the Black crest were easily visible all around the towering dresser. He whispered a soft Alohomora, and opened the heavy dresser to start the cleaning again.
  • The doors broke off with a bit of tugging, and Draco exploded into a fit of coughs and sneezes as the dust and smoke from the dresser hit him at once.
  • With multiple repetitions of Tergeo, Draco finally looked up to see Harry stepping out of the dresser.
  • Draco rolled his eyes, “Harry, did you really think you could surprise me with something like this? Honestly, Smith could have thought of a better prank than this.” Harry didn’t reply. “Harry?”
  • “Who the fuck do you think you are to call me by my given name, Malfoy?” Harry spat. His eyes were cold of emotion and disgust was easily readable on his face.
  • “Harry?” Draco asked again. “Harry, you’re scaring me. What’s wrong?” Draco’s voice was softer now, more vulnerable.
  • “What’s wrong?” Harry laughed.”After all that taunting you did in school, how you were so much better than muggleborns, you’re too bloody thick to figure it out, aren’t you?
  • “My problem is you, Malfoy. It’s the fact that you’re still alive. It’s the fact that a fucking Death Eater still roams free. It’s the fact that I’m fucking engaged to you, a filthy Death Eater. A murderer,” Harry sneered. Draco had fallen to his knees during Harry’s monologue, though he couldn’t remember when. He was clawing at his throat with his left hand, the other clawing at his Mark. His breathing had become uneven, and Draco began to have a coughing fit as he breathed in the dust that had settled on the ground. The room was spinning, and Draco couldn’t make out anything other than the sight of Harry’s trainers and his fiancé’s voice ring in his ears.
  • “I can’t believe how stupid I was during the war,” Harry continued. “It’s all so mad, thinking back on it. I can’t believe I was an idiot enough to save you from the Fiendfyre, Malfoy. Ron was right. I should have left you there with your Death Eater friends, Malfoy. I should have left you in the Room to die, to burn. To become the ash you deserved t-”
  • Riddikulus!”
  • Draco couldn’t hear or see anything anymore. His vision was turning black with the lack of oxygen his brain was getting from his erratic breathing, and the thump, thump, thump of his rapid heartbeat echoed in his head and was starting to give him a migraine. The only thing he was aware of was Harry’s voice, ringing in his ears. I should have left you in the Room to die.
  • Fuck, fuck, fuck. Harry had abandoned the vacuum cleaner and dashed up the stairs when he heard a voice that wasn’t Draco’s upstairs, but he’d never expected for something like this to happen.
  • It was a sharp stab in the heart for Harry when he found out that his partner-of-three-years’ boggart was Harry telling him that he should have left Draco in the Fiendfyre.
  • Harry dismissed his own panic and distress and focused on Draco. His breathing was getting shallower and shallower, and his skin was chilling. Harry quickly conjured a small plastic bag and placed it over Draco’s nose and mouth to help steady his breathing. “Draco? Breathe with me, okay? One, two, three…” Harry held the plastic bag to his face with one hand and wiped cold sweat off Draco’s face with the other. There wasn’t a huge change in Draco’s breathing, but he was at least slightly responsive and trying.
  • After what seemed like hours (it probably had been hours, Harry thought), Draco breathed at a normal pace. He was curled in Harry’s embrace on the floor, and the room was silent except for Draco’s occasional sniffling.
  • “Why didn’t you tell me?” Harry asked softly as he carded his fingers through Draco’s hair.
  • “Well,” Draco laughed dryly. “To be frank, I didn’t know that this is my boggart.” He wiped a stray tear from the corner of his eye and snuggled closer to Harry. “I did suspect that it was probably something to do with you rejecting me, and it seems I was right- just not for the right reasons,” Draco finished.
  • Harry silently held Draco for a few minutes, and pressed light kisses from behind his ear to his lips and looked at him in the eye. “Draco? I truly, truly want you to know that I have never, and will never, regret saving you from the Fiendfyre. It was one of the best decisions of my life.
  • “I never would have grown and healed to be the person I am today without you, and my love for you will never flicker; I promise. I swear on my life,” Harry finished softly. Draco had burrowed his head into the crook of Harry’s neck and mumbled something incomprehensible.
  • “What was that?” Harry asked.
  • “I said, you’re a great big sap, Harry Potter,” Draco murmured.
  • Harry laughed. “Only for you, Draco Malfoy.”
  • Draco hummed in approval. “Can we go home now? I’m positively exhausted.”
  • “’Course,” Harry replied and pulled Draco to his feet. The two charmed themselves clean and headed for the door.
  • “Take-out curry for dinner?”
  • “You know it, Potter.” 

-fin

Santa’s grouchy little helper

Originally posted by ohstylesno

DAY 3 - DECEMBER 3RD

(Y/n) is always happy and sometimes Harry can’t handle it.

Keep reading

For about a month after the introduction of the wider student body to Queen it was not unusual to hear strains of Bohemian Rhapsody around the school. Gryffindor adopted We Will Rock You at quidditch matches to which Slytherin quickly retaliated with Another One Bites The Dust.