face eaters

Risking it all in a glance

“Draco… Draco.” 

His father’s voice sounded strained, almost like a scared whisper. He hesitantly stretched out his arm, his hand balled into a fist. Draco swallowed hard as several heads turned towards him, watched him. He was sure they all expected him to walk across the courtyard without hesitation. It was where he belonged after all.

All these years he had done as his father had said. He hadn’t defied him once. But now, everything in him screamed to stay where he was, not to go to his father. It came too late. What was the point in defying him now?

Harry Potter was dead. There was no hope left.

“Draco.”

Draco’s eyes darted to his mother. Her voice rang through him and immediately found its way to his heart, squeezing it violently. She took a step forward, smiling at him almost sadly.

“Come.”

Hesitating only a second longer, Draco started moving, his head bowed. He didn’t dare to look anyone in the eye.

Harry Potter was dead. What was the point in fighting?

Draco’s body went rigid when the Dark Lord enveloped him in his arms.

“Well done, Draco,” he whispered into his ear. Draco thought he was going to be sick. Silently, he made his way to his parents, avoiding his father’s waiting arms and grasping his mother’s hand instead.

He tried to suppress a sob when his eyes fell on Potter’s lifeless body, held tight by the half-giant. It made him want to scream, to sink to his knees and beg the heavens to return him. What were they supposed to do without Potter now? What was Draco supposed to do without him?

For the rest of his life, he would be haunted by the knowledge that the last time he had seen Harry Potter alive, the Gryffindor had saved his life, had saved him from the Fiendfyre. And what had Draco done? He had simply grabbed his wand when it had fallen out of Potter’s hand and had made a run for it.

His hand tightened around the wood, making his knuckles go white. It didn’t even feel like his wand anymore. It only reminded him of what he had done. It disgusted him.

He could barely listen as Longbottom stepped forward and told them it didn’t matter that Potter was dead. His heart gave another violent squeeze. He wished he could go back in time. Draco doubted it was in his power to save Potter, but he should have at least told him that he… that he…

Draco saw something sparkly out of the corner of his eyes when suddenly chaos erupted. Longbottom was holding something; it looked like a sword. Draco looked around, taking in the shocked faces of the Death Eaters. That’s when he finally saw it; Potter, jumping out of the half-giant’s arms. In this mere second, Draco’s whole world shifted. It was as if time was standing still. Potter was crouching on the ground, his face full of determination.

Draco’s mind was completely blank. He didn’t think, he didn’t question it when his feet started moving of their own accord.

“Potter!” His voice was choked, desperate. The feeling only intensified when their eyes met. Draco hadn’t thought he’d ever see those eyes again. It made him shiver. He didn’t think about repercussions, about what his parents would say, what the Dark Lord might do to him. How could he, when Harry Potter was alive?

Without a moment’s hesitation, he lifted his arm above his head and threw his wand with all his might. His heart hammered wildly against his chest as he watched Potter catch it mid-air.

They were saved. He was saved.

Even though relief flooded through him, at this point, Draco really didn’t care what happened to him anymore. He had experienced what it meant to lose  nearly everything.

Harry Potter was alive and that was all that mattered.


So, quick intermission because there’s this song you could listen to real quick. Yes, this was indeed inspired by a song originally sung by the Backstreet Boys lol. BUT can you honestly listen to it and tell me this is not one of the most drarry songs you’ve ever heard? I can’t believe I hadn’t noticed before! So, with that in mind, the story continues…


It was quick, fleeting, but it made Harry stop dead, the air completely knocked out of his lungs. Grey eyes, hesitant, sad, locked with his.

Someone bumped into him, breaking the eye contact. Harry whirled around, the shopping bag in his hand hitting the wizard beside him in the back.

“Sorry,” Harry mumbled. He quickly turned his head back down Diagon Alley, searching for grey eyes but there were just too many people.

Keep reading

Ravenclaw Headcanon

Professor Longbottom is the head of Gryffindor house and the Ravenclaws don’t understand why, because if Professor Potter killed Voldemort, shouldn’t he be head of house? So as Ravenclaws do, they pushed the subject even though it wasn’t their business (mostly because Gryffindors just shrug it off and move on). Ravenclaws asked headmistress McGonagall why, and she just responds with “Because Professor Longbottom is a more exemplary Gryffindor.” And the Ravenclaws are like “what? No?” So they take the matter to Professor Potter and ask him. He just laughs and says, “I fought because I had to, because I was chosen by Voldemort, and was magically linked to him, I had no way out. And Neville was chosen by the death eaters. He faced more enemies personally, and he could’ve ran and hid, but he was the face of the revolution here. Neville stood his ground while I was in hiding.”
And all the Ravenclaws become awestruck and ask for more information, and both professors just brush off the subject. And because the Ravenclaws are who they are, when history of magic has it’s lesson on the war at hogwarts, they pay more attention than anyone and soon have a deeper understanding and respect for Professor Longbottom.

zombee  asked:

for prompts: how about an "inside the resistance" fic. we've gotten glimpses of dean and lee and some others in your other fics, but i'd love to see your take on what was happening during deathly hallows that we really only heard about through harry's pov.

Astoria Greengrass, Slytherin, perfected her ability to crumple up her face, cry quietly, and make even Death Eaters uncomfortable. She was a person, after all, in the way so many children weren’t to them– she was small and pureblooded and lovely. Astoria was safe in the halls until the very end, and she passed on information, supplies, warnings, children, and plans to the DA through every day of the occupation.

Cho Chang, Ravenclaw, manned the front desk at Flourish and Blotts. She kept the Anti-Muggleborn pamphlets out beside the register and hid the Squibs and Muggleborns she was smuggling to safety behind the false wall in the store room. She had excelled at Charms in school. She had excelled at most things.

Lee Jordan, Gryffindor– his radio station was mobile. They broadcasted from the Three Broomsticks’ supply room, his aunt’s dusty summer home out in the country, an Illusioned corner of a Muggle coffee shop (they just saw some kids playing D&D– a Muggleborn informant of Lee’s had designed the spell), a once-inhabited cave outside Hogsmeade, and one memorable public men’s washroom only three blocks from the Ministry headquarters itself. They had a lot of fun contributing to the stall graffiti in that one.

Professor McGonagall listened to Lee’s radio show in her faculty quarters, heavy under dampening wards. The first night she flicked on the show, she clutched her cooling teacup for the entirety of it, feeling older than even herself.

Lee spat out rapid fire news with a cool drawl, asking questions and bringing on informants. She didn’t once feel the driving urge to scold him across the Quidditch announcer’s booth for commenting on players’ dating statuses or cursing out the opposing team.

Lee’s voice over the crackling radio was bright and clever, focused and on point, needed. Minerva clutched at her tea cup and tried to feel proud instead of heartbroken.

Ernie Macmillian, Hufflepuff, had looked up to Cedric Diggory since the prefect had said hello to a small first-year. When Ernie boarded the train back to Hogwarts, for that terrible seventh year, his hands were shaking under the weight of his bags. “Remember,” he whispered. “When there is a choice between what is right, and what is easy, remember…”

Neville Longbottom, Gryffindor, grew two inches that year and no one noticed. They all just thought he was standing straighter.

There was a small collection of first years for whom this was their first year at Hogwarts: There was Felice White, Ravenclaw, who had come for the library and spent most of her time there. Madame Pince turned a blind eye and made sure she ate regularly. There was Gregory Tong, Hufflepuff, who was the youngest of four and had been dreaming of Hogwarts for years.

The older students told stories about Harry Potter, about Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger, Gryffindor, who were out there winning the war.

They told stories– how the trio had saved the Philosopher’s Stone at age eleven. Potter had killed a basilisk, and a hundred dementors, and won the Triwizard Cup. They told stories in the dark, these kids who had sat behind Harry in the Great Hall and thought his hair a mess, who had booed him in Quidditch games and snickered to see him dance awkwardly at the Yule Ball.

“He’ll save us,” they said.

Granger had brewed up Polyjuice Potion in a girls’ bathroom. Potter could cast a corporeal Patronus. Weasley had beaten McGonagall at chess– McGonagall at chess. And they had faced down a murderer, or something, hadn’t they, in their third year? And the Death Eaters and Voldemort himself in fifth– and whatever had happened to Umbridge?

Granger had brewed a Polyjuice Potion in a girls’ bathroom– so Sue Li, Ravenclaw, took her spare cauldron to the stall past Moaning Myrtle’s and got to work. Astoria Greengrass got Sue bits of hair from Death Eaters and favored Slytherins and Sue tiptoed carefully in their various visages for months. She sent Hogwarts news down to the generals–Luna, Neville, Ginny–and the rest out the passages to Lee’s radio and the resistance.

Potter could cast a Patronus, and he had taught as many as had been willing to learn under Umbridge’s shadow. More were willing now–more wanted to make hope tangible, something bright to be used to protect, to defend, to send careful news long distances to friends.

Seamas Finnegan, who had played chess with Ron, poured over the changing maps that the Room provided. Hannah Abbott snuck out to the greenhouses on dark nights to gather what she needed to brew things to confuddle, to injure, to protect. The Room of Requirement provided food and water, but all the same every month or so the kids pulled a raid on the kitchens just to prove that they could.

Colin Creevey found a Slytherin first-year, crying, and gave him a chocolate bar and held his hand until he was done. Anthony Goldstein spent days hiding out in the Restricted section of the library, finding things to make them stronger, safer, wiser.

In those halls, they faced down Death Eaters under the guise of teaching robes. They faced them with raised wands, raised fists, or just raised chins, these children who kept telling stories in the dark about Harry Potter, who was going to save them.

When Harry, Ron, and Hermione came back to Hogwarts, Dumbledore’s Army was waiting. Seamas had his maps. Neville had grown two inches and no one had noticed. Hannah offered up potions, and Sue secrets, and Anthony had been teaching the rest of them powerful old spells for weeks.

But Astoria Greengrass sat out the final battle in the Hogwarts dungeons, with the rest of House Slytherin.

Pansy Parkinson sulked and shivered. Blaise Zabini managed to look like he was lounging, even within these ominous walls. Astoria pressed herself up against the door and watched the light of curses flung far above. She listened. She waited. She tried Alohomora on the lock fifteen times, and then swapped to destructive spells that only singed it.

Astoria Greengrass sat out the final battle, listening to her friends fight for their lives far above her head, waiting for bad news. She listened to her big sister Daphne gently tease Pansy into a more cheerful state of mind, and Astoria tried to decide who she would hate most if the people she had been fighting for all year died up there, without her.

Years later, after victory, after rebuilding, after petitions from her peers, the Ministry gave Astoria an honorary medal for the brave acts of a civilian in wartime.

It was part thank you, and part apology. It did not make up in the slightest for Astoria having to stand at Colin’s funeral, at Lavender’s, at Fred’s, and to know that they had died while she was pacing in the dark, flinging useless curses at a locked door.

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Sketchdump! Expect more of these to come, I’ve been doodling a lot, mostly to get out of an artblock I had building up ^^“ (I don’t want to post them each so I hope this is alright as well although it’s mixed fandoms) the doodles are going to be mostly of Nigel but psshh