harry potter ship weeks

the novelty doesn't wear off
  • Harry: I can't believe it
  • Harry: I honest to god can not believe this is happening to me
  • Harry: I kissed you; we're HUGGING
  • Harry: I am fucking HUGGING Draco MALFOY
  • Harry: and you kissED ME ON THE CHEEK
  • Harry: i'm dead, i'm gone, this is too much
  • Draco: Harry we've been married for seven years what the fuck
  • Harry: and we're MARRIED
Every Night
  • <b> Me:</b> It's 11pm, I should probably go to sleep at an acceptable time tonight
  • <b> Also me:</b> <i>binge watches project runway till 5 am</i>

poc potter week, day five: favourite ship - harry/draco

‘how’s the professor of my favourite class doing?’
draco scoffed, ‘your favourite class? potter you aren’t fooling anyone, anybody with eyes could see that you absolutely detested potions’
‘well maybe if it were you teaching back then, i’d like it better’ harry smirked at draco
‘you forget that you also hated me’
‘when you’re like this i still do’
draco laughed. ‘whatever it is you’re trying to wheedle out of me, bugger off, it’s not happening. i need this done for tomorrow’s class. besides, don’t you need to grade that stack of defense essays hovering behind my head?’
‘well essays can certainly wait, don’t you think so, malfoy?’

Back when Deathly Hallows book first came out, although I was a Ron
and Hermione fan who disliked Harry and Hermione, I couldn’t help but
find Harry and Hermione’s moments in the Godric’s Hollow chapter very
touching. Hermione was there for Harry, holding his hand as he
experienced essentially going back to the beginning. To comfort him
while he cried, to be the one gifting the Potters gravestone with
flowers Harry did not have; to see the broken home he longed to be
whole. A part of me began shipping Harmony that day.

(graphic by @dogandbooks!)

New Post:

Chapter 9: Idiots Abroad [ AO3 ] | [ ff.net ]

“What are those?” he asked, pointing, and Hermione turned her head.

“Airplanes,” she said. “That’s how muggles get places.”

“That’s absurd,” Draco proclaimed. “What flies them?”

“People. Engines.”

“Sounds fake,” he said, but by then they’d managed to finally reach Daisy, who was holding a sign that said ’Dramione’ on it.

“Get it?” she asked, grinning. “You know, because Draco and Hermione - ”

“Christ,” Draco muttered. “Does the entire country lack the refinement to say our entire names,” he prompted, “or is that impulse confined to you?”

Daisy shrugged, unfazed. “We don’t have all day,” she said. “Barely manage time for tea as it is.”


@thehpshipsnet creation event: harry potter ships - harry potter & pansy parkinson
@hpeditsnet creation event: get to know the members week - zelle
day four: favorite ship - harry potter & pansy parkinson

“their love was like a war, constantly fighting both sides, both wanting to find peace within each other. it was nearly impossible, because she was rough waves crashing against stones, and he was fire that charred everything in his path. when he looked into her eyes, he saw the cold blue sea, and when she grabbed his hand, she was set ablaze. if there was one thing they both had in common, it was passion, ferocity, the soul of fighters. never giving up on something they believed in, and after the war, the only thing they believed in was each other.” (source

You know, I ship Harrymort a lot. Since I have read the second book, I thought Harry’s pity towards Tom was rather cute, and I hoped he could save him one day. I am glad Rowling said that thanks to Lily’s blood inside Voldemort, he could be healed faster than people think. It made my day because I was right all this time. He could be saved thanks to Harry! Redemption through (any kind of) love is a theme I cherish with all of my heart, and I am glad Rowling also does.

Flesh Memories

Here is my contribution to Hinny ship week, because I spend too much time thinking about how Harry proposed. 

“Harry, why’s there a snitch in here?” 

“What?” Harry feigned a puzzled expression and followed Ginny’s gaze to the minuscule golden ball fluttering near the ceiling fan. 

“Oh, that. It’s probably for you to catch, isn’t it? That’s what snitches are usually for.” 

Ginny raised her eyebrows. “Why me?” she countered, “you’re the seeker, Harry.” 

Harry just shrugged and tried to keep his expression impassive. 

“Oh, fine,” she snapped, tossing her long, red hair over one shoulder and rising to her feet. “But I swear if this is some kind of trick I’ll make you sorry, Harry Potter.” 

Harry grinned, and watched with unabashed pleasure as she leaped atop the kitchen table, and missed the snitch by a millisecond; it darted away from the tips of her painted fingernails and through the doorway. 

She pursued, and he followed her. 

Ginny may have suspected Harry of plotting some elaborate prank, but even at that she was nothing if not determined. She jumped from the back of the couch to the top of a low book-case, nimble and purposeful. 

It took her half an hour (or thereabouts, Harry may have lost track after Ginny bent low to search under a display-case, which was followed by several minutes in which neither of them were bothered about the whereabouts of the snitch), but in the end her look of reverent pride was worth the endeavor. 

And that was before it slid open in her hands. 

“What the - ?” 

“Snitches have flesh memories,” Harry told her, and when that was met with just as perplexed a reaction, he continued, “they remember the first person to touch them. That’s the one you caught, in your fifth year, remember? The time you played Cho…” 

The game you played just before I kissed you for the first time…

“Okay. But…why do you have it?” 

“I wrote McGonagall and asked her for it.”

“And she just - what, gave it up? Why?”

“Look inside.”

Ginny huffed, but her curiosity outweighed her stubbornness, and she peered inside. There was a moment of suspended silence before her honey-speckled brown eyes widened and lifted again in search of Harry, but in the second that had elapsed he’d sunk to his knees. 

No - sunk to one knee. 

Later Ginny would marvel that she managed to extract the diamond band from inside the snitch with such trembling fingers, and with her vision blurred from tears too strong-willed to be shed. 

There were more words, and a kiss, and later, as they lay in their bed, Ginny’s arm outstretched so she could see the way the streetlamp outside their window glinted off the princess-cut stones, those stubborn tears fell to her cheeks. 

It wasn’t the beauty of the ring that brought her to tears, or the way her mother had sobbed when they flooed over to share the news. It was the story Harry had told her then, quietly, as if the syllables were just shadows: a story about snitches and flesh memory, and a walk through the forbidden forest.  

Because that was the second time a golden snitch had brought Harry his family.