When I Was Seven I Spilled Glitter All Over My Bedroom Floor. It Was A Glorious, Sparkling Chaos, And

It's not a memory Harry will ever forget—Hermione, stressed out of her mind, clutching a little blue box from the muggle pharmacy. She'd kept messing up the charm, which was the real giveaway that she was panicking, so Harry had gone to buy it.

He sat on the other side of the bathroom door.

It was shit timing. She was in the middle of her second year exams for magical law school. Ron was in Japan for the four weeks of the Quidditch World Cup, having been selected as one of just two assistant coaches for England after his meteoric rise as the junior coach for the Chudley Cannons, taking them from bottom of the league to third place nationally in just two years.

When Hermione comes out of the bathroom, Harry sits up straighter. "What'd it say?"

"It's not immediate," she says, voice high. She sits on the floor beside him. "We have to wait a few minutes." Hand trembling, she casts a countdown charm, then puts her head between her knees. Harry rubs a hand between her shoulder blades.

When her wand vibrates, she shakes her head, voice still high-pitched. "I can't look. I can't."

So Harry climbs to his feet and walks into the bathroom, to find the little plastic stick resting on the counter.

There are two pink lines, a perfect match.

Hermione looks up at him, face already wet, and he crouches down in front of her. "It's positive."

She bursts into fresh tears. "I c-can't have a baby. I can't! But Ron—Ron's g-going to h-hate me if I—if I get rid—"

"Shhh, shh," he pulls her tight against his chest. "No he won't. Ron loves you. It's okay. You don't have to start—" Something lodges briefly in his throat. "—a family yet." He smooths a hand over her bushy hair. "It's way too soon. You haven't even finished getting fifty degrees."

Among the great, big heaving sobs, she gives a broken, snotty laugh into his shirt.

Six years later, two weeks after his twenty-seventh birthday, Hermione is the one smoothing his hair back as he retches into the toilet. He's been feeling shit for days, and he's fucking over it. Finally, he sits back against the tiles, stomach muscles aching.

Ron's in the doorway, rocking baby Hugo to sleep. "Blimey, Harry. What did you eat? Slugs?"

Harry snorts weakly, reminded of second year. Eat slugs, Malfoy. Malfoy, his auror partner of almost two years now. Malfoy, who's been shagging him quite thoroughly for the last five weeks. Harry misses him, which feels pathetic, given he's only gone to Paris for three days with his mother. But it feels like a fucking lifetime when Harry's feeling so under the weather.

"I don't know," he answers, coughing at the lingering taste of bile. "I tried some Pepper Up, it hasn't helped at all."

"Harry," Hermione says slowly, a peculiar look in her eyes. "Have you been seeing someone?"

"Um. That's… a bit out of the blue." He presses a fingernail into a nearby line of grout, dropping his gaze.

"That's not a no."

He feels his face grow hot. He and Malfoy still haven't had the 'what are we' talk yet; there hasn't really been a lot of talking in general, to be honest. "Yeah. I—think so. I mean I am. Yes."

"Okay." She pulls out her wand, and Harry eyes it, alarmed. "I'm going to cast a... diagnostic charm on you. I want to check something."

"O...kay?" he echoes, wiping his forehead with the sleeve of his t-shirt. "I'm not under a love spell or anything."

"No, that's not—" She does a complex charm pattern in the air, and a pale blue glow fills the room.

Ron sucks in a sharp breath. "Holy fuck, are you saying he's—?!"

Hermione nods, eyes bright. "Harry—"

"Ten galleons it's Malfoy's," Ron says in a rush.

"Ron!" Hermione scolds. "Now is not the time! And I'm not taking that bet, I'm not stupid."

"Excuse me," Harry says. "What the fuck are you guys talking about?"

She crouches in front of Harry, and takes his hand.

"Harry. I think you're pregnant."

Match 👶 Day 16 of @peachydreamxx and @uncannycerulean’s prompts. Full collection on ao3.

The last train: overtime at the ministry means the they have the whole seat to themselves (a glimpse into the future?) dw Draco only work when he wants to.

The Transfiguration

I LOVE DRAWING CAT DRACO

VI. Floral

<- previous day

Draco was not distracted, and certainly not whilst brewing his potions. Draco wasn’t many things but if there was one, it would be his dedication. But that day his mind was lingering. On a soaked shirt sleeve and lips on a ceramic mug. On green eyes swirling inside verdant liquid.

So instead of adding a teaspoon of bog moss, he ended up using a tablespoon. He had to scrap the whole thing but the potion was easy enough to make if one was paying attention. It was a simple error to fix without much trouble. Except for the smell.

Draco, in the immediate range of the cauldron, was hit with a facefull of green fog. Eyes watering as he coughed deliriously, he didn’t notice Potter had walked into his temporary potion’s lab. 

There was a strained inhale of air before he spoke a bit muffled, “What happened?”

Draco looked up from where he was dying on the floor. 

“Nothing to worry, just a little mistake.” 

Potter raised an eyebrow but, smartly, chose not to comment. Then he waved his wand and the thick fog vanished from the enclosed space. However, the stink still lingered. As if it had absorbed onto every surface, Draco could feel it seeped into his skin. He urgently wanted to go upstairs and shower, to scrub at his skin until it peeled off and took the horrible stench with it. Then Potter waved his wand again and the air in the room shifted. 

The atrocious smell was gone. In its place was now a curiously floral tone. It took a moment for Draco to place the smell: honey and citrus. Potter’s refreshening spell smelled like honeysuckle.

next day ->

prompt list previous days

microfic may day 8: crystal

microfic may day 9: puzzle

drarry. 220 words.

Rainbow scattered light dappled over Draco's skin. He was asleep, chest moving down and up in the crystal refracted morning sun.

It was early, too early to be awake after the night he'd had yesterday. And Harry was yet to put the puzzle pieces together and figure out exactly why Draco Malfoy was in his bed.

He wasn't complaining. The guy was oddly soft when he wasn't using his mouth-

Oh, fuck.

Harry wiggled his hips. Flexed his thighs. Stretched his back.

Zero soreness.

He bent forward, scrutinising the milky skin along Draco's neck and shoulders and clavicle. Harry knew he was a biter and a bruiser, but Draco was spectacularly unblemished.

He shifted under the blanket and Harry paused, not moving an inch.

A dream heavy, bed warmed arm slung over his waist, pushing Harry back down into the pillows.

Harry blinked at the fuzzy ceiling.

A voice murmured into his ear, "Go back to bed Potter, I'd never ravish you drunk."

He turned to face Draco, forehead to forehead. "Wait, so we didn't-"

"I swear on Merlin Potter, let me sleep for another hour and maybe then I'll do to you exactly what you asked for last night."

And well, Harry might've flushed a bright red but he did in fact curl in closer and let Draco rest.

Drarry doing an interview with Vanity Fair! From Ch 12 of PAMGTTI

https://archiveofourown.org/works/55248235/chapters/140140240

Winter, spring, summer and fall, four seasons, four loves

(i did this art for the zukka week of a couple of years ago but zukka still real and true 🤟🔥)

“Authors should not be ALLOWED to write about–” you are an anti-intellectual and functionally a conservative

“This book should be taken off of shelves for featuring–” you are an anti-intellectual and functionally a conservative

“Schools shouldn’t teach this book in class because–” you are an anti-intellectual and functionally a conservative

“Nobody actually likes or wants to read classics because they’re–” you are an anti-intellectual and an idiot

“I only read YA fantasy books because every classic novel or work of literary fiction is problematic and features–” you are an anti-intellectual and you are robbing yourself of the full richness of the human experience.