You’re Telling Me This Plot Has A Hole? Is It Tight?

XIII. Beware

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Draco missed the writing in small script:

Beware to only add .05mml of bauldee extract at a time.

“Fuck,” is barely out of his mouth before the cauldron in front of him blew up.

“Draco?” Potter yelped as the crashing sounds of feet on wood descended towards the temporary lab. He stepped through the door, hair a mess, glasses nearly falling off, and chest heaving with each breath. “Are you okay?”

“I almost died again but it should be fine,” he replied nonchalantly.

“Draco!” Potter yelled once again and started moving forward.

“Stop!” Draco immediately shouted and Potter at once obeyed. “Vanish the potion vestiges, they’re lethal.”

“What the fuck,” he whispered but still complied all the same. “Everything’s good now?”

“It should be.” Draco brought a hand to his forehead—he hadn’t even noticed how sweaty he’d gotten—and continued moving it toward his hair, brushing it softly. When he pulled his hand back, locks of hair came with it.

“Shit.”

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prompt list all entries

XVII. Waiting

This is part of a continuous story, you can read the first part here. Based off this prompt list by @peachydreamxx and @uncannycerulean

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Since the beginning of the year, Draco had been waiting for his appeal to go through.

It had been fine having limited access to his wand during his eighth year. It was horrible, but he could live with it. He still had a bit of magic.

Once his sentence was abruptly changed to a strict no magic regulation once he graduated, had it become unbearable. 

He had managed it though. Found simple solutions to his magical needs and learned to live like a muggle, but live he did. Still, he was going to get his magic back.

As soon as he got a reply.

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May Daily micros. Prompt 12: bear

Ongoing story. Prev parts: 1. key 2.black 3. coffee 4. pathetic 5.hang 6.floral 7. swell 8.crystal 9. puzzled 10. scene 11. forgotten

It was the very first thing that struck Harry about Malfoy—the snowy white of his hair, the sickly pallor of his skin, the colourless gleam of his eyes. It would have been obvious to anyone.

But Harry was eleven. He didn’t have words for these things. He wasn’t worldly. Far from it.

All he knew was that he couldn’t look away.

And then the boy opened his pale, thin mouth—and ruined it.

After that he couldn’t bear him. His pureblood sneering and his bloodless, icy appearance. 

Couldn’t bear any of it. And yet... he kept on looking.

rb with your most common recurring theme in your nightmares. mine is pregnancy

#Flirting… kind of

okay, yes, I know that comma isn't supposed to be there but I want the reader to take a breath! I want a pause! Stop trying to correct me, I'm trying to control the flow of reading

Metamorphosis

When Draco awoke in the morning, he found that he was a beetle, and not a particularly dazzling one at that, with a dull black coat and ridged legs so brittle that he almost snapped one trying to get up.

“This was going to happen sooner or later,” Pansy said when she caught him scuttling down the hall toward the bathroom. When he made no word of response except to clack his claws together, she picked him up and asked, “What are you going to tell Potter?”

Potter was Draco’s parole officer, and he didn’t find it funny at all. He harangued Draco to “transform back” for five solid minutes before taking out his wand to cast Finite Incantatem over and over and over, as though it was sheer lack of will and not some bloody blood curse that confined Draco to his hard-bodied shell.

“I wish you’d say something,” Potter said an hour later, his throat dry.

Potter took him home that day, handing him off to Pansy before Flooing the rest of the way to his own home.

A week passed with no change. Pansy left out a bit of milk and bread for him every night. On Saturday, she asked if he couldn’t set her up with a weekly allowance from his vaults for his expenses. “Nothing big,” she said smoothly, presenting him with crisp scrolls fresh from Gringotts and an ink pad for him to press his forked claw into, to sign.

“How long is this going to last?” Potter asked Pansy when he dropped Draco off again the following week.

Pansy frowned. “What do you mean?”

“This — thing. This insect thing.”

“It’s a blood curse, Potter. It lasts forever,” Pansy tutted dismissively.

Draco rather agreed with Pansy’s assessment, but still, Potter came by, week after week, neverending with his questioning: “Black or Malfoy? Are there any records? What species—” as though Draco’s condition wasn’t so hopeless as long as he didn’t stop trying to change it. As though, after all these weeks and years, Draco could still change.

It filled Draco with an idiotic kind of hope.

—————–

For today’s @drarrymicrofic prompt, metamorphosis!

Snow day ❄️

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