I watch you, the shade of an ancient oak stretching between us.
You lie in the grass, resplendent, the epitome of pleasure.
A smile, to the sky, your radiance outshining the sun.

I can taste my fear, like the iron edge of a knife.

Every morning, with you dreaming beside me, I dig through my chest. Tear through the delicate flesh to the soft underbelly of my heart, scoop it from my chest and lay it at your feet. An offering, everything I have.

And I wonder.

Do you know how hard it is to love you?

Do you know how easy it is to love you?

And I wonder.

Every night, my hand in yours, you entrust me with your secrets. I tuck them between my ribs, safe between muscle and blood and bone, I cradle the soft underbelly of your heart. An offering, everything you have.

I can taste your trust, like the tender flesh of a peach. 

A daffodil, from thin air, your cheeks dimpled and flushed.
You kneel beside me, reverent, the epitome of devotion.
I hold you, the shade of an ancient oak protecting us both.

For the @drarrymicrofic prompt: shade. Hugs and more hugs to @basicallyahedgehog and @lqtraintracks for their help with this. Words are hard.

HP fanart in 2023 ???

i love him 😔

you ever read a fanfic and just sit back and think…someone wrote something THIS good… and then just….published it on the internet….for free…..

I love you, fanfic authors

I wrote my first ever drabble!

Seeing red

(375 words, mentions of Dumbledore's canonically dubious decisions)

Draco Malfoy prided himself on being an expert on anger, both his own and the anger of others. After all, he had spent half his youth acting out his own petty rage, skirting his father's ire or pushing other people's buttons to make them jump out of their skin. 

Imagine his surprise at finding that after all their fights and enmity, and the war he had fought and won, Harry Potter, the Saviour of the Wizarding World, was utterly incapable of dealing with anger – especially his own. Luckily, Draco had a plan. 

Which was why, in the dead of night, Draco found himself in front of Dumbledore’s tomb, his feet freezing in the snow, handing Harry a tomato that was quite definitely past its prime. Harry weighed the tomato in his hand experimentally, then tossed it at the tomb half-heartedly. 

Keep reading

The Creation of Rivalry

INT. SHITTY DINER - MORNING

Sunday mornings are boring. Draco lives for them.
Or, silly games you play with your (boy)friends.

Roxy’s is lovely this time of day. Pairs of elderly early birds sit nestled in their booths, speaking in hushed tones about the warmth of their pancakes, or the lack thereof, and morning sunlight streams through broad windows that touch the ceiling, the heat kept at bay by the most aggressive cooling charm Draco has ever had the pleasure of being enveloped in.

A waitress with a bright yellow beehive of hair and nails that should be classified as weapons comes round to refill Harry’s coffee cup. The stuff is strong enough to rival most amphetamines on the market, and Harry grimaces every time he takes a sip, but he orders it every time.

Draco’s been thinking for the past five minutes, lost for words. Literally.

“...Litany!”

“You’ve used that one already.” Harry points out, not even bothering to look away from the window. A little girl has fallen off her bicycle, and even after all these years there’s still a hint of longing in Harry’s eyes as her mother helps her up, brushes off her knees, murmurs sweet reassurances that hush the girl’s tears. Draco bumps his knee under the table.

“Lard.” he says, hoping the absurdity of it will pull Harry out of his reverie.

“I think–”

“No, I said lord, earlier, not lard. It’s your turn.”

Harry huffs, though he’s never put out– he likes to see Draco win. He taps his chin in contemplation, calling to mind images of The Thinker, and usually Draco would relish in the chance to tell Harry how statuesque he is, how his visage deserves to be framed and painted and sculpted– with that strong nose and that jawline, god– but if he breaks his focus now Harry may never get it back.

“Livid.”

Draco pushes half of a mushed strawberry around with his fork, watching as its entrails leave a path along his plate, “Lopsided.”

“Ooo, good one.” Harry takes another bitter sip of coffee, smacks his lips, “Lawrence.”

“No names.”

“Lawyers?”

“Did that.”

“Ugh. Can we stop now? I’m bored.”

Draco agrees to stop their little game, unsure how it even started, and for the remainder of breakfast he wonders.

How does one tell their boyfriend, ever afraid of living up to the expectations placed on him– to be interesting, energetic, purposeful– that being bored with him is one of life’s greatest pleasures? Perhaps, it is life’s greatest privilege.

If you feel up to it, shoot me a comment here on ao3!

It’s so strange to me when people say Draco was definitely not abused by his parents in canon. It strikes me as a very limited definition of abuse. Draco was spoiled and pampered and babied by his family. That doesn’t preclude the possibility of his having been abused (he certainly doesn’t have a secure attachment with Lucius and we barely see him interact with Narcissa).

Is inviting a mass murderer to live in your home with your teenage son a healthy, uplifting parenting choice, for instance? Is Draco free to live his life in accordance with what makes him happy, or is there the possibility of being cut off and rejected and denied if he does something his parents don’t like? Has he perhaps been living with this possibility for his entire life, since before he can even remember? If Draco wanted to marry a muggleborn or a man or remain childless or unmarried, would he be free to do so without being disowned like his mother’s sister?

harry potter gotta be perpetually sleepy