#hpfearfest2022

[hp-fearfest]

31 Days of Fear Fest 👻!

Like one of the undead, a spirit with unfinished business, or the Dark Lord himself….

Fear Fest is back, ghouls and gremlins!! 

Please read on, as there are some changes and additions for this year’s challenge! 

This year, there are two ways to play:  👻 Just like last year, we’ll be releasing a list of 31 spooky prompts, one for every day in October. Creators can choose how many prompts they want to create for and when they want to post their creations. Creators can combine prompts within this challenge and combine them with other challenges running in the month of October. Please use discretion and proper tagging when choosing which challenges to combine. 👻 For those of you who are itching to write a longer horror fic, craft more intricate fanart, or just want a more intense challenge, you can sign up in advance and receive the full list of 31 spooky prompts a whole MONTH early. That way you can start planning and making ASAP. It’s up to you whether you post a new chapter or installation of your fic/part of your creation each day in October, post the entire work on All Hallow’s Eve, or something in between. 

Guidelines

🎃 On August 1st the Early Bird signup form will open! When you submit your response, you will receive a confirmation email with the list of 31 Horror-themed prompts: one for each day of the month of October. 

🎃 On August 15th the Early Bird signup form will close.

🎃 On September 15th the prompt list will be posted here on tumblr for everyone to see!

🎃 Create for as many or as few as you like, whenever you like! Want to tackle all 31? Amazing! Feel particularly inspired by just one? Perfect!

🎃 Submissions must be HP-related, but all pairings and all eras are welcome!

🎃 Because the horror genre can be particularly challenging for some people, please pay special attention to your tags and CWs. If your post isn’t properly tagged we may not be able to share it.

🎃 Your contribution should engage in some way with horror genres and tropes.

🎃 Fluff, smut, and happy endings (and everything that goes along with them) are very welcome! Just because something leaves you feeling creeped out, that doesn’t mean it can’t leave you feeling warm and fuzzy, too!

🎃There is no minimum or maximum word count for fics!

How to participate:

—>On Tumblr

🦇 Follow HP-FearFest

🦇 As you create, post your work and tag us @HP-FearFest and use the tags #31DaysofFearFest and #HPFearFest2022. We will reblog your work here as we’re tagged!

🦇 Beginning November 1st through November 30, we will post roundups and highlights here!

—>On AO3 HPFearFest

🧛‍♂️ From October 1st through November 30th, add your work to the 31 Days of Fear Fest Collection (link to come).

🧛‍♂️ All submissions to the AO3 collection will be reblogged here (with credit!) and included in roundups and highlight posts beginning November 1st.

How soon after I complete the Early Bird signup form will I receive the prompt list? 🍬 Immediately! Once you hit ‘submit’ you will receive an auto-reply thanking you for your submission and including the list of 31 prompts. We want you to have every moment possible to dream up your fanwork!

If I create something for prompt #X am I only allowed to post it on October Xth?  🍬 No! You can write for the prompts in any order you want and we will still reblog your creations (just don’t forget to tag us)! You can also write for as many or as few prompts as you’d like, or combine multiple prompts into one work. 

What sorts of fanworks can I create for this fest? 🍬 Any sort of fanwork your creepy little heart desires, as long as they are horror-themed! If you are going to create around an existing work (for example, doing a podfic or illustration for an existing fic), we ask that you seek the original creator’s approval first and credit them in any posts. 

👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻👻

Send us an ask with any questions!

Eat, Drink, and Be Spooky,

Your mods, @corvuscrowned, @m0srael, @wolfpants, @ghaniblue, and @moonstruckwytch

[cavendishbutterfly]

the new generation

Rated T | 50 words | for the @hp-fearfest prompt, “rot”

Harry never dies, but the elder Malfoys do. Fifty years later, he visits the Manor. Chipped foundations, rotting fruit trees. He pushes open the heavy, unlocked door. “Didn’t expect me, did you?” The voice is not quite Draco. Not quite human. “On the contrary.” A slow grin. “I’ve been waiting.”

[phoebe-delia]

Orion's Will

I don't usually write horror. But I saw the "The Shivers" prompt from @hp-fearfest and couldn't resist once I thought of this! cw: mcd, cw: illness, cw: curse, cw: grief, cw: unhappy ending

They tried warming charms; tried scalding cups of tea and baths with water that turned Harry's skin bright pink. He wore layers of thick, wool clothes and wrapped himself in blankets while sitting in front of Grimmauld Place's hearth, until he gave up after realizing the flames—whether lit by magic or matches—only lasted a few seconds. Healers at St. Mungos looked at them with more pity in their eyes with every visit, until they were finally told to stay home.

Draco held Harry in their bed as he shivered and shook, vibrating from head to toe, teeth chattering so hard Draco feared they would break. "Y-you should s-sleep in the g-guestroom," Harry said through the tremors. Draco just shook his head and squeezed Harry tighter against him, turning out the light with a whispered, "Nox."

Eventually, the shaking slowed, along with Harry's breathing. Draco tended to him throughout the day until he stopped trembling; stopped moving altogether.

He called the authorities, and their close friends and family. He signed the paperwork and then cried into Hermione’s shoulder as Harry’s body was carried out. And when it was all over, Draco forced himself to the guest bedroom, unable to face their bed, and collapsed on top of the covers.

The next morning, Draco woke with a bone-deep grief and twisting anxiety at the thought of starting the rest of his life without Harry. He rose from the bed on unsteady legs and made his way to the kitchen for a cup of tea.

Minutes later, he had a steaming cup of earl grey in his hands. He turned from the kitchen counter and glanced into the living room, eyes catching on the wall high above the hearth— Draco’s teacup clattered to the ground, hot liquid scalding his bare feet.

But he couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. Just stared at the bright red writing on the wall in terror.

By Blood or Bond alone are Masters made to reign. May interlopers quiver ‘till they perish from the pain. It is Orion’s will that False Masters face attack, By the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black.

[moonstruckwytch]

written for @hp-fearfest day five: ghost story | M | TW Major Character Death | thank you to my beta @m0srael

He woke to his dead husband floating above him. His neck was bent at an odd angle, his face mottled blue and purple–visible despite his ghostly transparency. He closed his eyes tightly, attempted to cover his ears as the familiar gasping sound of his husband’s last breaths filled their bedroom. Every morning it was the same, and every morning it was just as unbearable.

It had started innocently enough – a game of hide and seek in their first home, with their friends–the first thing they did as newlyweds. But now, months later, he still didn’t know where the body was.

read my writing for this year's fearfest here ⚰️

[alexandra-emerson]

New WIP

New Dramione WIP for prompt #8 in the @hp-fearfest. Read the first chapter here.

[dracopetal]

Prey

@hp-fearfest Day 17 Prompt: Hunt/ Bloodsuckers

Read on Ao3

wordcount:799

Draco’s lungs are burning, his legs are aching and he’s seconds from vomiting up his heart, that or it’s going to pound its way through his ribs and his skin and slip out of his chest with a wet squelch, and he imagines that when it does it will still be warm and thumping.

He focuses on the image of his heart torn from his chest, trying to desperately ignore the urge to stop, to slow down. His body is screaming at him to, but he can’t.

Fenrir must be close. He can’t hear him over the sound of his feet thumping through the estate and his own rapid breaths, but he knows that he’s close. This is nothing but a game to him, a bit of enjoyable terror to inflict on a Malfoy. There’s no way that Draco can outrun him, but he can’t stop trying.

High above him, the moon is almost full, luminous and white against an endless black sky. It offers Draco a little light in return for casting frightful shadows.

That’s why they locked him up for weeks after his failure. He had thought that was his punishment - to be imprisoned in his own dungeons. But no, the Dark Lord planned a far more terrifying fate: to allow the Malfoy heir to be hunted through the gardens that he played in as a child.

He doesn’t even know what Fenrir will do. Kill him, turn or maim, eat his flesh? Draco’s head is full of the dozens of horror stories he’s heard whispered, and tonight he believes every last one.

The night air is just barely warm, and he can feel sweat pouring over his face. Fenrir can smell him. Fenrir is waiting somewhere, hiding within a shadow, baring sharp teeth and terrible claws, something out of a childhood nightmare.

A living, breathing nightmare creature.

Draco makes it through the gardens and into the woodland that surrounds the estate, hoping that the trees will lend him some cover, give him somewhere to hide.

And it’s there, amongst those trees, where Draco makes the biggest mistake of his life.

His boot catches on a root, and he stumbles, arms flailing uselessly, and crashes face-first into a tree. The bark is hard and sharp against his tender skin, and he feels the intense burst of pain of a dozen tiny cuts. 

He tries to right himself, but his ankle is twisted unnaturally, and sends an agonising bolt of pain through his leg. Mouth dry, he manages to stifle the rising scream, and then tries to stagger upright. He leans onto the tree speckled with his blood for support, and he’s almost there, is so close to limping away, further into the woods, when claws stab into his twisted ankle and drag his back down.

Draco can’t hold in the scream this time. What’s the point? The predator has the prey in a death grip.

Draco can smell that awful smell of unwashed flesh and urine that follows Fenrir like a cloud. It fills his lungs and he screams again, and the scream turns into a shriek, and becomes something else, something animal and desperate that’s lurching up from a deep pit at the bottom of his stomach. He can’t make it stop, not as Fenrir drags him back out from the dark woods on his belly. He spits out mouthfuls of mud and dirt and twigs and leaves, but the mud coats his teeth, leaving an earthy taste on his tongue.

Draco can’t stop until Fenrir rolls him over, the action surprisingly gentle. But no: it’s not surprising, Fenrir is playing with him.

Fenrir falls onto his chest, his knees trapping his arms, knocking the breath out of Draco. Draco heaves, but has nothing to come up. The shadows playing on Fenrir’s face make him look even scarier, more like a child’s bogeyman, and Draco doesn’t think he’s ever been this close to him.

He closes his eyes, squeezing them tightly shut and whimpering with terror. He doesn’t want to see anymore. He doesn’t want to know what’s coming for him.

Draco feels the beast lean down, and Fenrir’s nose touches his own. Draco flinches away but there’s nowhere to go. Fenrir is everywhere. The smell fills his lungs with rot. A wet, horrid tongue licks the blood from his cheek. Fenrir leans down further then, and sharp teeth latch onto his ear, and Draco makes a choked noise as the skin splits slowly, and then is ripped off entirely, and gushes hot blood down his neck.

Draco is marked now. Fenrir swallows his flesh, and then latches onto the mangled ear, and Draco feels him lap up his blood. Toujours Pur. Always pure.

Draco sobs, and Fenrir’s breath is vile when he laughs. 

“Got you.”

[lumosatnight]

A Ghost's Funeral

Cedric/Fred, G, 1.1k

I wrote this for @hp-fearfest for the prompts ghost story and family, and although it might not exactly be horror, it still has ghosts in it! Ghosts and angst (lots of angst). Happy spooky season 👻

Summary

A story about life and love when life is already gone.

Read it on AO3 or under the cut!

~

victory is a lie

it is a lie we tell our children at night

a lie the papers will shove in our faces over mourning coffee

there is no true victory in war

only the dead, the dying, and the grieving

trapped together

watching the world burn

~

It starts right after the Battle of Hogwarts, so many new spirits roaming the grounds, lost with nowhere to go. Cedric grabs his broom and flies out to meet them. He holds their hand, gently guides them down the path, watches them disappear into the ether beyond—a place he will never see.

“Need any help with that?” It’s one of the twins, hair as red as the blood that covers the walls. His outline shimmers like he’s there but not quite.

“Sure,” says Cedric, tossing him a broom. Fred catches it one-handed and smiles. He has a beautiful smile.

He soars off without a backward glance, and Cedric watches him go, his heart heavy, his steps light. He turns to the next soul in line, a small Ravenclaw girl with tears still glistening on her cheeks and nettles caught in her hair.

“Are you ready?” he says, holding out his hand and pulling her onto the back of the broom.

Weightlessness is an odd feeling, one he still hasn’t gotten used to.

He’s there, but he’s not. He takes up space, but the space is empty. He is, but he isn’t.

The girl curls her small hands around his waist. He feels them but not really, more like the imprint of them. “Will it hurt?” the girl says into his back. Quietly. Softly. Maybe, she hasn’t said anything at all.

“I wouldn’t know,” Cedric replies, and they rise into the sky.

~

It takes them hours, flying high and low, swooping fast and slow. Fred does a tuck-and-roll, his blood-red hair shifting in the nonexistent breeze. He smiles over at Cedric. Effortless. Free.

“So, how long have you been doing this?” he says, coming to a stop by Cedric’s side.

Cedric raises a single eyebrow.

“Ah,” Fred says, instantly chastised. He looks out onto the empty grounds. The castle’s inhabitants—or what’s left of them—are long asleep or transported away. Back to their fallen homes, back to their loved ones, back to familiar life.

“Do you miss it?” Fred rests his elbow on the broom, a precarious balancing act. One push and he would careen toward the ground. But it wouldn’t matter because Cedric would be there to catch him before the impact.

That’s his job now. That’s what he does.

Cedric looks away. “Do you?” he says instead of answering.

“I wouldn’t know yet,” Fred says, lips curling into a smirk. “I’ll let you know when I decide.”

“Yes, please do.”

Cedric kicks off from the ground and flies into the sunrise.

~

The funerals are always difficult. Memories and magic permeate the air, swirling around in golden trails, wrapping everyone in filtered light and gentle caresses.

Cedric floats between the guests, seen and unseen, there but not quite.

Today is the day of Fred’s funeral, and Fred is nowhere to be found. Neither is George. Neither is Harry.

Harry is the easiest to find. Cedric recognizes his head of black hair sitting calmly at the edge of the lake. He goes to sit beside him, almost close enough to touch but not quite.

“You aren’t like the others,” Harry says, looking out into the distance, into the clear tranquil lake. Unmoving. Unchanging. Deceptive, really. No matter how calm the surface, there is always life teaming underneath.

“I’m not,” Cedric agrees.

“Why?” asks Harry, turning and staring right at him. 

It’s been so long since someone’s seen him—really seen him—that Cedric wants to cry. Harry never used to be able to see him. Back in the graveyard after Wormtail’s curse. Back in the cave when he helped Dumbledore hold the Inferi at bay. Back during the battle when he flew by Harry’s side.

“Why not?” Cedric says because even if he knew the answer, he wouldn’t know what to tell him.

“Am I dead?”

“Am I alive?”

Harry huffs. He fiddles with the cuff of his sleeve. He’s always been uncomfortable in dress robes, fidgeting and stiff. “Will I see you again?” he asks finally. “What about the others? Will I see them?”

Cedric reaches out a hand, gently places it on Harry’s shoulder. Featherlight. Fleeting.

“I think it’s best not to.”

Harry’s face falls, but after a moment, he nods. “Alright,” he says. He stands from the ground and brushes off his robes. He glances back at Cedric, shimmering next to the lake, liquid and air, incorporeal and real.

“I hope you’re not alone,” he says.

Cedric smiles, his body going warm—more of a feeling than anything, light and love and the warm glow of acceptance.

“Thank you, Harry.” He dips his head. “And for you as well.”

Harry nods. He walks away and returns to mingle with the living.

~

Fred finds him later, sitting in the same spot by the lake. The yellows of the day have faded to the blues and blacks of the night. Cedric never changes colour, not anymore.

Fred stands by his side, doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything.

He knows this is hard. He remembers his own funeral, watching his father cry, watching him fall to the ground and curse the heavens. He remembers coming closer and closer. Hugging him, crying with him.

His father did not see him. No one saw him.

“I think I’ve made up my mind,” Fred says, licking his lips. His head is tilted up to the sky. Trillions of stars, but there is only one Earth. Billions of people, but there is only one you.

“What did you decide?”

“I don’t miss it,” Fred says, “so much as I miss him.”

“I see,” Cedric says.

Fred angles his head down to look at him. “You don’t agree?”

Cedric shrugs. “Missing him won’t bring him back. Won’t bring you back.”

“No,” Fred says slowly, “but it’s what brings us together.”

“Is it?” Cedric says.

Fred looks at him, his gaze blank, his brow pinched. “It will,” he says, voice firm. Confident. Hopeful.

All things have an end—a place that they go when everything is said and done, when the last of the castle walls fall, when the Earth erupts in a ball of light and sound.

But what of Cedric? What of Fred?

It is their end, and yet, they are still here.

“Care for a swim?” Cedric scoots closer to the edge and dangles his feet off the side.

“Sure,” Fred says, stepping closer.

They dive, clothing and all. They do not make a splash when they fall.

~

Also available on AO3!

[chamomileteafuel]

Restoration

________________________________________________________ For the @hp-fearfest prompt - From the Deep || Buried Rated M | 204 words | cw: implied necromancy, character death, illness, gore, grief. ________________________________________________________

Three broken fingers. Six exposed nail beds. Skin of his knuckles surrounding their seeping wounds like ill-cut drapes. He spits soil onto dewy grass, droplets glistening upon their blades, his bare flesh stinging against the frigid night air. A familiar hand open and reaching, pulling him upwards and away from the grave he just crawled out of. Hands that had often cherished endless, archaic tomes, loaned from the library of his ancestors. Slender fingers traced every line, eyes scrying over every page for an answer. They would flash silver in their slow burning mania, and Harry could no longer soothe it away with words, nor with the soft caresses they had grown so accustomed to. Not while the ill-fated curse ate him away from the inside and out, weathering him into the husk of a saviour, once so revered for both strength and persistence. “I can fix it,” Draco would say in false certainty, smile wavering in the morning light of their rooms while long fingers encircled a frail wrist over plush blankets, the sweet scent of decay lingering between them and growing stronger every day. “I’m good at fixing things.” Harry had never doubted him. He just wished he could have stopped him.    

[xgardensinspace]

HP Fear Fest 2022

Day 1 - Body snatchers || Heart

Neville reached inside his open shirt, gently prodding and scratching at his skin. The flesh tearing and exposing lovely shades of red. Tears fell gently over his cheek as he reached inside his ribs for the item he was looking for.

He gently took his heart out and presented it to Ron, as a symbol of their newfound love. Ron could only stare in awe at the gift being offered. He took it gently upon his hands with caution. Neville enveloped his hands close by; Blood dribbling from his soft pink lips as they embraced each other.

Hi,hello... Yes I am aware of how late this is, but to my defense, October is my bussiest month. I hope my colour choices make up for the tardiness? And also the lil writing I added at the top :b I’m not an excellent writer (especially for horror, even though it’s my favourite genre), but I tried to spice up my artwork :b Also, I know it’s not as spoopy a theme, but I wanted to do something lovely as well because I love these two so much xD

I also played and loved the look of the pink shadows and blood on the hands bits when I messed with the contrast so I’m adding them below. Enjoy!

For the @hp-fearfest​ :)

[theheadgirl]

31 Days of Fear, hosted by @hp-fearfest

Day 3: Buried (read on AO3 here)

The late June sky is silvery grey, spotted with darker clouds. It'll be raining within the hour. He can't remember if he has his umbrella. Frankly, he's been having a hard time remembering anything these days. He's left without his briefcase a few times, and Audrey's had to stop by his office an embarrassing amount because he left his lunch on the counter. He'll find himself distracted in the middle of meetings and unable to remember what the last thing he wrote down was. He can't read, can hardly participate in conversations - his brain is constantly racing, not even finishing one thought before jumping to the next one. His potions are supposed to help, but they make him feel slow and stupid, so he only takes them on days where he's not working. Those, however, are few and far between. 

More than anything, he wishes things would just be quiet. In the world, in his head - anywhere. Maybe that's why he came to this cemetery just outside of Ottery St. Catchpole. Even though the idea of visiting the grave of his brother (the grave that should be yours, the brother you killed, his mind hisses) makes him feel physically ill, at least it's quiet here. 

He walks through the headstones to the back of the cemetery, where the newer graves are located. The dirt on Fred's grave is still freshly turned over, and his stomach clenches and heaves at the sight. 

should be you should be you SHOULD BE YOU SHOULD BE 

He staggers, overcome, and drops next to the grave before he can think, head in his hands, trying to shut out the clamor. Part of him quails at getting graveyard dirt ground into his woolen suit, but he's too overwhelmed to move right now. Slowly, slowly, the jangling quiets, less of a deafening wave and more of a dull roar. He exhales, lowering his hands. His fingers sting as they uncurl, and there are red crescents in the palms of his hands from his nails. He'd known it would be bad, but for some reason - some arrogance, ignorance - he hadn't thought it would be that bad, that he'd be able to handle it better. 

It isn't the first time he's been very wrong lately. 

He pushes up his glasses and wipes his eyes with a shaking hand, then settles the glasses back. Looking sidelong at the headstone next to him, he says, "I'm sure you would have handled that better." He's certain of it. Fred would be grieving (maybe), but at least everything would be right.

He sighs heavily. "I'm so tired," he continues. "I'm just so tired and sad all the time. It's exhausting. I can't think, I can't focus at work. I can't listen when anyone's talking to me. It's just spinning, spinning, spinning, all the time, and it never stops. I can't sleep. Oliver and Audrey have to know by now. I get out of bed every night and lie down on the couch and stare at the ceiling for hours until I can justify getting ready for work, and I'm ragged and jumpy at work. Everything scares me. It's just …" 

He feels bone-tired suddenly, like his body has lost the ability to sit up any longer. It seems like the most natural thing in the world to lie down alongside the freshly-dug plot, even though he's definitely getting dirt all over his suit now. 

"It's so much," he continues, voice barely above a whisper. "I know I have to, but I don't know if I can."

He closes his eyes, and feels rain starting to speckle against his face. It feels kind of nice, actually; like a cleansing. It would take a lot more than a gentle afternoon sprinkle to redeem him, but this feels like a start. 

He must fall asleep, there in the graveyard, because the next thing he knows, he doesn't feel the rain on his face anymore. As he opens his eyes, he wonders what's wrong, because it hasn't made a difference. Everything is still pitch black. He lifts a hand and it presses into the dirt above him.

The world is so, so, perfectly silent. 

[hp-fearfest]

HP Fearfest 2022's 31 Days of Fearfest prompt list!

It's here, Ghouls and Gals 👻!!! We can't wait to read/look at/listen to/run screaming away from all of the incredible things you make during the spookiest month of the year!

As a reminder: 🎃 You can start working on your creations as soon as you see this list and inspiration strikes! However, we will not begin reblogging until October 1st. 🎃 If you post your work on tumblr, tag us @hp-fearfest so we can reblog! Please indicate somewhere in your post what prompt(s) you are creating for, it will help us stay organized. 🎃 The tags for the fest are #HPFearFest2022 and #31DaysOfFearFest 🎃 We will post a link to the Ao3 collection on September 30th, feel free to add your works to it at any point during the month. This is not required. If you only want to post on Ao3 (and not tumblr), that is also okay! We will still include links to your work in the appropriate roundup posts. 🎃 Beginning November 1st through November 30, we will post roundups and highlights here!

Check out our guidelines post for more information, and feel free to send us an ask if anything is unclear!

Happy Haunting!! Your Fearfest Mods 🧛🏻‍♀️🦇

[cavendishbutterfly]

it was the only way to save him

Rated T | 50 words | for the @hp-fearfest prompt “heart” | cw: mild body horror, open ending

Surely they hadn’t forgotten the most important part. He walked out of the room, unsteady on new legs, stitched to fresh flesh.

“Love?”

Harry’s eyes met his. A perfect mimicry: flash of recognition, a hand on his shoulder. 

“Mal-foy.”

Shaking, Draco reached up to feel Harry’s pristine wrist. 

Cold. Pulseless.

[snack-o-ween]

Work Title: Bait

Rating: General Audiences | Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply | Fandom: Harry Potter | Category: [None selected.]

Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s).

Characters: Severus Snape, Sirius Black, Regulus Black.

Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Implied First Date, Undisclosed Identity | Blind Date, Zombie Regulus Black, Luring Victims Via Personal Ads, Severus Snape Lives.

Summary: Severus had the sneaking suspicion that something was off about tonight's date. He had been invited to a simple set of coordinates instead of being given an address, and the warding was a bit... Odd.

A/N: 🧟 Trick Or Treat - For the Snack-O-Ween 2022 prompt 5: Inferi or Zombie. Also counts for the HP Fear Fest 2022 prompt 28-B: Undead.

[moonstruckwytch]

written for @hp-fearfest day three: from the deep | M | Major Character Death | thank you to my amazing beta @m0srael

No one else was out on the grounds when it happened. The ice on the lake seemed sturdy enough from a distance, but by the time he made it to where his boyfriend had been just moments before, he was gone. Hours later, when they pulled the frozen body to the surface, he looked away–unwilling to face the paler than normal skin and iced-over eyes. 

But there was no turning away now – no way to avoid the freezing water dripping onto his chest, the icy grip of slender fingers around his throat. When it kissed him, it felt like drowning.

read all my previous fearfest writing here ⚰️

[alexandra-emerson]

Chapter 3 Posted

This is for the Day 8 prompt from the @hp-fearfest.

Read chapter here

A story about running from the past, and what happens when it catches up...

[dracopetal]

Cruel Manor

Written for the @hp-fearfest Day Fifteen prompt: Cult Activity/Poison, but it wasn’t finished in time.

wc:4600. warnings: cults, implied abuse, poisoning, blood (no second war)

read on Ao3 for more warnings

Very quickly, Harry came to the conclusion that grainy, black-and-white newspaper clippings didn’t do justice to Malfoy Manor’s ominous and foreboding presence. As the only building for miles in any direction, the ancestral home of the Malfoy’s stood alone against the backdrop of a cloudy grey sky. To Harry, who was used to suburbia and neat rows of Victorian townhouses, the Manor looked ancient, as if it had been plucked from another time entirely and placed there.

He stood on the lawn, watching it and breathing crisp October morning air. The other Aurors buzzed around him, planning the next move after a failed attempt at communication. As he watched, he became aware that he was waiting for something : a hand pulling a curtain shut, a face in the window, or a door slamming. But, there was nothing. The house was as still as a lake on a calm summer day.

The Cult of Death Eaters were holed up somewhere inside. They were power-mad blood purists, obsessed with the resurrection of Tom Riddle, or their ‘Dark Lord’, who had been responsible for the murder of Harry’s parents and countless others before being defeated not long after, leaving Harry orphaned as a baby.

However, given the size of the Manor, they were likely less ‘holed up’ and more likely ‘lavishly living’. Harry would admit that he had expected curses to be thrown by now, but so far they hadn’t engaged. Maybe they thought if they just stayed quiet then the Aurors would just go on their way.

But, Harry had waited endlessly for the Ministry to give permission for a raid, and it had taken so long because they had members of the government, passing laws and blocking raids and pretending like they weren’t waiting to resurrect their prophet Lord Voldemort.

Then suddenly last week all known members and some suspected ones had vanished from the public eye. Even prominent members like the power-hungry Lucius Malfoy had disappeared.

And most importantly to Harry, the informant letters had stopped. The informant letters, sometimes only short notes, had been Harry’s lifeblood for years, and when they stopped, and Harry connected it to the other disappearances, he had been sickened at the implication.

Harry only remained on the case because the informant’s identity was still anonymous to the rest of them, except Robards, who had allowed him to stay on for some reason. If the other Aurors knew what Harry knew, he wouldn’t be allowed to step foot anywhere near the Manor. 

But, they didn’t know.

*~*

1996

Harry couldn’t put his finger on when, but sometime during his sixth year at Hogwarts, he became rapidly obsessed with Draco Malfoy. 

He had always been aware of him. Malfoy was impossible not to be aware of - everything about him stood out. He was a nasty snarky shite, and his Father was constantly in the papers for his stance on blood purity and general unpleasantness. That his parents were cultists, and everyone seemed to know it but him, never deterred him from having a superior attitude.

Harry hated him. But, for some reason, Harry had grown obsessed with him. It was as baffling to him as it was to Ron and Hermione. 

There was just something off about him this year. That in itself wasn’t completely abnormal, Harry often thought that there was something not quite right with a lot of the Slytherins. This, however, was different. He didn’t know why, but it was. Malfoy had changed over the summer, as boys becoming men are wont to do, but there was something else strange about him. He had lost some of his baby fat, his jaw was sharper, he had grown his hair out and it framed his sharp features like a halo. He only wore long sleeves and would show no skin above his wrists.

“Do you think he’s done it? Been initiated?” He had asked Hermione and Ron once, in a cosy corner of the Gryffindor common room, and when neither of them answered, he knew that he wasn’t the only one to be suspicious.

But, it was none of his business really. If Malfoy wanted to join an insane cult, why did Harry care so much about stopping him?

*~*

Harry felt for the crumpled paper in his pocket, and smoothed it out as best he could. The Ministry had a copy of it, like they had copies of all the letters locked away somewhere for them to remain unread, but the originals stayed in his cabinet. Except for this one, which stayed in his pocket. He had opened it and refolded it so much in the past week that the paper had worn thin.

‘Dearest P,

Father’s going   spare   . I’ll save you the details (for I don’t know them) but I think something might be happening soon. Perhaps   ‘It’   may finally happen. 

My blood rushes in anticipation with the thought, but it is not wholly excitement. I’ve been raised my whole life to bear witness to His resurrection, but now I will admit that I am having doubts. What if he truly is just a man, like me or Father or any other of his servants? Could you imagine all this for one man? And I have a new worry about being cast out. Father says that I am not committed enough. I am, but it gets ever so lonely that I can’t help but have an air of melancholy about me. When we are finally allowed to wed, I want our ceremony to take place on a beach in a hot foreign country, so I can feel the sand between my toes and the sun beating rays down onto my pallid skin. 

I have to finish this quickly. Father is limiting our communication even more (he may believe that the Aurors are closing in I think), so I may not be able to write. I grow evermore concerned for him and Mother, and even Goyle shares my concerns. (Goyle says hello, by the way. He is slowly recovering from Crabbe’s untimely death, may his soul be at peace) Crabbe’s father has started calling his death a   miracle   and that’s worrying to us; it was a horrific accident. I think being confined to the Manor is driving us all a little mad, like tigers in tiny cages. Soon, Father says.

Apologies for the rambling nature of my letter; I have so many thoughts and so little time. I must end it here. I miss you, so if you have not heard from me in a few days, please try and visit. It would raise my spirit immensely.

Yours, Draco M.’

Harry read it once more, and then slipped it back into his pocket. He could recite most of it by heart. Put one hundred different letters in front of him and he could pick out Draco’s handwriting.

P, to most people, would be Pansy Parkinson, the Slytherin witch that he had been engaged to since Sixth Year, after he disappeared. Harry still didn’t know why they had never actually married, but it worked out for the Aurors. His best guess was that she wasn’t as much of a believer as Lucius wanted her to be. Draco was in too deep.

Someone tapped his shoulder. He half-turned, keeping the Manor in his peripheral vision. Ron was waiting. Harry felt a stab of guilt: Ron didn’t know. The only other person who knew Harry’s secret was lurking in the shadows of the Manor.

“They’ve devised a plan; you’re with me.” Ron told him with a grim expression. In the early days of joining the Aurors, being given the opportunity to raid Malfoy’s house would’ve excited him. But, they weren’t children anymore, and the Manor inspired an uncomfortable seriousness. He felt like he couldn’t smile while it was watching him.

Head Auror Robards called them over, and began to explain the plan. Harry was only half-listening. Most of what he said washed over him like a tide. He couldn’t stop looking at the Manor. The hairs on his arms were raised, and he was cold despite his thick robes. He felt like if he tore his eyes away for even a second, it would move.

Malfoy Manor had been built sometime in the fifteenth century. It had stood for five-hundred years, and could stand for five-hundred more. Centuries after Harry was dead and buried, the Manor would still be standing. Ancient magic laced through every brick, every floorboard, every tile, window, step or lick of paint. It would not crumble to dust even in the lifetimes of his great-great-great-great grandchildren.

Robards finished, and Harry followed after Ron. They were to approach from the front, and the others would approach from the sides, all converging on the large drawing room, which was where Robards suspected they would be.

Ron jiggled the door handle, a habit before they would try a spell. To Harry’s surprise, the door cracked open, and when Ron pushed it lightly with the tips of his fingers, it opened further, emitting a loud creak as it did. Ron turned back to Harry in similar surprise, and then shrugged. He slowly stepped over the threshold, Harry one step behind him. 

He glanced up at the door frame as he went inside. The Malfoy motto ‘Sanctimonia Vincent Semper’ was carved into the stone. Purity will always conquer.

*~*

1996

Harry took to following Malfoy around like a dog. The map was his most useful companion in his… observation, but over the weeks he had developed an uncanny ability to find him without help.

By November, Harry was certain that Malfoy had been initiated. He had quit Quidditch, and his shirts were always cuffed at the wrists. 

It had quickly become apparent to Harry that his (suspected) initiation had not agreed with him. Perhaps Malfoy’s delicate constitution disagreed with becoming marked, because Harry thought he looked sicker every morning. He had lost weight, and as winter took a strong grasp of Hogwarts, he spent his mornings sandwiched between Crabbe and Goyle, shivering and sipping only a cup of tea. 

He had once even brought up his concerns to McGonagall, who had looked surprised that he had noticed, but she had dismissed his concerns. 

And then, not two weeks after, Katie Bell was almost murdered.

The Auror investigation was inconclusive, but Harry knew exactly where to look.

*~*

Harry hadn’t taken two steps into the hallway before glass cracked under his boots. He and Ron stopped as one, and in the gloom of the hall Harry could not make out the damage, but whatever it was, Harry thought that one of the house elves should have cleaned it by then. He could not imagine the Malfoy’s, of all wizards and witches, doing their own cleaning.

Ron cast  Lumos Maxima and a bright ball of white light lit up the hall. 

Harry sucked in a breath, stunned beyond words at the sight before his eyes.

A storm, a great and violent one, had torn through the hall, leaving no space unscathed. Paintings had been torn from walls, their gold frames snapped and the glass shattered. Vases lay in pieces, wet petals and stems mashed into the tile by heavy boots. One of the curtain railings had been torn from the wall, and the embroidered curtains had been slashed. Further down, the hallway wallpaper had been ripped off the wall. Ron raised his wand to it, and Harry read what had been painted in the wall in a jagged, rushed script.

‘Our Prophet had condemned and forsaken us, the serpent in our midst has driven poison into us all’

Harry didn’t read the words aloud. He couldn’t break the silence. Ron was suffering similarly: he shared only a look with Harry before they continued down the hall.

The carnage went on, but there was still no sign of any living being. They kept their wands raised, prepared for an attack that didn’t come.

The house was still and silent as they went on, like it was holding its breath. Waiting - but for what? Everything Harry knew about the Manor, either from Draco or the history books, had made Harry view it as some kind of living entity. 

They stepped carefully over shattered glass and bloodstained tiles until they found the great doors leading to the drawing room.

Harry kept his wand raised as Ron kicked it open.

*~*

1996

“You don’t understand, I  can’t. I’ve been chosen, and I - I don’t want to be cast out!” 

Harry played Malfoy’s words, uttered through sobs, over and over in his head. Myrtle was whispering to him at the sinks, where he was hunched over. 

No matter how many times he heard them, he couldn’t muster up any satisfaction about being right. Because he  was right about Malfoy being initiated, and he was right about him being given some type of task.

Harry listened silently by the door for a few more moments as Malfoy sobbed to the ghost, but then Malfoy stopped, and looked up into the cracked mirror and met Harry’s eyes like he knew he was lurking.

Malfoy threw the first hex, and it caught Harry off-guard, but he defended himself. They fought around the bathroom in a mad dance while Myrtle wailed at them. He felt the sharp bite of numerous stinging hexes, but they were nothing to him until Malfoy, with tears and snot dribbling down his face and onto his shirt, hissed -

“Cru-”

He didn’t have a chance to form the word. 

“Sectumsempra!” Harry shouted, and everything after was a blur of thick crimson. Except for those eyes. Harry would never forget the mix of panic and terror in them as he almost bled to death at Harry’s feet.

Snape had found them in time, and as Malfoy lay gurgling, Snape kicked him out with a bellow that even Harry dared not question.

Harry had stared at Malfoy’s dot, surrounded by Snape and Pomfrey, on the Marauder’s Map for hours, letting the chatter of the common room wash over him. He felt like he was underwater. The other Gryffindor's murmured quietly around him, and Harry distantly heard Azkaban more than once.

Harry had wondered himself why he hadn’t been arrested yet, too.

He waited for the arrest for days, anticipated it, but it never came.

Draco never came out of the hospital wing either. 

Harry didn’t see Draco Malfoy for a long, long time.

*~*

Darkness so thick that even Harry’s Lumos struggled to slice through it, and a smell so rancid, it almost made him vomit. His eyes stung from it. His knuckles were white on his wand, again waiting for an ambush. Ron gagged next to him.

The room was still, with no movements in the shadows, but it wasn’t comforting. Harry never thought an absence of light could be so terrifying.

The others were lagging behind, and Harry knew that he was supposed to wait for the rest of them, but the smell had reached out its fingers and clawed its way down his throat and up his nose, and dragged him further into the room, and only then did he realise what the smell was.

Rot. Vile, rancid rot that had been left to fester. Decay left unchecked.

He did vomit then, narrowly missing his boots. It hardly made a dent in the smell of decay.

Ron placed a hand on his shoulder, and Harry pushed him off and staggered a few steps away. He couldn’t wait, he needed to know. Everything in the Manor - the carnage, the smell, the emptiness—it was creating a horrifying picture in Harry’s head. The pieces of a nightmarish puzzle were slotting into place, and the end canvas was making a scream build up from the pit of his stomach.

No, no no—Harry’s thoughts raced as he staggered slowly to the centre of the room. The light shook as his hand did. He held it up, looking ahead, refusing to look down, afraid of what he was going to see. 

“Harry?” Ron whispered, slowly tip-toeing towards him, one hand over his nose. It was only then did realise he had been mumbling aloud. 

He turned slightly, instinctively, at the sound of Ron’s voice, but his feet kept moving. His boot landed on something soft and he jerked back.

Slowly, unwillingly, he lowered his wand, and the light shone over a pale face.

Harry didn’t shriek or scream or even gasp. He barely breathed as his eyes took in the sight. 

He didn’t recognise the features, though there was something familiar about them. The corpse was pale and rotting, and had once had curly brown hair and a regal nose. The eyes were closed, and there was dark blood around the nose and mouth, and Harry could see a glaze of spit covering his chin.

Poison. He had been poisoned. 

Ron caught up with him, and made a noise of shock when he saw the corpse at his feet. “Fuck. It’s Nott.”

“What?”

Ron pointed at the face. “Harry—that’s Theodore Nott. He was in potions with us.”

It clicked then, that the same boy who had skulked around with Malfoy was lying poisoned and dead at his feet.

He raised his wand properly, and Ron did the same. Harry felt dread build up with the scream as the light flooded the room and chased the shadows away.

The room was bigger when lit.

Across the polished wood floors, now stained red, were bodies. Harry couldn’t count how many, but it was more than a dozen. More than two dozen. Some were alone, some were gathered together. Spindly pale fingers reached out and clutched limbs and faces in dead holds. They didn’t all look like people, some were just lumps under robes.

Somehow, Harry still wasn’t sick, and he still didn’t scream, but it was a near thing. 

There was a rattle at one of the far doors, but the noise swept over him as he searched.

There, across the room from Harry, curled together under the fireplace, was a shock of white, illuminated by Harry’s wand.

Later, he won’t remember how he got there, but in the blink of an eye he was falling to his knees into a smear of blood, besides the unmoving and slowly decaying body of Draco Malfoy. 

The spy. Harry’s informant. The boy he had once been so obsessed with, he had almost killed him.

Malfoy’s eyes were the same storm-cloud grey they had been the last time Harry had seen them. But this time they were without panic or fear. They were empty of emotion. Lifeless.

Dead.

Harry couldn’t bear the gaze, even though it wasn’t fixed on him. He gently brushed his fingertips over his eyelids and closed them.

Distantly, or not distantly but far enough that there was an ocean between them in Harry’s mind, Harry saw Aurors flowing like insects through the other doors.

His hand lingered over Draco’s face. There was blood around his mouth, coming out from his nose. God - had it hurt? Had it been quick?

His hand brushed over his features with a mind of its own, trailing down until it hovered over his chest. He pressed down lightly, knowing it was futile, but doing it anyway. His chest felt cold even through fabric. He slipped his fingers into the gap between the buttons and then pulled them back at the ice they found there.

Harry only realised he was crying when he tasted salt.

If he had known that the cult was heading for this—this madness that looked like a ritual mass suicide, he would have… He would have done something, rules be damned. He would have stormed the place alone if it would have prevented poison being forced down Draco’s throat.

Because it had to have been forced. Harry had read all of Draco’s letters, kept every last one, and he knew that Draco didn’t believe like the others—some spirit had slipped through the cracks in the brainwashing, some part of his soul was untarnished by it.

But, Draco had also been locked in the Manor since he was sixteen and failed whatever task he had been set. Harry knew from his letters that any contact with his former friends was surveyed by Lucius himself. It was why they had to be so careful with the letters, and why only Harry was able to reply, for consistency’s sake. No word went unwatched.

Living like that would drive anyone to madness. Maybe he had wanted to die, and craved the release of death.

Harry glanced around his body, something he hadn’t done before he appeared by Draco’s side. Harry was kneeling with his back to Lucius Malfoy, who had died reaching towards his son, but not quite getting there. The smear of blood that was staining the knees of Harry’s uniform separated them.

On Draco’s other side was Narcissa. Harry didn’t know too much about her, other than she was related to Sirius. He had glimpsed her a couple of times, and had seen her kiss Draco’s cheek in Borgin and Burkes just before Sixth Year. Draco mentioned her only fleetingly in his letters, and before, Harry had sometimes thought that he was trying to absolve her of any responsibility to the situation he was in, but in general he had always seemed more fond of her than Lucius.

Narcissa had reached him. Her fingers were wrapped around his elbows, and the blood from her mouth stained his robe. Harry hoped vainly that her touch had been a comfort.

A pair of boots appeared in his vision. Harry looked up to find Ron staring down at him with something akin to pity etched on his face. He glanced at Draco, and then back to Harry’s tear-stained face. Then, he looked above to something on the mantelpiece.

Harry followed his face and felt himself breathe in sharply. Above the fireplace was a painting, and, once, Harry supposed it would have been pleasant to look at.

Not anymore. Once it would have shown the three last Malfoy’s surrounded by their wealth, but it had been destroyed in the chaos. Unlike the hall paintings, however, this had been deliberate.

Lucius and Narcissa’s faces were ruined with the crimson handprints that had been slapped over their features. But Draco had worse damage - his face had been torn out, and blood smeared over the painted robes. 

Harry didn’t have to think hard to recognise the symbolism in the gesture. They had been found out. Draco had been found out—and Harry had done nothing until it was too late.

“Harry,” Ron interrupted his thoughts. “He’s gone. I’m sorry, but you need to move away. C’mon, let’s go outside, take a breather.”

Harry hated how Ron was so professional and calm, and also so right . Draco was dead, and Harry was holding up the proceedings. Whatever they even were for a situation like this. He glanced back at Ron. His fists were clenched tight, and he was breathing through his mouth.

Harry made to move, and for an inexplicable reason he reached for Draco’s hand, wanting to squeeze his icy fingers, just once. When he did, a slip of paper that had been hidden in his palm fell into Harry’s.

It was creased from having been folded over and over, and there were faint smears of blood, but it was legible. The horror of the drawing room seemed to fade away as he read Draco’s last letter.

‘P  Harry   .

They know.   There’s no point in pretending any longer. I don’t have long. I don’t think this letter will be sent.

I don’t know how or why. Father’s been calling everyone from the Ministry. I can hear them downstairs—they are destroying the Manor in rage. I can hear them smashing our things. They were shouting and screaming all night. I think that this might be the end—maybe for more than me.

Father’s locked me in my room. He had the windows boarded up weeks ago. I didn’t tell you. Maybe he suspected even then. It’s been at least a day, maybe two. One of the house elf’s brings me food but she’s too scared to help.

I think he may kill me. Father or Him. They might have resurrected him - I just   don’t know anything.

Sixth Year, the last year I saw you. I was to kill Albus Dumbledore. I wanted to prove I was loyal. It was madness. I kept failing—I nearly killed Katie Bell instead. I don’t have it in me. Father said I’ve always lacked conviction—he is not wrong. I couldn’t do it. I wanted a way out but I was too cowardly to create a path that would free me. It was almost a relief when you nearly killed me. I define my life as before and after, and that is the event that defines the split. Rebirthing me into something worse.

I think they’ll poison me. Father wouldn’t let them be too vicious (I hope). He’ll want something that does the job for him. I’m good at potions, and I think I might have invented an antidote. I think it’ll also paralyse me for hours maybe and make it look like I’m dead. But I don’t know the dosage so I can’t know if it’ll work or if I’ll just kill myself sooner.

I likely won’t get to say it aloud, so I’ll write it now. I think I loved you. I loved the person who wrote me letters when no one else did. I used to dream of you—but I know this is your job as an Auror, and you likely want vengeance for your parents. I know I’m being delusional, the isolation has turned me mad, but whatever version of you wrote those letters—I loved him. If, that is, if it even was Harry Potter. I imagined he was you.

I want  He’s coming’

Harry read it until his hand shook and the paper crumpled in his fist. Then, spurred on by the dangerous drug of hope, he thrust the letter at Ron and began to rapidly yank the buttons of his robe open.

He pulled the robe open before Ron finished reading. He hesitated for only less than a second upon seeing the pinkish scars branded onto white skin, and then pressed his ear to his ribcage, and slid a hand to his belly.

Nothing. He closed his eyes as if that would help, as if he could bring him to life with force of will.

He kept his ear there, and when he heard a faint, low thump he snapped his eyes open in disbelief. He waited, not daring to breathe.

The seconds passed agonisingly slow.

It came again, slow and weak, but there.

Ron crouched down next to them. “Is he-?” 

“He’s alive!” Harry managed, mouth made of cotton. Clumsily, he lifted him up, Draco’s head lolling on his shoulder. Ron rushed to help, and he shouted at the other stunned Aurors to get a portkey to St Mungo's.

Harry lifted him properly with Ron’s help, and settled him into a bridal carry. Harry was certain that Draco let out a quiet sigh when Harry pressed him against his ribs.

Ron led them back through the carnage, glass cracking again under their boots, out over the threshold and into the rain. Harry breathed in air free of rot and decay.

A portkey was waiting. Harry carried Draco across the wet field, and refused to even glance back at the Manor. It was watching them still, observing Harry as he pulled the last of the Malfoy bloodline to salvation, and whatever lay beyond.