#pre drarry | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

exhaustedcatte · 2 years

Text

Teddy Remus Lupin

“Ted! D’you mind helping me clear out the attic?” Andromeda Tonks yelled from the kitchen.

The taffy-haired boy slung his arm across her shoulders as he veered his grandmother towards the stairs. “Yeah, ‘course I’ll help, but what’s the occasion?”

“We haven’t enough rooms for guests.”

Teddy shrugged.

They made their way into the attic, a spacious cavern with cardboard boxes piled high along the perimeter.

Andromeda handed Teddy a cloth and a duster to arm himself with, and then set to work.

The pair removed the boxes and Teddy found numerous playthings and toys, all from his childhood.

“We can sterilise them and give them to Hermione. She is expecting, isn’t she.”

“Oh Ted,” Andromeda clapped her hands together, “that’s a lovely idea.”

Andromeda levitated the boxes downstairs, to pass on to the kids and what was unusable was to be donated.

They worked in tandem, occasionally pausing to rifle through obscure Black Family possessions and some of his grandfather’s muggle keepsakes. Teddy pocketed an interesting looking device – a Walkman, it said. He didn’t want it to end up in the Weasley bin and have Arthur fiddle with it.

The doorbell rang when they were halfway through. Teddy unloaded the last of his toys into a plastic bin, and jumped over miscellaneous trash to open the door.

“Hiya Ted!” Harry grinned.

And at the same time, Draco smiled, “Hello, Edward.”

“Hey guys!” He huffed a laugh, “How come you’re both here?”

“Surprise,” Harry ruffled his hair.

His uncle shook his head in disagreement, “Your knuckle-headed godfather must’ve forgotten that today was my turn to have you.”

“Did not!” Harry pressed an offended hand to his chest.

Draco rolled his eyes at Teddy and behind him Harry mouthed ‘kinda did’.

“Teddy! Who is it?”

“It’s just Draco and Harry, grandma,” Teddy yelled back.

“Where’s your grandmother?” Draco asked him, politely sidestepping the mess that had been levitated into the drawing room.

“We’re cleaning the attic, she didn’t want anyone sleeping on the couch, so.”

“We’ll help, let’s get your grandma out of that allergy box,” Harry clapped Teddy’s back.

“I’m allergic to dust,” Draco sniffed delicately.

Harry raised a brow, blinking in disbelief, “Could’ve fooled me when you followed me to the most cruddy places, Malfoy.”

“Aunt Andromeda! Let’s get that finished for you,” Draco marched ahead, neck growing pink below his mullet.

The three boys sent Andromeda down to bake her infamous biscuits, while they tidied the place.

“So, which one of us are you banishing to up here?” Draco asked, lifting his hands to levitate boxes downstairs.

“Can’t you just use your wand, you showoff?” Harry jested.

“I don’t have my wand on me Potter, and it’s not like you don’t know how to forgo using your wand.”

Teddy ignored the banter. “I’m actually thinking I’d like this place for myself.”

Harry pivoted on his foot, “That would be wicked.”

Draco lifted another box and was magicking that downstairs when he bumped into Harry and the things in the box came pouring out.

“I swear to fucking Merlin, Potter,” Draco began, as Harry moved away – hands raised in surrender, but Teddy accidentally interrupted him.

“What the hell is that?”

“Language,” Draco murmured absently, kneeling down as well.

There was a huge album, embossed RJ. Lupin, crammed to the brim with pictures.

“Wow,” Harry breathed, touching the cover reverently.

“That’s not…” Teddy looked up for confirmation. “That’s my dad’s.”

Draco hesitantly opened the book.

Inside were pictures Teddy had never seen before.

There were photographs of four young boys, round faced and bright eyed. Pictures of them wearing matching scarves, all of them bundled in one huge sweater, them sporting matching butterbeer ‘staches. Four boys doing absolutely everything together.

The tawny haired kid, despite the thin silvery scars on his knuckles, had the biggest smile on his face. He stared hard at it, trying to burn it into memory, swallowing the growing ball of heat in his throat.

“Dad,” Harry smiled sadly, tracing a photo of James Potter tackling Remus in a hug. “I used to hear that I looked exactly like him for all my life. I don’t anymore.”

The implication was obvious. Harry was now older than James had gotten to be.

“You still look very similar. He was a handsome man, your dad,” Draco rubbed Harry’s back consolingly.

“Calling me handsome, Malfoy?”

“Take it as you will.”

The next few snapshots were of Remus, Sirius and James. Heads bent over a huge piece of parchment, fitted smartly in dress robes, pie-faced on halloween, wearing Santa hats.

Then came another year.

Remus was visibly the tallest of the quartet. He had shot up severely, his face was more rugged, almost roguishly handsome. A shadow of stubble on his face, hardened jaw, a strong nose. He had shed the last shreds of childish innocence, to give way to a handsome young lad. But even still, his big amber eyes, even through pictures, were so kind. Love omnipresent in them.

Remus was shot studying, or gallivanting with his troop in all the photos. He was stooped over a wrinkly hand (Teddy wondered if it was Hope Lupin) painting the nails a pale pink. Remus was in the library, the kitchens, the astronomy tower, all after bed-time. Teddy felt relief bubble up in him, his father had had fun in his time at Hogwarts, no matter the circumstances.

Draco turned the page.

There were a lot of pictures of whom Harry identified as Sirius Black. The man had had an incredibly handsome youth. Beautiful grey eyes, long shiny hair, cuttingly high cheekbones. His complexion pallid, a shock against the ink black of his hair. His heart shaped face drew stop at a pointy chin.

Where Remus looked hardened, Sirius appeared delicate. The Black genes were strong, he recognised a lot of Andromeda in his grand-uncle.

“He was quite the looker,” Draco acknowledged.

Teddy noticed through the corner of his eye how Harry kept looking at Sirius and back at Draco. He also seemed to find the Black genes in a relative, just like Teddy had.

There was a picture of Sirius laughing at something a girl beside him was saying. The red-head had appeared in many photos as the boys grew.

“My mum,” informed Harry.

Sirius was captured sticking his tongue out at Peter, tackling James, hugging a few other friends. All candid. Teddy assumed it was his father taking these pictures.

More artistic shots of the Black family heir were also pasted in the album – Sirius teetering on the edge of a balcony, downing a glass of wine, holding his wand up in lumos, standing against a bike in a parking lot dressed in leather.

“That’s a whole lot of Sirius,” Teddy noted quietly.

And then they flipped another page. Remus – expertly blowing a smoke-ring.

A shocked laugh escaped Teddy, “Is he holding a cigarette?!”

“Your father and his friends were quite the troublemakers, don’t be fooled by all the pictures of them studying,” Harry laughed fondly.

Draco agreed, smiling, “He retained that streak for mischief. It’s what helped him cope, I suppose.”

There was a whole spread of shaken photographs, giving away that the person behind the camera was either inexperienced or a pureblood, possibly both. All the photos were of his father. Reading, drinking tea, rolling weed, dancing too.

“My father was so cool,” he realised.

“We’d have made good friends,” Draco mused. “Maybe in another life.”

“If your head were less inflated, maybe.”

“Shut up, Potter.”

Then there were photos of just Sirius and Remus together.

There was not a hair’s gap between them in that timeframe. Them in a music shop, pointing at a stack of records. Remus reading to Sirius. Remus, Peter and Lily Potter holding up a banner for their two quidditch boys. Sirius playing with Remus’ hair. Remus applying kohl on Sirius’ eyes. The two of them laying beside each other under the shade of a tree. Them laughing, smiling, even crying.

Them kissing.

“What.”

It was a very clear photo. Remus was kissing his best friend. They were stood in the middle of an empty apartment, cardboard boxes stacked high behind them.

“What the hell?” Teddy asked weakly, head spinning at this knowledge.

“Er…” Harry turned to Draco, who also seemed at a loss of words.

And then there were more. Teddy could see in their eyes the amount of love they had for each other. Absolute adoration.

“Oh my god,” Teddy gasped at the scandalous photo. Even Harry’s eyes bugged out.

The two men were clearly not dressed below their bed linens. Sirius had draped himself over Remus’ tan chest. Both of them sound asleep.

“Well, what can I say. Seems like they had fun and I respect that,” Draco shrugged, trying to appear unfazed, but there was a distinct flush on his skin.

The photos ended abruptly after a series of shots of the Potter family and themselves. That’s when the war took a toll on them.

They closed the album silently. The quietness extended till Teddy cleared his throat.

“So… my dad and Sirius had a thing?” He asked, trying to be casual.

“I didn’t know,” Harry said honestly. “But seems so, huh.”

“Mum did mention once that Sirius was a disgusting faggot. Now look, I am too,” Draco laughed.

“It’s not disgusting,” Teddy assured hastily. He had to say it aloud, he owed it to his father, his uncle.

Harry agreed vehemently. “It doesn’t matter!”

Draco smiled at them, “I know, but thanks Ted, Potter.”

Teddy moved the album into his own plastic bin, to keep it safe.

The trio turned their attention to the rest of the things spilled on the hardwood floor.

Teddy sifted through the heap.

There were envelopes with letters; unsent, he guessed. Thick stacks of postcards, all addressed to some town in Wales. There were other things, but he wouldn’t ever know the reason his father had kept them. Quidditch jerseys with POTTER and BLACK printed on the backs, broken rectangle glasses, some sort of muggle board game. Banners with Gryffindor painted onto it. Records of ABBA, Queen, David Bowie, Frank Sinatra – the covers of which had a small Love, Lily scrawled on them. Parchments of recipes, all signed in the end with Cheers, Pete.

“Oh Remus,” Harry sighed.

Teddy blinked back his tears.

This entire house held the life of his mother, and he loved that a lot. To be able to learn of her in her own childhood home. Teddy had inherited his mother’s ability to shape-shift. He was also a Hufflepuff like his mum.

He didn’t know what of him was Remus.

But McGonagall promised him that she saw a lot of Remus’ personality in him; in his driven attitude, snark, in his pranks and his extreme love for chocolates and tea and sweets. She always smiled at him with pride and a tinge of reminiscence.

Teddy’d had nothing materialistic of his father, whose life even Andromeda knew only from the two years shared in Hogwarts. And he was suddenly gifted with more of his father’s post mortem possessions than he knew what to do with, but he’d keep them safely, he’d protect all of what was left of Remus.

Teddy ran his fingers along the edge of a photo frame. The picture inside was unlike those in the album, it was definitely a magicked one. Sirius was kissing the corner of Remus’ mouth, whose lips were stretched into a wide smile. The photo cut off right when the boys began to crack up.

“He was happy. He was in pain every month, but still so happy.”

“Ted,” Harry raised his head up. “Your dad loved you to pieces. He went through a lot, but he found people to love, and you were one of them.”

Draco affirmed this with a silent nod.

Teddy knew that, of course. In his room, in glass frames were pictures of him as a child, being held by his parents. Remus was obviously ecstatic, staring lovingly at the little cherub in his arms. Teddy didn’t doubt for a second that his father loved him. It was visible. Just as it was in his pictures with Sirius.

Teddy gathered all of the things and carefully placed them in his box, to keep in his room and to go through them leisurely.

They cleaned the attic in record time, when the smell of Andromeda’s baking wafted up and tickled their noses.

She distributed teacups and placed a platter of cookies on the teapoy.

“Grandma,” Teddy began hesitantly after they settled on the sofa.

“Yes?”

“Tell me about my dad and Sirius? Please?”

She froze midway pouring Harry a cuppa. “How did you–?”

“Remus had an album,” Draco explained softly, apologetic. “Evidence is plentiful.”

She laughed a little to herself, “Oh, of course. He had a habit of preserving all kinds of bits and bobs, your dad.”

Teddy sat up curiously. “Why?”

“I think he believed that if he didn’t have a memory of it, it didn’t exist. Things were always ripped away from him…”

It became solemn.

“So, did Sirius introduce you to Remus ever?” Draco sipped his tea.

Andromeda got a faraway look in her eyes, “It was the first time Remus had entered this house. Hand in hand with my cousin, who had been cut off and disowned then. He was the only one I trusted with Sirius’ heart. My cousin had grown up without love, but Remus was so patient and loving. And I’m certain Sirius was also the same.”

“Dad loved him, didn’t he?”

His grandmother smiled, wistful at the edges. “The two of them were the closest I will believe of soulmates. Opposites in many things but united in their values, experiences and such. He loved my Dora a lot, truly, but him and Sirius were like a house on fire.

“Even to an onlooker, they made an interesting pair. Where James and Sirius were the obvious duo, Remus and Sirius had a different dynamic built on very similar behaviours. Both stubborn, loyal to a fault, smart; even the childhood they experienced was riddled with guilt, shame, trauma. And where you could tell how much of a brother James was to Sirius, Remus meant to him very differently, and it showed.”

Harry had polished off his tea. “They deserved a happier ending…”

“Life owed them at least that,” Andromeda agreed sadly.

“Maybe they will meet again. The cycle of intertwined lives never end when two people are in love,” Draco leaned against Harry’s shoulder, unaware.

Teddy prayed silently that wherever his father was, he had gotten to meet his friends again. He hoped Sirius and Remus would get another chance at experiencing life together.

The dog star shone bright, in the night sky, beside the moon.

111 notes · View notes

steampunkserpent27 · 2 years

Text

Lemon Scones and Blueberry Muffins

for @hdcandyheartsfest 's prompt: Bakery Read the sequel here rated: G CW: Baker Harry, Oblivious Harry, Pining/Flustered Draco, Pre relationship

He had just finished his final batch of scones, when the bell above the front door rang, and none other than Draco Malfoy stepped into his bakery, again. Over the past month, Malfoy had been visiting his shop more and more frequently. He didn’t understand why Malfoy kept coming back, surely his scones and pastries weren’t that good. It had to be some practical joke, some sort of prank on him, but he couldn’t see what the joke could be. He couldn’t see what Malfoy would be getting out of these interactions. And it wasn’t as if Malfoy was rude when he bought pastries from him, so he couldn’t see what the point in all of it was. He was about to lose his temper, as this was the third time Malfoy had visited his shop that day. And it wasn’t as if he hadn’t just left, so he couldn’t have possibly needed another pastry already. But if Malfoy was going to test his customer service skills, he wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of seeing him crack. “Hello, again.” He looked Malfoy up and down, seeing that his face was already turning red. “Forget something?” Malfoy fidgeted, coming to a stop next to the case of pastries. “Uh… No. I mean, yes. Yes, I did.” Harry stared down at Malfoy, waiting for him to point to one of the sweets, so he could package it up for him and be finished with the interaction, but Malfoy was just staring at him, looking entirely lost. He cleared his throat. “Well, which one would you like?” Malfoy startled, turning his gaze back to the display case. “Oh. Uhm. Maybe…” He pointed to a lemon scone. “One of those.” He flicked his wand, the scone levitating into the air, as it was wrapped in parchment paper and sealed shut with a sticker that had the logo of his shop in the middle of it. “Anything else?” Malfoy had returned to staring. “And one of those.” He was pointing at a blueberry muffin. He wished Malfoy would just point to everything at once, so he could wrap them all with one flick of his wand, instead of having to do them all individually, but he suspected Malfoy was doing it intentionally, making him waste his time, so he couldn’t get back to work. Once the muffin was wrapped with perfection, he set it down beside the scone. “Will that be all?” “Uh. You uh… You have a really nice shop here.” It was his turn to stare at Malfoy. “Right. Thank you. Anything else?” Malfoy was fidgeting, his hands tucked in his pockets, as he rocked back and forth on his heels. “Er. No?” He didn’t know why Malfoy was asking it as if it was a question. He either didn’t want to buy anything else or he did, it was a simple yes or no question. Growing weary with the entire conversation, he set both of the baked goods into a sack, before he rang everything up. “That’ll be nine galleons.” Malfoy was staring at him, a strange, glazed look on his face. “What?” He was about to throw the sack directly at Malfoy’s head. “Nine galleons. For the pastries?” “Oh. Right. Sorry.” He dug the golden coins out of his pocket, setting them on the counter. “Thank you.” The rumpled sack floated through the air, depositing itself in Malfoy’s hands. Only, Malfoy wasn’t leaving. He was just standing there and staring again. “Can I help you?” Malfoy startled, his already red face turning impossibly redder. “No.” Harry watched, as he hurried out of the shop, letting in a cold gust of wind, as the door shut behind him. He didn’t know what to make of any of that, but he was fairly certain he’d be seeing him again soon.

#drarry #drarry fic #drarry squad #drarry!#drarry microfic #fluff #drarry fluff #pining #pining draco malfoy #oblivious harry potter #harry potter #draco malfoy #draco x harry #fic #harry x draco #baker!harry #pre relationship #hdcandyheartsfest2023 #hdcandyheartsfest

111 notes · View notes

short666bread · 1 year

Text

#my post nite out pre sober drawing from yesterday TT #or like #5 hours ago #the way you can tell TT #TT the really obv Arca photo reference #o 2 be a little kitty cat in the window waiting for ur hot spouse to come home from war (closing bar shift)#n e way #harry potter #draco malfoy #drarry #draco x harry #harry x draco

29 notes · View notes

joonkorre · 1 year

Text

fill a form, wait in line

@drarrymicrofic prompt: different

Can the same route lead to a different destination? Certainly. All he has to do is get off at another stop.

But the train keeps on going, the doors are locked, and Harry is glued to his seat. AO3

Harry wakes up, mist and absolute silence surrounding him. His feet lead the way.

****

One month after his twenty-fifth birthday, Harry marries the love of his life.

The wedding takes place on the Northumberland coastline, a compromise they reached after debating whether to conduct the ceremony on a Quidditch pitch halfway across the continent or the Hogwarts courtyard. It’s overall a grand affair, with long wooden tables and burgundy centrepieces and flora emerging after every step down the aisle. Ginny has splurged on a chiffon dress that she’d never wear normally but is perfect for the theme. Harry’s allowed paparazzi for once. A wedding like this belongs nowhere except on the front page.

The kids come soon after. Ginny leaves the naming to him, and naturally, he names all three of his angels after the people they should look up to. There’s never a peaceful day with them running around, especially not when the Granger-Weasley siblings come over. Even then, Harry has to duck his tear-stained face into his wife’s neck as their youngest, Lily, boards the Hogwarts Express for her First year. Like everyone else, they adjust to the too-empty house and fill their calendar.

The young grow taller and the old crouch lower. Charlie flies over to attend Harry’s retirement party, and they laugh about the kind of back pain that magic can’t cure. By that point, James has already found himself a fiance, Ginny has been years into her full-time gardening hobby, and they’ve moved places four times. Albus comes home for weekly dinners and Lily visits once in a while, bearing souvenirs and a grin.

Life goes on just like that for a few decades. When people ask, Harry always replies that as expected, he’s perfectly content.

At 125 years old, Harry passes away with his loved ones all around him.

****

“I like to think free will is the necessary condition of being human, yes.”

Harry nods, sure as can be. Sure as death and taxes, as the white of King’s Cross.

“You say that every time,” the train driver says.

“Do I?”

“Is there free will in this?” There are tickets in the train driver’s hand, all punched in the same incomprehensible shape.

The question is easy and Harry has an answer to it, but somehow it feels odd to say. His seat jolts a bit. Looking around, his eyes widened. He doesn’t remember getting on the train.

“Where’s your next stop?”

The train driver is gone, and Harry doesn’t need to leave his compartment to know that every other one is empty.

“Wherever I arrive,” he says to the white ceiling. That, too, is routine.

****

One month after his twenty-fifth birthday, Harry celebrates his and the love of his life’s anniversary.

Ginny doesn’t mind him being distracted throughout their date as she already talks enough for the both of them. Such a great girlfriend she is. Thus, it feels logical for him to ask for her hand in marriage by the end of the night. He never checked her ring size to buy a ring, and Ginny doesn’t mind either.

Their wedding is elegant. Held in the Italian restaurant they regularly dine in, they have just over 100 guests present. No paparazzi. When Harry reads his vows, he can’t help thinking about how quickly he finished drafting them the night before. Words flowed like the lines he wrote in detention. Some guests cry when he’s done, which isn’t all that surprising. If anything, the food is decent.

Harry and Ginny make the perfect couple. They don’t fight, they share responsibilities equally, and they respect each other’s personal space. Even then, Ginny gets her knickers in a twist on occasion about how easy-going Harry is, how he doesn’t have his own opinion on important life decisions and just agrees with her. His usual reply would be “Shouldn’t that make me the ideal husband?” It doesn’t improve the situation, but it does get Ginny to not talk to him for a day.

He’s promoted to Head Auror in due time. He gets to King’s Cross every September for his three children despite his busy career, even if watching the train disappear into the distance feels wrong somehow. He doesn’t know what to make of it. Ginny comments that it’s the only time he displays real emotion anymore. He’s uncertain about that as well.

Life goes on, as it does. There’s a throwaway fiasco with a Time-Turner, but it resolves itself out. Ginny switches from her Quidditch career to being a sports editor due to her injured legs. The children get over their teenage rebellion phases and grow to become capable adults. Both he and Ginny retire at some point. Hermione and Ron visit once in a while.

If anyone asks, Harry’d say he doesn’t remember much of the past few decades. He’s not sure if this is resignation or acceptance.

At 125 years old, Harry passes away in his sleep.

****

“I like to think free will is the necessary condition of being human, yes.”

“You say that every time,” the train driver says.

“Do I?”

The train driver closes the cabin door, and Harry’s reaction to suddenly being on the train is more instinctual than real.

“Where’s your next stop?”

Harry answers without thinking, staring at the lack of scenery outside. Suddenly, so powerfully it punches the breath from his lungs: dread.

****

One month after his twenty-fifth birthday, Harry asks the love of his life if they can get a divorce.

“No, we’ve only been married for two years,” Ginny argues, her eyes red. “Whatever’s wrong, let’s work this out together, okay?”

Harry genuinely has no idea why he was in such a hurry to propose years ago, as if he felt the edges were fraying and had to be fixed. He doesn’t have the heart to tell her. So he agrees. They work it out together. Neither of them mentions it to anyone else.

They have kids. Three, all named after proper role models. The children turn out okay, more or less, as they ought to. Since he’s a parent, Harry finds himself standing at King’s Cross every year, his wife quiet behind him, both waving at lingering black puffs of smoke as the Hogwarts Express gets farther and farther. Then they head home and clean and go to work. They fight a normal amount.

At some point, Hermione and Ron have gotten tired of him. It’s not an unexpected development, but it’d be a lie if he says it doesn’t sting. On Ginny’s part, he knows she works overtime most nights at the publication because Lavender fulfils her emotional needs. Harry cycles through being a Ministry worker, a floo technician, and a businessman, trying to find something new that he can feel accomplished about. None meets the criteria, and he’s toeing that line between frustration and apathy.

The kids pay their visit sometimes, during which he finally musters enough energy to face their resentment. He’d yell things just to yell and feel his breathing pick up and yank gravelly coughs out his sandpaper throat, and it’s then that he remembers he’s human again. In nanoseconds, he wants to ask himself why he “worked things out,” why Ginny hasn’t filed for a divorce, why everything is the same in only different packaging, why he even has these questions.

If anyone asks, Harry’d say he needs to go. Go where, he doesn’t know either.

At 125 years old, Harry dies alone in a motel room.

****

“I like to think free will is the necessary condition of being human, yes.”

“You say that every time,” the train driver says.

“Surely not,” Harry replies, and it feels like he’s wading in the deep end. “There must’ve been times when I say something else. Do something else.”

The train driver is silent.

“Right?”

Harry blinks, opening his eyes in time to spot the moment he steps over the threshold, one foot still on the station platform. The world tilts just a few degrees, and he turns his head right.

Whistling so high it’s comparable to a screech, the train barrels straight toward him.

****

One month after his twenty-fifth birthday, Harry responds to a joke from the love of his life.

“What, are you getting cold feet?” Ginny smirks, a slice of pizza halfway into her mouth.

Harry stares at her. “Yeah.”

She meets his gaze without anger and only sets her food down. When the first tears drip from their faces and splatter on the table, it’s deliverance.

“I guess you do seem different lately,” Ginny says hours later, curled up against him with her ankles brushing his. The world is dark outside their window and their canceled wedding is a week away. “After your birthday, you look agitated all the time and… I don’t know, but a part of me was preparing for it. My reaction earlier was way milder than it would’ve been otherwise.”

Harry combs his fingers through her silky hair, quiet.

“Do you regret your time with me?” He eventually asks. “I know what I did was unfair, being the one to ask for your hand in marriage just to…”

“Come on, sound it out,” Ginny pats his cheek. “I actually don’t regret it. Live and learn, y’know? And I’m glad to know that you’re a good boyfriend but a shite husband. Better now than years later, by which point I’d probably kill you for wasting years of my life. Or maybe not. That’s worse, probably.”

She shifts and yawns a bit. “How about you? Do you regret our relationship?”

His heart breaks. Harry’s never been honest with her about how he thinks he’s been playing out a script all this time, how he’s less the captain and more the ship, unable to do anything but let ocean waves steer him about. He doesn’t plan to tell her that tonight feels like a breakthrough for him either.

“Not at all,” he says. This, he can be honest about.

People don’t take the news lightly, least of all the Weasleys. Ron socks him in the jaw, hard, since he was the one helping Harry surprise Ginny with the proposal. Harry’s still seeing stars when Molly finishes digesting the news, her face turning to the shade of Weasley red and her wand clenched to the point of shaking. Amidst it all, Harry laughs. An exhilarated, visceral laugh that makes his entire body lock up, the kind he doesn’t even think he's capable of. Ginny stops her frantic explanation to gawk at him, then she laughs as well. Harry is only banned from the Burrow for two weeks.

Harry pivots from Auroring to entering college. Being a Ministry worker straight out of Eighth Year, Hermione admits to feeling shocked that he’d be the one to choose that route. But she helps him relearn how to study, cries at his graduation ceremony, and lets him borrow her owl to send his teaching certificate to McGonagall. It’s with a raised brow, but the Hogwarts headmaster shakes Harry’s hand with barely concealed pride after their interview.

The entire time spent in the Auror Department is insignificant compared to the joy he feels when a Sixth year finally smiles, watching her first Patronus bounce across the room.

September comes. Returning students greet him as they walk past on platform nine and three-quarters. Flipping through a muggle magazine, Harry looks up and scans the crowd periodically. His brows furrow. He checks the suitcase guarded between his calves to ensure that no student-led prank got through. Spotting none, he goes back to his magazine, forgetting about the passing thought that someone is absent. Shortly after, the train arrives.

A new school year starts, and starts and starts and starts, until fifty-something years have passed and he’s taught DADA in every way thought possible. He’s participated in a few studies for novel Dark spells, refined the construction for certain defense procedures, dealt with Howlers from parents, so on and so forth. He’s also dated throughout the years, but no one sticks by him for quite as long as the towering stacks of paperwork in his office. Even then, working with cranky, hormone-filled students has divorced him from the notion of having a family of his own and bringing that issue under his roof.

But he likes his career. He likes his career, and when he announces his retirement, students hug him with red, teary eyes. Shy First years come up to him and confess that they were going to pick his class as their siblings did. Current professors who used to sleep during his lectures now shake his hand and bow.

If it hasn’t been abundantly clear to him over the past decades, it's clear now: Harry Potter is more than a child soldier. He is a beloved teacher.

Retirement is spent around the Weasleys and other retired colleagues who have little left to do but cackle obnoxiously in a pub. That goes on until he’s had enough of charming his own joints to keep working each day, so he hires a private caregiver. Janet is Ginny and that Belgian fellow’s grandchild. She’s snide enough to make him feel less like a burden; she has this uncanny ability to procure any tome or scroll he wants, no matter how esoteric; and she makes excellent sandwiches.

One day, he wakes up with the distinct knowledge that time will stop for him soon. He says—or mutters—something of the kind to Janet, and she sits down with him.

“Didn’t eat much these days,” Harry sniffs. Janet fixes his blanket and doesn’t look surprised when he continues. “Been seeing these. These little children.”

“Do you now?”

“They’re good kids,” Harry pats her hand. Smacks his dry lips and coughs a bit. “Say, why don’t I...”

It’s how he starts every book request. Janet hums patiently.

“Why don’t I have one of those yearbooks? In ‘98.”

“1999, old man.”

Harry grunts in annoyance, but she’s right. When she returns an hour later, poking out of her bag is a purple-bound book with silver embossments.

“You sure there’s nothing else you want to get?” Janet questions as she prepares afternoon tea. The other Weasley kids will visit soon along with Hermione, now wheelchair-bound and prone to napping. He ought to show them the yearbook.

“Eh,” Harry croaks, and Janet nods.

His knobbly hand slowly flips through the pages, feeling the slightest texture of yellowed years beneath his fingertips. Faces that might as well be anonymous as they are familiar, names that are no more than black-inked words, events and titles that are now footnotes in time. He sees himself and his friends repeatedly throughout the yearbook, mouthing the same words every ten seconds or walking across the frame in a loop. How these pictures were taken without him noticing, he has no idea. Or perhaps he’s forgotten. Anywho.

He skips to the index at the end, where everyone in his year (all forty of them, if one can believe it) is crowded into four pages, each dedicated to a House. The students who were absent in Eighth Year were included using their photos from years prior, lest the four pages reduce to two. Such youthful faces. If it’s not for the statues and books about him littering wizarding Britain, Harry would be more surprised at his appearance at eighteen. Sullen, angry, wounds all licked up but far from healed. He shakes his head. That boy would rather use that copper badge to hex anyone he thought was a criminal than meet a shrink.

Everyone else seemed just about what he expected. It does feel nice to put a face to hazy memories though, so he flips to the Slytherins. In front of the camera, they shed their signature smirks, and what remains is a veneer of bored arrogance he reckons only old money can don. His eyes shift to the centre of the page. They stay.

How curious.

“Jan.”

“Hm?”

“Y’know a… a Draco Malfoy?”

What makes Janet Gillard one of Hermione’s favorites is that she co-edited every new Hogwarts: A History edition until about thirty years ago. To this day, she can recite the names of every student and staff present at Hogwarts during the Final Battle.

“A who?” She speaks over the boiling kettle. “Malfoy? That line died out in the 1980s, why?”

He closes the yearbook. The doorbell rings and Janet strolls over to open the front door. When his guests come in, they bring gifts and stories to entertain him with, brightening instantly when they spot the yearbook on his lap.

He doesn’t say much as he watches them read through it, showing him and a smiling Hermione whatever they find interesting. Eventually, they reach the index, saying something about whether the Longbottom child was anything like her great-grandfather, or if the Patils have all moved to the States. When they get to the Slytherins, the chatter lessens, albeit out of respect for their elders who have dealt with these students in the past. Their gaze doesn’t gravitate to that one specific spot, their breath doesn’t stutter. Like nothing is amiss.

If anyone asks, he'd say, "That's not right." But no one does. His eyes slip to the ceiling, throat dried. He gasps.

At 125 years old, Harry dies along with the white, fleshy void of Draco Malfoy's face behind his lids.

****

“I like to think free will is the necessary condition of being human, yes.”

Harry opens his eyes to an empty corridor, the train floor rumbling beneath his feet.

“Don’t I?” He asks himself, curious.

A rattle nearly sends him bumping into a compartment, and his limbs finally move, carrying him forward. His footsteps echo in waves. Dust motes float about, the ancient air too stark a contrast to the white, almost sterilized environment of the Hogwarts Express.

The train car is too long, and Harry doesn’t know how long he’s been running. There’s no sweat on his body despite the strenuous activity, his heart rate remains nonexistent, and once he realizes this, he forces his breath to quicken. Green eyes strain, flicking every which way. This is how it’s supposed to be, but it’s wrong. It’s all wrong.

Far ahead, the minuscule vanishing point that the train corridor converges to eventually widens. His chest heaves in relief. Ever closer, the door has a window big enough for him to see into the cab beyond—and the driver. Harry pushes his legs to go faster. Something flares in his chest, stabbing and red-hot, sounding like fabric shifting and air whipping when he wrenches the driver around by his blue-clad shoulder, makes him look Harry in the face. But he's still running, and his hand grabs air.

Sensing something, the driver’s head turns to the side. Then he stands, leaving his seat and striding toward the door. Harry is two, three paces away. The driver’s gloved hand lifts to hook a finger on the blinds, on the verge of pulling it. One more step. Harry’s hands slam against the metal—body shuddering through the shock—and his eyes lift to stare through the window.

The pulled-low cap shifts a fraction of an inch, but Harry sees it. Wrinkled brows, a panicked glance. The rest of his face is covered behind the uniform’s overly high collar. Snap, and the blinds are down.

“Stop derailing it,” the train driver’s voice surrounds Harry.

His body sags against the door, eyes shutting no matter how much he tries to do otherwise. But he sees it anyway.

Pure silver.

****

One month into his twenty-fifth birthday, Harry stares down at the contract on his lap.

“Thursday next week, we’ll—Harry?” Robards snaps his fingers. Harry doesn’t jolt, and his head lifts to face the frowning Head Auror. “Training hasn’t even started and we’re getting distracted already? Focus.”

“I,” Harry starts. He says nothing more, just now registering the quill against his palm, smooth and waiting. Beneath it is the empty space where his signature goes.

At Harry’s silence, Robards shoots him a warning glance before continuing the speech. Something about schedules, benefits, duties, important missions that need someone full of potential like Harry to come and solve. Didn’t know why Harry was dithering about instead of joining the Aurors immediately after Eighth Year, seeing as the department offers mind counselling as well, but one can’t fault a young man for enjoying his prime while it lasts. Harry will get back on track soon enough.

The floor rumbles below Harry’s soles. He looks up from the contract, but Robards is still leaning against his cherry wood desk, unaffected, and nothing trembles. Shifting his gaze to the large artificial window behind that desk, Harry scans the manufactured blue sky and the looping white clouds. Realistic they may be, but he can never forget that he’s underground.

The white of those clouds feels too much. Almost clinical. Harry blinks at the thought, eyes aching, and it turns out he hasn’t blinked in a while. Robards has moved on to anecdotes, Harry can vaguely tell. Staring at the clouds for this long does something odd to his sight. A sheen of static-like specks fills his vision like every other time Harry stares at something until it becomes incomprehensible. But it’s different now. Why, he doesn’t know, but something changes.

Harry inhales. Stale air that didn’t exist before in this office fills his lungs, and a section of his brain sparks. He exhales. Metal heaves in his ears, ageless machines pumping a way through the fog. Always one designated way.

The air is back to its scentless quality. Harry tries to remember how it was earlier when something else floated through his nose and into his system, but memories slip past him. Maybe it’s not even a memory. Brows knitting together, Harry clenches his eyes shut and forces himself to read through the contract once more.

Words stop making sense. As his eyes flit across the parchment, Harry thinks of death, of lingering, of a tattered veil swaying in windless space, of whispers from the depth. The contract feels heavy in his hand, the quill too rough. Cold sweat dripping down the back of his nape, Harry’s head whips up so fast Robards stops talking. He doesn’t look at the Head Auror but at the clouds.

Pure silver is all he can see.

“Harry, what’s going on with you—”

“Sir, I’m sorry,” he starts. This time, he keeps going. “But I don’t think the Auror Department is right for me.”

Meeting Robards’s eyes, Harry smiles.

“Before I stop wasting your time, do you know the process of applying for the Department of Mysteries? Particularly the Death Chamber?”

50 notes · View notes

professionalfanatic · 8 months

Text

Harry stiffled a curse, heading back to the Tower after yet another detention with Umbridge. He cast a Tempus, and groaned, seeing that it was a little past midnight. Now he would have to copy off Hermione's Transfiguration homework again, seeing he was just too exhausted to pick a quill, forget writing down the Laws of Goodness knows what.

He hoped Hermione was asleep. His hand seemed to be bleeding even more than usual, and even though he would have loved to soak his hand in her special dittany , he didn’t want to deal with her rebukes again. He knew that she disapproved of him keeping the true nature of Umbridge’s detentions quiet. She'd been urging him the whole of the past weekend to go to Madam Pomfrey, Professor McGonagall, Professor Dumbledore, anyone really, but Harry had refused soundly. He didn't want to see the satisfaction on Umbridge’s face that she was getting under his skin. That she was hurting him. He'd be damned before he allowed that to happen.

Besides, what use was it, going to Dumbledore? The man seemed to be pretty determined to ignore him for the entirety of the school year, starting from his Trial back at the Ministry for Magic. Harry didn’t want to bother him either. He must be busy, what with the whole business of Voldemort, and the Ministry being a bunch of idiots.

So Harry would just have to deal with it. It wasn’t anything huge, he had lived with the Dursleys for the past 15 years of his life.

He yawned, rubbing his tired eyes. Honestly, this year was turning out to be the worst ones ever. He was so exhausted and disgruntled with everything that he was even looking forward for the holidays, and that's to say something, because Harry usually preferred his school terms better than the vacation.

But who could blame him? What with the whole business with Voldemort coming back to torment him, the dementor at Privet Drive, Dumbledore ignoring him, the horrible nightmares, Umbridge with her stupid DADA lessons, the damn detentions, his OWLS and that blonde prat -

"Oof! " Harry huffed as he collided with someone, and made a head dive to the floor. "Watch where your going! "

It was unfair, he knew, as he had been the one engrossed in his thoughts to have not seen the dark clad figure, who was also now sprawled on the floor in a very undignified manner.

"I think you should do that. "

Harry froze in the act of standing up. He could identify that snooty, lordly sneer anywhere.

"Malfoy. "

Of everyone he could have bump into after detention, it just had to be Malfoy.

The said boy was now dusting himself off the floor, scowling as he did so. His blond hair was all over the place, and he looked a bit more dishevelled for his impeccable Malfoy appearance. Not to mention, he was also sprawled on the floor, in a very undignified manner.

Malfoy looked up, and seeing Harry’s glaring face, his own scowl deepened.

"Potter. " He sneered at him. "What are you doing here at this time of the night? Not sneaking around, I hope? "

"Malfoy. " Harry bit back with equal venom. "It's none of your business. "

His scowl was replaced by a little smirk. "Language, Potter. I'd like to remind you that I am a prefect. Which means that I, unlike you, can take away some points for your unseemly behaviour. "

Harry glared at him.

His smirk grew. "So tell me, Oh great boy who lived. What are you doing at this ungodly hour? "

"Detention. " Harry said through gritted teeth. "I had detention with Umbridge. "

Harry hadn't thought that his smirk could become any wider. But apparently, it could, and Malfoy actually had the nerve to let out a gloating laugh.

"Ah, yes. Detentions for all the lies you've been spouting this year, am I correct? "

"You know very well if they are lies or not, Malfoy. " Harry grinned, seeing the smirk on Malfoy's face fade.

"Do I, then? " He hissed, a glare adorning his features.

"At least your scumbag of a Death Eater father would. " Harry shot at him. He shouldn't be here, fighting with Malfoy, a distant voice in his head which resembled Hermione was warning at him to shut his big mouth and stop enraging the blond menace, but Harry never did have much self control around Malfoy.

Malfoy's lip was curling in a cruel sneer.

"At least I have parents, Potter. Yours are six feet under. "

Harry saw red.

He growled at the disgusting slimy Slytherin and leapt forward, pulling his wand out of his pocket, not giving a least care that this would very well mean another set of ghastly detentions with the toad like woman. Malfoy had pushed him to the limit today, and insulting his dead parents, he could not tolerate. He wanted to murder the stupid bastard.

Ginny's Bat Bogey Hex seemed a good idea at the moment-

"Potter! What's wrong with your hand?! "

Harry stopped in his tracks, startled, all thoughts of hexes and curses forgotten. He had not expected Malfoy to ask about his hand, much less notice his hand was bleeding.

He spared a glance at his blood dripping hand and winced. Okay, maybe he would've noticed, but Harry never expected him to look so... different. He wasn’t sneering at him, or giving out snide comments at how pathetic he was to injure his hand, on the contrary, Malfoy was staring at him with something akin to..... concern.

"What? " Harry said stupidly.

"Your hand, Potter. " Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Why is it bleeding all over the place? "

"That's - " Harry began to say, before stopping abruptly. "Wait, what? "

"Potter, much as I knew your brain to be nonexistent, this is ridiculous, if you don't have the ability to understand simple sentences. " Malfoy rolled his eyes expressively.

"No! Just... why are you asking about my hand? " Harry garbled.

Malfoy heaved a sigh and lurched forward, and grabbed his hand, making Harry yelp.

He watched as a series of emotions flick in Malfoy's grey eyes, moving from concern, to surprise and anger after discerning the words carved into his skin.

Harry had never seen Malfoy's eyes look so intense. All for an injury that had happened to Harry. Harry bloody Potter, who was Malfoy's worst enemy. Why even was he angry for this? Harry had never been this stupefied in his life.

Then again, nothing about Malfoy ever made much sense, right?

"Bitch. " Malfoy muttered under his breathe and demanded sharply, startling Harry out of his bewilderment. "How long has she been making you do this? "

"Huh? " Harry mumbled, his brain yet to process Malfoy's question.

He rolled his eyes, and muttered, "Probably from the start of this term... no wonder its deep. "

Harry’s jaw dropped at Malfoy's unnatural concern.

"Woah, woah.. " He stuttered. "Malfoy? Are you alright? "

"What? " The said boy snapped, still staring at his hand with a frankly alarming expression.

"..... why.... are you holding my hand...? "

Harry winced when that was the first question that slipped him. That was not a good thing to ask right now. Or any time. He shouldn't be wondering why Draco Malfoy of all people was holding his hand and worrying about him. What next, Voldemort inviting him for a nice chat over a cup of coffee?

So in Harry’s defense, his concern was perfectly acceptable.

Malfoy was worried for Harry.

Malfoy, with his blond hair, not slicked back with gel for a change, and his grey eyes that looked almost silver in this light, was actually cradling Harry’s hand. Tenderly.

Harry shook his head frantically. That made no sense. He must be hallucinating. Did Fred and George give him some weird thing that was making him see weird stuff like this? Were everyone in the common room laughing at how dumb his hallucination was?

Or dreaming. He must have returned to the common room, and he must have fallen asleep while writing Snape's stupid essay about the restorative properties of Merlin knows what. Any moment now he'll wake up, and laugh at himself for seeing such bizarre and stupid dream.

Literally anything made sense in the face of Draco bloody Malfoy expressing an emotion other than anger, and hatred to him.

He glanced at Malfoy's worried (worried! ) face and asked him slowly, in a delibrate voice,

"Malfoy, are you sure if you are all right? "

He yelped when said blonde prat tightened his grip on Harry’s hand. "Ow! What was that for?! "

Malfoy actually had the nerve to smile at him, though the look of worry didn't completely fade from his grey eyes. Which was still baffling Harry. He still couldn't think of any remotely logical reason as to why Draco Malfoy of all people was being worried about the state of his hand.

This didn't seem much like a hallucination, Harry thought, much to his discomfort. And he probably would have woken up by now, had it been a dream.

Perhaps... something had happened to Malfoy? Was he cursed or something? That made even more sense, seeing that Malfoy was the one who was actually acting in a very strange manner. Completely different. Was this someone polyjuiced as Malfoy? Even that made more sense.... whatever this nonsense happening right now did.

Harry pulled himself out of this slump he was falling into when he heard Malfoy sneer at him, and put his hand inside his pocket, pulling out his wand.

"What are you - "

"Relax, Potter, " Malfoy sneered, pointing his wand at Harry's hand.

Harry let out an incredulous laugh. This was getting way more insane by the second.

"You are pointing a wand at my hand, Malfoy, " Harry reasoned with perfect logic. "We've hated each other's guts for the past years, so yeah, sorry if I can't relax, when you point your fucking wand at me. "

Malfoy just rolled his eyes and muttered something, and Harry felt an immense sense of relief wash over his hand. Glancing down, he watched in astonishment as the blood dripping down his arm disappeared. The words carved into his hand were still visible, red and stark, but the painful sting had quite subsided.

Harry studied his now healed hand carefully, and glanced at Malfoy, who looked extremely smug.

Did Malfoy just heal his hand? No, that's not possible. What goddamn reason would Malfoy have to cure his hand? Did he curse his hand with some elaborate Pureblood spell?

But his hand seemed fine. In fact, it felt perfectly okay, now that the pain had been subdued by a great degree. He clenched his hand, smiling in relief as the sharp stab of pain had subsided.

"Wow, that feels great, " Harry exclaimed. He glanced at Malfoy who was still wearing his smug smirk, and gave a small wry nod. "Thanks, Malfoy, "

The blonde boy's smirked deepened. "I couldn't have the Oh great boy who lived bleeding all over the castle. Imagine the stress it would cause poor old Filch, " He gloated.

Harry rolled his eyes. "Yeah, like I have to believe you did this for the sake of Filch's sanity. No, I think you care about me, " That sounded entirely too bizarre and wrong, but Harry thought he wasn't too faraway from the mark when Malfoy's pale cheeks flushed, and he looked away.

"Don't be ridiculous. Why in the name of Merlin would I care about you? " He snapped, stuffing his wand into his robes.

"Oh, I don't know- why else would you go out of your way to help me?" Harry grinned. It was totally fun, teasing the other boy and making him blush.

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Whatever you say, Potter. Just don't make it a habit to wander around the halls at midnight, knocking people down. I could have gotten seriously injured, "

Harry snorted. "Forgive me, your Royal Highness. It's okay to get acquainted with the floor once in a while, considering you walk three feet above it, "

"Acquainted? My Potter. That's a big word. Sure you didn't hurt your head, thinking that? " Malfoy smirked.

It was bizarre, them, Malfoy and Harry, actually having a civil conversation that didn't involve them flinging hexes and curses at each other. Ron wouldn't even believe him. He'd accuse Harry of lying. Hermione would believe him, but would seriously send him off for a check up with Pomfrey.

Harry stiffled a yawn, wondering just how late it was. Malfoy noted his yawn and rolled his eyes again.

"Goodness, Potter, cart yourself upto bed, please. Its terribly unattractive to see you yawn like that, " He sneered, but Harry, to his surprise didn't feel annoyed by it. Alright, just a little, but not enough to throw hexes at him.

"Shut up, " He murmured back, but with a lot less heat than earlier.

"Well, you will see the value of my words when you are inevitably even more inattentive at Snape's class tomorrow. " Malfoy smirked. "Maybe you'll land yourself another detention, "

Harry rolled his eyes, and turned to leave, silently acknowledging that Malfoy may have a point. He already had to finish Snape's stupid essay. If he was inattentive at class, and turn in a subpar essay as well, he might be in a lot of hot water. He was leaving when Malfoy called out to him, his voice more uncertain this time.

"You told Dumbledore about Umbridge’s punishment, didn't you? "

Harry whirled around, angered by the mention. It wasn't enough that Hermione was bothering him, now Malfoy as well? He could take care of himself, why did no one get that? Dumbledore had enough on his plate without Harry adding to it.

"There's no need for him to know. I can deal with it, " He snapped at Malfoy who looked taken aback.

"Merlin's beard, Potter! Stop getting so worked up over nothing. I just asked because Blood Quills are forbidden, you know? It's not a simple matter to use it on children. The School Board takes stuff like that seriously, "

Harry frowned at those words. "And you know this because... "

"My Father is a Governor, of course. " Malfoy rolled his eyes. "This school is unsafe anyway, remember that oaf Hagrid's ridiculous bird? "

"I remember you crying like a little baby, all because you couldn't follow simple instructions. " Harry taunted. "Buckbeak was a good Hippogriff, I rode him, remember? "

"Yeah, yeah, Saint Potter, capable of every miraculous feat possible, " Malfoy sneered. "But this place is a deathtrap, don't even refuse, "

Harry would have liked to refuse, but remembering Aragog, Hagrid's monstrous spider, and even the Basilisk, he just scowled. Malfoy did have a point. He turned around to leave when Malfoy called out again.

"Potter, do consider telling at least McGonagall. She's always on your stupid side, so she'll listen. And like I said, Blood Quills are forbidden. "

Harry looked at him shrewdly. Was this Malfoy's way of looking out for him? Something in Harry told him that Malfoy was genuinely trying to help him, like how he had healed Harry’s hand. Was he even telling Hadey a way to get Umbridge out of Hogwarts? Perhaps it wasn't such a terrible idea to go to McGonagall.

He just smiled at the blonde prat, liking how his cheeks flushed again.

"Good night, Malfoy, " Harry said instead of an answer.

Malfoy smiled at him. He actually smiled, instead of that stupid smirk. Harry found out that it was unexpectedly nice to see his pointy features soften by a mundane smile.

"Good night, Potter, "

-----------------

Wrote this on ao3, but posted here too :)) Forgot how much I love Drarry to be honest :)

#drarry #draco malfoy #harry potter #hogwarts #fluff #pre relationship #hogwarts fifth year #i just really love them #harco #idiots #mialovesbl #ao3 fanfic

17 notes · View notes