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DRARRY WIP

They make being an Auror sound like fun, like you save lives every day, hardly do any paperwork, and get to have a partner that you can laugh and joke with.

Harry is 24; he has been an Auror for seven years, and every year after he turned 19 had begun to feel more and more like hell each day. He wonders if it's just him, or if they all feel like this, and just manage to hide it better than he does. Sometimes it feels like he can hardly hide it at all.

He wakes up in the morning at 6:30, which leaves him with just enough time to have a coffee (black) and get dressed into jeans and a dragon hide coat (stained and ripped). Then he walks through the fireplace and is at his desk by 7 am. Most days, it's bearable; he can pretend like it's all worth something, and one day he will figure it out.

Today, though, was just awful to begin with. For a start, he woke up at 6:47, which left no room for coffee and very little for getting dressed and at his desk before his supervisor came around. He had to run to the elevators, and though he made it on time (the clock ticked over just after he sat down), Jasper still gave him the side-eye.

Harry felt something hot and sour curl in his stomach.

Jasper was 20, the senior supervisor's son, and had just finished his training two months before. He knew less than Harry, always seemed to step on the wrong toes of people they were trying to butter up, and had blonde hair.

The hair was an afterthought, but it definitely made Harry frown every time he saw it. Jasper slinks away back to his office, a nice big oak door with FRODDERDALE printed in gold in the frosted glass. Harry has worked here for a good few years, but there were people who had worked here decades (and even centuries) longer than he had. You wouldn't really be able to tell there because for Squadron C, they all shared an open floor space. There were about 20 desks, all with little flimsy barriers around them, and all with a 'PRIVATE' lamp directly above. Every lamp was small and only shined enough bluish light on the space directly beneath it, but when under, words were muffled, and there was a fog-like quality in the air. At least from people looking from outside the light.

It still made Squadron C a little louder than a school classroom, people leaning out of their lights to talk to each other, some yelling from across the room. Not everyone started at 7 like Harry, so some people had been here 2 hours, 8, or 16.

'Be an Auror,' they said. 'It's mostly fieldwork,' they said. Harry still managed to spend most of his time at his desk. Sipping from a burnt coffee he had made at the kitchenette in the corner of the room, Harry looked at the files in his IN box and the cobwebs in his OUT. It was going to be a long shift. He checked his watch, 7:15. Seven and a half hours left.

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Dramione WIP

She's running.

It's dark, but soon the sun will creep up the horizon and splash the world in red hues. The air is cool with last night's rain, and the leaves that crunch underneath her running feet are covered in last night's dew.

Hermione's not going to make it.

There's a hole, a couple of stones throw away, and if she could only get to it, she could slide in and disappear beneath the earth. They don't like it beneath the soil, and even if they did, the leaves were enchanted. Only those that had eaten its berries could see it. None of it matters; she has a stitch forming in her side, and the howls and yells of the young men behind her are closing in. They're like dogs, biting at the back of her legs with their stinging spells.

If only she could get back to Ginny and tell her what she now knew. It could maybe make a difference in the war that was waging. It would be good just to see her face one last time.

A streak of red. At first, Hermione thinks it's a spell, but it's the day's first ray, breaking the dark. It's probably the last time Hermione will ever see it; her seconds are numbered now, but she's thankful that she won't die in the dark.

It's too late, but she's not going to give in easily. She ducks and jumps over logs and rocks, her wandless magic shooting back without looking. Hermione is 20 years old now, and she's been fighting this war since she was 17. She hardly has to think anymore and just lets her body take over. Her hair is braided and dried into a bun, her body clad in itchy pants and a flowing long-sleeve shirt, the hood thrown over her head. Her feet are bound in bandages, as are her hands. Her body thrums with pain, but it also thrums with adrenaline. She won't go out without taking some of them down with her.

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Drarry Project

They've been seeing each other for three months.

Wait, not like that. Harry grimaces as he sits down at the long and vacant dining table. At the other end sits a frowning Draco Malfoy.

���I know you'd rather do anything else, but we believe in redemption. Especially if it helps us rebuild.’ Lucius Malfoy couldn't buy himself a ticket out of Azkaban, but he could buy a ticket for his son and wife. Draco had technically been a minor, and Narcissa had saved Harry's life. If Harry testified in court and to the paper, then his job would be half done.

Draco had taken it like a champ, had shown the teary eyes and puffy cheeks. Harry had almost believed him himself, more than he had actually believed his own stiff statements. At least he was sure in himself he hadn't lied.

Draco? The Malfoys had always been good liars.

Harry had actually not minded it as much as he put on a show for Ron and Hermione, had felt like he had paid back some sort of debt. But that was until he received a letter.

For 12 months, Harry Potter would give counseling to one Draco Malfoy.

It doesn't matter that he'd rather be anywhere else, and it doesn't matter that he really isn't qualified, but the Ministry of Magic wants something to do with the former Death Eater.

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"I Have To Kill You, Or He’s Gonna Kill Me!"

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Fallen In

Amber Grace is your ordinary 21 year old girl.

She works at a supermarket five days a week, drinks cheap booze whenever she can, and can also control reality.

That last part is a new development, though. One night, Amber is watching a new TV show that seems to be all the rage, Catching Death, about a vampire who falls in love with a girl who is sent to kill him. She doesn't find it very interesting, until she falls into the screen, and later, into Count Desmond's arms.

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Faux Love

Chapter 1

Hermione stands outside the door, hand raised but still in its movement. She hesitates.

How long has she known Draco for? Since they were 11, and she's 22 now. So a while. Just over a decade, and yet, now that she needs to speak to him, she can't even bear to knock on his door.

It's late, and everyone at the office has left, all except a couple of night owls that don't mind staying back a little longer, or even the few that do most of their work at night, for whatever reasons. The floor Hermione is on now is the one sanctioned for workers that, in other words, aren't to be trusted. Not near any artifacts or files, all floos locked and monitored, things like that.

It had been pretty desolate for the three years that Hermione worked; the only times she had walked down the halls had always been eerie and quiet. This year, though, almost every office and broom closet was full. Government workers were on the low end; after the war, most wizards and witches that were still alive and hadn't fled preferred to stay home for a few years and cherish their families. Harry himself had just joined the Auror force, his son just turned two.

Hermione? She had enjoyed the work, and what happened between her and Ron… until recently, work had been enough.

So no, there hadn't been enough workers for the Ministry of Magic, and so, something unprecedented happened. They had decided to start a rehabilitation program. Nothing too wild, just low-level jobs. Mail sorting, typing, that sort of thing. Which brings her to Draco.

She had seen Draco a little these past six months, usually when she had to come to this floor to talk to a fairy who worked here (Agg had worked here for decades, and chose to stay here even though she hated the wizarding world, and hated the wizards especially. She said it was due to the fairy circles that she had to manage, and the case file pictures Hermione sometimes saw on her desk explained why.) to gather intel on other cases.

Hermione worked as a secretary for an Auror, but she was hoping to one day build up into a different position. Until then, she would walk these halls every few weeks, and usually, sometimes, she would catch a glimpse of what was at first mistaken to be a ghost.

Draco Malfoy had changed in his four years in Azkaban.

Hermione had thought he was pale before; the glimpses she caught of him through ajar doors told her that he was tanned compared to now. The Malfoy heir was a sickly color, skin almost translucent. In the warm candlelight, he looked like a ghoul. At least it had appeared to give him color, but it made him look limp, his hair stringy in the green flame. It was horrid, to mistake someone for dead, to not register them as alive.

But… the few times they had made eye contact, there had been something in his pale blue eyes. Something that pulled at her, that seemed like a cat coyly asking to play. Draco still had his old fight, but she supposed it was buried a bit deep.

Which brings her here.

It's late, very late for anyone but Draco, apparently. The last time she had checked, it was 1 am, and that was a while ago while she was busy typing messily scrawled reports, trying to put this off. Now she had no choice, and had to get it over and done with, or else she wouldn't be able to face Luna tomorrow.

Hermione was going to Luna and Rolf's family lunch, and Luna had asked Hermione to bring Draco. Which frankly, at first, had made her ill. But now she only felt sick from the fear he looked up at her with those cold grey eyes and told her to fuck off.

She had wondered at Luna why. Why a Death Eater, why Hermione, why now.

But Draco wouldn't answer Luna's letters, and even though Luna admitted Draco still frequented her nightmares, he had also been in her dreams too.

'He had been nice to me, at the end. It doesn't sound like much, but it is when he knew the punishment was death.' And that meant something to Luna; these past few weeks, Hermione had thought about it every night before sleep came. What does it mean to sacrifice your own life for someone else that which was being sent to death?

Hermione, thinking of those months in the woods, imagined she had a bit of an idea what that meant.

The air gets caught in her throat on the exhale, and she has to fight the cough back. She can't do this, not tonight. Her arm shakes as it stays raised; her stomach rolls. When was the last time she saw Draco Malfoy? It must have been last year, at the trial. He had looked even worse then, unrecognizable, but at least she was at the back of the room. Only the witnesses sat at the front, and Harry had volunteered to be Draco's.

Harry had looked so young then. Afraid, but defiant. He really always was the bravest of them; now she was sure he would have knocked and welcomed Draco to lunch even if Draco spat in his face.

Hermione felt very young then, almost like a small girl playing dress-up. Some other night, but not tonight. She can't bear seeing his face or the thought she might take one look at him and either vomit or faint.

Hermione turns then and pretends her brisk walk is because she is tired and wanting to go home.

Not because she is scared.

Hermione lives by herself in a small flat in Muggle London. It's not the best place, and she's had to use magic to ward away mold and stop leaking pipes enough to annoy her to bits, but the flat has a window in every room, and the landlord doesn't mind Crookshanks, as long as Hermione cleans up his messes. Says he's good for the mice that come and go from the restaurant beside them, which makes Hermione smile a bit. Crookshanks isn't one for mouse pie.

She's been living here a year and a bit now, so when she comes through the fireplace she has transfigured into the living room, her heart immediately eases. Home, nothing bad can get her here.

Crookshanks meows indignantly from his place in the living room windowsill, face against the cool air that comes in through the ajar pane. She still feels sick, though only slightly. It doesn't matter how much she ignores him; she promised Luna. She can't get out of it now.

Hermione, for some reason, feels a little excited.

The building she lives in is tall and skinny. She has the second floor, and the one above her is vacant. On the ground floor is an old man that listens to the radio full volume every time of the day. There are still wards cast on the apartment, to protect her and to keep others from wanting to peek into her windows. But she's become a bit lax with the sound charms, and even most nights enjoys the radio and the nightlife that thrums in the air.

She could live in a better place than this, Harry and Ron have told her before. But the only person who realizes why Hermione stays here is Luna. The walls are a warm brown, the floorboards a dark chocolate. The few plants Hermione keeps in each room make it feel less like a rank old flat, and more like somewhere Hermione wanted to come home to. She hadn't really felt like that since she was a kid, not in her years at Hogwarts, or even in the six months she stayed at the Weasleys. This wasn't just home; it was her home.

The bathroom doesn't have a bath, only a shower. It's not big enough for it, and Hermione doesn't really want to play with transfiguring the space of it. All she needs to do is bust her piping. She undresses, her body aching like it does now that she doesn't sleep as long as she used to. She would love a warm bath, with some oil and candles and a nice book. She sighs and turns on the stream of water, standing there and shivering while she waits for the water to warm. Crookshanks comes into the bathroom, slinking. He meows again and jumps to perch on the sink.

He turns away from her and lays down to sleep.

Read the rest on AO3! ^-^

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Faux Love

Hermione Granger usually keeps to her own, which isn't hard to do now that she lives by herself and works at the Ministry of Magic.

But Luna Lovegood needs help, and who is Hermione to say no? If only she knew that saying yes meant falling in love with Draco Malfoy.