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  1. Public Bookmark 52

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    For the last five years, Auror Draco Malfoy has walked into his office with hardly a glance at the illusioned window taking up the back wall. It looks out over an imagined London, a perfectly bright and brilliant view of the city that hides the smog and rain and dirt that clings to the city like a patina of time that can never be worn away. It's always a perfect summer's day with soft, white clouds that float through the painfully bright blue sky like a dream. He likes to imagine the gentle breeze that ripples the surface of the Thames brushing across his skin, since he'll never be able to actually feel it. After all, his office is located on the second floor and is, therefore, underground.

    Or at least that's what he did before the seventh of October, 2009.

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    12 Apr 2021

  2. Public Bookmark *

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    While he and Malfoy reached something like a truce in the years between the end of the War and now, their Quidditch rivalry has only grown. And with it, a simmering tension that is absolutely not sexual, no matter how many times Hermione raises her eyebrow when Harry's drinking at her and Ron's house. Not even when his head is resting on the kitchen table next to his empty glass, and he's moaning about Draco bloody Malfoy, and his bloody perfect seat on a broom, and his bloody perfect technique.

    But as Harry stares over his teammates heads towards the Puddlemere United bench, he catches a flash of wet white-blond hair and flashing grey eyes, and he thinks that Hermione's eyebrow might have a point.

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    11 Apr 2021

  3. Public Bookmark *

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    The first time Harry Potter goes home with Draco Malfoy is brilliant. The second time is a mistake. Now, on the twenty-third-and-a-half, he thinks it might be a disaster.

    Language:
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    10 Apr 2021

  4. Public Bookmark *

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    If Draco ever gets his hands on this Bill Murray character, he's going to kill him.

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    The Groundhog Day fic no one asked for but I wrote anyway.

    Language:
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    09 Apr 2021

  5. Public Bookmark *

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    The ceiling doesn't hold any answers, but there are cobwebs scattered across the corners with shadows tangled in their threads. The rug against his back is rough and scratchy, threadbare and devoid of colours other than various shades of brown. Harry takes it all in, absorbs the dingy and depressed state of his home. There's a pointed moment of decision, a note about to be played, a silence about to end, and then he rolls to his feet and sets to cleaning.

    It's the first constructive thing he's done in years.

    Language:
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    09 Apr 2021

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