This Man.  Ugh.

Hermione is alone on the porch when he arrives.

Everyone is asleep inside, drowsy after Molly’s Sunday roast and countless bottles of celebratory champagne.

Her stomach twists into a thousand tiny knots.

“Congratulations.”

“Don’t,” she says sharply, another knot welling up in her throat.

Beneath the amber lantern, his eyes are bloodshot. The last time they saw one another, they were bright and melting, burning holes into her skin that she wished to fill with him.

He stuffs his hands into his pockets and stands there, looking at her.

She can’t stand the weight of his gaze, so she stares at her knee. At her hand on her knee. At the sparkling jewel nestled around the finger of her hand on her knee.

“I still read Muggle literature,” he says, sitting beside her.

They used to discuss Muggle books for hours, far past curfew, hiding in empty classrooms where nobody could find them.

She notices he’s holding a slip of parchment.

“Different material, though,” he resumes. “Poetry. You know how you would look at the oil landscape on the fourth-floor corridor and say a storm was brewing, but I envisioned it as the end of one?”

“It was literally titled ‘Brewing Tempest’.”

“Not,” he taps her knee with his, “the point.”

She smiles.

“Poetry is kind of like that. Imaginative. Inclusive. Even a stranger can read a few lines and feel at home.”

“Why haven’t you written to me?”

“I was giving you time to be with your friends. You missed them.”

“I miss you.”

The parchment rustles in his hands. It’s folded eight times over. He folds and unfolds it restlessly. “I’m not a writer.”

“I know that.”

“Neither are you,” he adds, insulted by how quickly she agreed.

She breathes a laugh. “I never claimed to be.”

“Do you know what a haiku is?”

“Did you write me one?” she asks, amused.

“No. But I found one that expresses how I’ve felt these last few weeks, watching you slip away. It’s by an American poet. Billy Collins. Maybe it’s too late to give it to you, but I knew I’d regret if I didn’t at least try—”

Hermione snatches it from his hands.

Draco rebukes her impatience, but he rambles when he’s nervous and she's brimming with curiosity.

“Where are you going?” she calls after him.

But he’s already halfway gone, shaking his head like he can’t stand to be there anymore.

Heart in her throat, Hermione reads:

He may compare you

to the dawn, but I

stayed up all night to watch it.

She reads it again.

Twice more.

And then she’s running.

“Draco!” she cries, afraid the pop of Apparation will go off before she can stop him. “Draco!”

It’s too dark and she hasn’t cast a Lumos spell and she can hardly see where she’s—

“Oof!” he gasps as she barrels into him.

It’s the sweetest sound she’s ever heard.

Hermione throws her arms around his neck.

“I made a mistake! I never should have said yes. You didn’t write, so I thought you didn’t want me. You never said anything at school. But I’ve felt this awful regret since the moment he put the ring on my finger and I know it’s because of you. I know—”

He cuts her off with a bruising kiss, pressing into her with such conviction, a thousand knots come undone. Hermione buoys.

The next day, Ron awakes, groggy and hungover.

Alone.

A letter sits on his bedside table. Hermione’s engagement ring sparkles on top.

(588 words, prompt: it's a poem, I read this haiku by Billy Collins and remembered this prompt and had to do something with it.)

Chapter Five: Firewhisky and Tampons

Placing the pink stick back in its cup, Draco then picked up the oddly shaped cotton balls in the bright cardboard box she had left by the sink.

Tampons. Extra absorbent.

What the fuck was a tampon?

The shiny cylindrical thing didn’t seem absorbent to him. He thumbed the edges, finding the transparent material coating the object peeled away, revealing the tightly woven cotton beneath.

A string dangled down from it, which Draco picked up, finding he could slip his index finger underneath the knot tied at the end.

How in Merlin’s name was this shit supposed to be used?

He tentatively began to swing the thing around, whirling it in circles until it became a blur of white. He’d hoped spinning it would activate it somehow, but the moment he stopped it just hung limply from his finger.

Draco read the title on the box again, taking note of its apparent absorption properties.

“Suitable for heavy flow” he read out loud.

Flow of what?

Understanding jolted him forward and he hurried to turn on the tap. The clear stream sprayed down into the sink, and he thrust the thing under the water. Under the flow.

Merlin, he was a genius.

What is it about dirty boys that's so ridiculously sexy? *swoons*

If the sun should tumble from the skies     If the sea should suddenly run dry         If you love me, really love me             Let it happen, I won’t care.

I have three modes of reading

Dont read

Read a 500 page book in a day

Read only fanfiction until my eyeballs drop out of my skull from exhaustion

Barbie (2023) ✦ Dir. Greta Gerwig

Extremely displeased to announce I just opened my writing doc to find the fic has not yet written itself. Will check back in tomorrow to see if it’s made any progress

Having internet friends is an experience. Did you eat today? I can't believe your sister hasn't apologized yet, what a bitch. Drink a glass of water right now. Want to see a cat picture? I love you. I know you better than your parents. I don't know your name. I'm having a rough day, can you talk to me about your favorite videogame? I love you. Good morning means good night means good afternoon means go to sleep. Here's a doodle I made in class. I'm stealing your clothes as we speak, they're so pretty. I love you. I love your pet. What does your hair look like? I'd love to see that weird leaf. I love you. I'm making you your favorite food. Thank you for holding my secrets for me. I love you. We're having a coffe date. I love you. I'm giving you a screen-sized hug. I love you. I love you. I love you.

Happy Birthday Harry! ⚡️

Reblog if you’re over 20 and still read/write fan fiction.

I’m curious!