In My Work Of Fanfiction I Am Going To Hold The Villain Responsible For Their Actions By Making Them

Change of tactics

Split lips, rough kisses.

Bruised knuckles, tight grips.

Against the door, against the wall, against each other.

“Better?” Harry asked.

Draco bit down hard. “Define better.”

Harry’s fists clenched, even as he dragged Draco closer. This was new—different, but the same, in some ways—and habits were hard to shake.

“This.”

Inspired by @drarrymicrofic’s prompt ‘better than fighting’

I’m so invested in the silver trio - book club head-canon. So invested.

Reading trashy romance novels up until the early hours in the slytherin common room, annoying every single soul in the dungeons with their loud comments about it? Yes please. And nobody would dare to go up against them.

Please tell me you’re with me.

day 1 of funguary! wanna do as many of these as i can

i love figures in folklore who are morally ambiguous like. their wikipedia page will say like 'they will help lost travellers find their way back to the path also they are sometimes known to drown people and eat their bones.' ok!!!

Written for day four @hpkinktober prompt Amortentia.

Thank you so so much to @rockingrobin69 for the wonderful beta and great cheerleading. You really helped my spirits.

Amortentia is fickle. It's a fickle potion, due to how its properties constantly change. The ingredients stay the same, Draco knows them like the back of his hand. But the smell changes — consistently.

He would brew small portions, to keep a few vials on hand. Wanting the shop to smell comforting, clean and welcoming with the potion happily bubbling in the far back, behind a closed door.

Everyone smelled something distinct, a sensitive nose to what was lingering around the bottles, trinkets and ingredients. All customers would comment on the fragrance of the shop, saying how lovely the smells always were. Many would comment on the familiarity, only changing the most miniscule amount. Draco always found that rather fascinating.

Were these people falling out of love? Did their heart split into two and the aroma linger on two or more objects of their affections? Draco always wondered and pondered. Others would stop in while browsing and compliment the new fragrance for today, making Draco aware of their own hearts wandering nature.

It was something to pass the time. Pure amusement when he would watch his customers’ eyes glaze lightly — the smell entrancing them for mere seconds. Shaking their heads and continuing on as if nothing had stopped them in their tracks.

He enjoyed this, but also did this for selfish reasons. His shop was home, and this helped solidify that notion. Smells being the closest to memory and emotion — Draco knew how his Amortentia smelled.

It never did change.

When Granger first walks into the shop, a tiny bell tinkling announcing her arrival, Draco is rather surprised. She asks about Valerian root, and what potions he has in stock for sleeping aid. He's still rather surprised she's even here, looking at his inventory and asking about proper sleep potions.

However, she does compliment how clean the shop is — and how gorgeous it smells.

"Like a crisp autumn morning and baked treats. A lot like treacle tart."

He knows his eyebrows raise to his hairline, and also knows she has to be smelling Weasley. Which is a little off-putting — but he thinks it's because Weasley has never really been his favorite person. He'd rather not know what he smells like.

Granger brings Potter into the shop a few days later. Draco finds it amusing how he ogles the crystals at one side of the shop, eyes wide with wonder. Poking at the magical plants in the corner and picking up a few potions for purchase.

Almost as if he hasn't been a wizard all his life.

They both walk towards the counter as Draco opens the till and the smell is so overwhelming that tears prickle his eyes as he raises a hand quickly to his nose.

"Are — are you alright?" Potter looks concerned and Granger has one brow raised in a quizzical expression.

"Yes — I thought I was going to sneeze. Pardon me."

Draco continues with their purchase, with the bouquet circling up and around his nose, filling his head and making him float.

It's broom polish, sandalwood with hints of citrus. Still the same after all these years —he just wasn't aware of who the potion portrayed.

Days go by, and he contemplates the idea of throwing away any and all of the potion that sits in his back room, behind the closed door. Wants to scrub the pearlescent liquid away and never have it trace his shop again.

But this smell — the one that smells of home and love. He's grown so accustomed to it, that he can't bring himself to toss the cauldron. Lets it simmer and sit like he always does. The incense and deep perfume still wafting throughout his shop as he sits in the back with the small sign on the door flipped to closed.

Granger is a regular now. Picking up items that she needs for additional health purposes, potions for Weasley and their tiny freckled baby at home. She's an interesting witch, though Draco will never speak that aloud to anyone — she invites him to the pub. His mouth hangs open and she smiles as he agrees and is now irritated with the predicament he's placed himself in.

He slides into the seat next to Granger as she passes him a glass of whiskey and a pint.

"I wasn't sure what you drank, so I grabbed the drinks I thought you might enjoy."

He smiles at her, and feels oddly at home.

Draco is well into his third pint when Potter stops by, sliding into the open seat next to him.

"Hello. Hermione did say that you'd be here this evening."

Potter grins and Draco's stomach jumps into his throat. He's never really been this close to Potter before and he smells exactly like his shop. He's mortified with himself and doesn't quite understand it.

The smell has never changed all these years.

"Did you work today?" Potter takes a sip from his glass, foam stuck to his beard as he dabs it away with a napkin.

"Earlier I did, yes." Draco sips on the small shot of whiskey, the burn sliding all the way down his throat.

"Ah, that makes sense — you smell just like your shop. It's like parchment and lavender. I always wondered how you made it smell so nice."

Draco chokes on the rest of his whiskey.

Standing before me was death, but I'd never been so happy

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Hi fw00sh!! 💕

3. What is that one scene that you’ve always wanted to write but can’t be arsed to write all of the set-up and context it would need? (consider this permission to write it and/or share it anyway) OHOHO HELL YES THANK YOU FOR THIS GREEN LIGHT cw violence and like, mild dubcon? nsfw ish. wc ~900

Draco slammed his locker shut, revealing Potter in the doorway of the locker room, looking like death warmed over.

Looking, as he usually did, fucking furious.

“Again?” Draco sighed.

Harry’s boots echoed in the empty room as he marched toward Draco, who grit his teeth in frustration.

“Oh, for fuck’s—” Draco was cut off by Harry’s fist and an explosion of pain in his jaw, then the back of his skull as his head hit the locker, because of fucking course.

But this wasn’t new. And Draco was tired. He’d had the same shitty day as Harry. They’d both been on that bollocksed-up raid. They’d both seen horrible, painful things.

Harry followed it up with a punch to Draco’s gut, knocking the wind out of him, and a familiar grunt of “Come on, you fucking—”

Draco whirled on him with an elbow to the face, a satisfying, sickening crack, and blood poured from Harry’s nose. Harry was used to that, though, and barely reacted before grabbing Draco’s shirt and slamming him back into the lockers. He pulled his fist back, and Draco said, “Stop.”

Harry’s expression flickered—guilt, fear, desperation—Draco had never before tried to stop this. In fact, Draco had usually landed twice as many hits by now.

It was the only time he was ever allowed to touch Harry. Of course he had never tried to stop it.

Because in a few minutes, Draco would give the final blow and pin him down—against the floor, the wall, a door frame, a desk, it didn’t matter. He’d have Harry’s wrists in his hands and Harry’s wide green eyes staring up at him, and Harry’s conspicuously hard cock against his hip, and Harry’s face would get even redder as he spluttered and tried to wriggle away.

And he could have. But he never did.

Instead, he’d fight with himself until he felt Draco inevitably getting hard, too; until Draco’s whole body was pressed up against him, holding him down; until Draco slotted his thigh between Harry’s legs, and Harry gave in with a shiver, frotting against him with a quiet little moan, breathing hard against Draco’s neck. Until they both came in their pants, and Harry made that sweet, broken sound that Draco was already addicted to, and Draco had to let go of him and run, unable to face Harry’s disgust in the aftermath.

It wasn’t disgust. He knew that, now.

Harry didn’t stop. His fist hit Draco’s cheekbone, but the whiplash was worse. Draco ducked under his arm, using his shoulder to ram him into the opposite wall of lockers. Harry’s back hit the metal with a loud bang and a heavy oof, and he pounded his fist against Draco’s back, trying to knee him in the gut, but Draco was faster, as always, and had his wrists pinned to the cold metal in the blink of a swollen eye: “Harry, stop.”

Harry froze, then grit his teeth and started squirming again, trying to buck Draco off. “No.” He wasn’t even hard, this time.

Because it wasn’t about the sex. It had never been about the sex. It wasn’t even about the fighting, and it had taken Draco way too long to figure it out: that while this was the only way Draco was allowed to touch Harry, this was the only way Harry knew how to ask for it.

Harry’s eyes grew brighter, shinier, and he growled as he bucked and squirmed and pushed against Draco’s hold, desperation renewed under Draco’s piercing, knowing gaze.

“Harry.” Draco quickly gathered Harry’s arms to his chest—a calculated risk, Harry could easily push him away like this, but Harry grabbed onto Draco’s shirt, instead. He still squirmed, shaking his head frantically. “Harry.” Draco wrapped his arms around him, pressing him into the lockers, locking him in a tight, confining embrace. Harry’s body shook against his, his fists clenched in the fabric of Draco’s shirt, his breaths harsh through bloodstained teeth.

“Sweetheart,” Draco breathed. “It’s alright.”

Harry tensed; Draco could hear his teeth grinding as he held his breath. Harry let out a small gasp, and another, and Draco held him even tighter as Harry finally, finally let himself cry, breaking apart in the safe, containing circle of Draco’s arms.

Draco ran his hands over Harry's sides, his arms, his shoulders, burying his fingers in those wild curls and pressing Harry's face into his neck, kissing the side of his head and whispering in his ear—I've got you, sweetheart, I'm here—and relished in the freedom of finally letting himself break, too, as all of his love and care poured out of him, surrounding them both.

"I couldn't—" Harry hiccuped, "—save them—"

"You can't save everyone, Harry," Draco interrupted. "I couldn't save them, either."

Harry clung tighter, sobbed harder, soaking Draco's shirt with blood and tears. He didn't let go, didn't pull away, not even once his sobs had subsided, his breaths slow and even against Draco's neck.

"Let me take you home," Draco said, combing his fingers through Harry's hair. "With me." Harry reluctantly pulled back to look at him. "Please?"

Harry looked awful, with blood on his face and exhausted, red-rimmed eyes, but he eventually nodded, and Draco immediately started planning which healing charms he would use, which bath potions, which dinners he could prepare on short notice.

And all the new, gentle ways he could touch him.

Namesake

Liking only good characters and 100% completely unproblematic things (which don’t exist) is not a replacement for actually being a good person