Slytherin Snakes 🐍

“Hello, old friend.”

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.

🧛🏼 VAMPIRES + SUNGLASSES 😎 Buffy the Vampire Slayer (1997) Twilight (2008) Only Lovers Left Alive (2013) Bram Stoker's Dracula (1992) Near Dark (1987) The Twilight Saga: New Moon (2009) The Hunger (1983) Wednesday (2022-) Interview with the Vampire (2022-)

basically the insistience that a work of media has to be “sensitive” or “good” in order to be about something traumatic or bad presumes that the nature of art is to be consumed instead of created and it gestures, shittily, toward the complete professionalization/commercialization of all art. 

Broke my own heart writing this unrequited Jegulus drabble based on Radiohead's Creep this morning, so the day's off to a great start! 🖤

My eyes are glued to you. Gryffindor’s golden boy, your reckless hair and persistent smirk. You never catch mine, always peacocking for someone else's attention. But it's mine you have.

Maybe if I was shinier, like my brother or Evans, you'd notice. If I controlled a broom like you did, or if Dumbledore hadn't already given up on me by the time I sorted along party lines at eleven.

I wish I was special.

You're so fucking special.

I knew taking the Mark was wrong, but I didn't fight my parents when they told me what was expected of me. I thought maybe you'd notice then, your sneer and derision better than nothing. But it wasn't enough to turn your head.

And now I'm in too deep. I don't belong here, among our peers. I don't belong with him either, though the way his dead eyes bore into me tell me he feels differently.

I have one final act, one way to go out in a blaze of glory. I'm not naive enough to think I'll survive. You all underestimate him. He's intoxicating. He'll control more of you than your side is willing to let on. You won't know until it's too late, until you're looking the knife in your back in the eye.

But maybe this weirdo can slow him down a notch. I'll do it for you. I'd do anything for you.

Protect Sirius for me. Save yourself, you reckless angel. Maybe someday you'll know what I've done.

I'll creep, this one last night in the shadows. I'll watch you hold court, feel your ignorance pierce my heart one last time.

I don't care if it hurts. I want to have control.

Things I Will Never Tire of in Drarry Fics

Some of these are Drarry cliches, some of these are just things I love. And in no particular order. Enjoy, and add your own!

CW: one reference to sex

"Scared Potter?" or "Scared Malfoy" followed by, of course, "You wish." Bonus points if they're about to duel as adults, like in Auror training or something

Draco wearing eyeliner and/or leather pants

Ron being like "I really don't care that you're gay, but Malfoy??"

Pushing each other against a wall in a fight that turns into a kiss (yes, I know, classic Enemies to Lovers but I like it at Hogwarts specifically)

Harry teaching Draco to cast a Patronus and it turns out to be a stag

Party games, party games, party games, party games

Literally almost anything eighth year

When 'Potter' becomes 'Harry,' and 'Malfoy' becomes 'Draco.' But they still call each other Potter and Malfoy when they're teasing and during sex

Pansy and Hermione scheming to get them together

Auror partners!!

I love mutual pining, but especially Draco POV pining for years and years, especially when Harry grows up and just gets ripped and gorgeous and Draco practically drools at the sight of him

Oblivious!Harry realizing he's been wanting Draco forever

Harry apologizing for Sectumsempra

Kissing in the Great Hall to come out to everyone

Ron and Draco becoming friends!! Draco being the only one who can beat him at chess

Hermione and Draco bonding over books and nerdy stuff

Their friends having debates over who was more obsessed with the other--bonus points if it is hearing this debate that gets them together/helps them see that the other likes him back

Smelling each other in Amortentia!!

Draco in Weasley sweaters!!

Harry returning Draco's wand after the war

H/C after nightmares

Draco being the only one (other than Harry's friends ofc) willing to call him out/be real with him

Narcissa and Harry friendship!!

Lucius Malfoy bashing

Handshake, handshake, handshake, handshake--especially as adults and especially if Harry initiates it and Draco hesitates in surprise before finally taking it

when you want to beat each other up but also wish to be boyfriends?? ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ tricky

Rhetoric

drarry | E | 1k | kinktober, public sex, exhibitionism, sort-of enemies to lovers

Summary: Harry thought he was past being lured in by Malfoy’s dares.

Read on Ao3

“I dare you.”

Harry ignored him, glancing across the room of well-dressed gala attendees. It was tedious, one of the many little performances he was required to put on to maintain the goodwill and good behaviour of the political elite of their world. Malfoy loved it all though. He loved the formal robes and the glittering chandeliers that floated above the party, he loved the tiny hors d’oeuvres and the sparkling elfwine. He loved the pantomime of getting along.

“Come on, Potter, don’t be so fucking dull. I know you like the idea.” Malfoy paused, stepped close enough for Harry to catch the scent of him, and leaned in as though he was telling secrets. “You’re bored and I’m offering to help.”

His breath was warm against Harry’s ear. Harry stifled the shiver it prompted, but not quickly enough; the only person who noticed it was the only person he wanted to hide it from.

Malfoy lowered his tone, injected a breathy note of excitement to his voice that could have been entirely manufactured for all Harry knew. “You like the idea, don’t you? Dirty bastard.”

At the very moment Harry was about to deliver his stinging reply, the vast gong in the corner of the hall was battered by an over-enthusiastic waiter, and an usher came to hurry them to their seats.

Harry was put in pride of place at the top table—ready to give his speech and convince the landed elite of the wizarding world that donating vast sums of money to causes they shouldn’t need persuading to support was the sensible and elegant thing to do. Malfoy was seated next to him; he’d had the common sense to start throwing his money at good causes as soon as he was spared a sentence in the post-war trials.

At first Harry had thought it was pure self-interest, and he was still sure that accounted for at least eighty percent of Malfoy’s motivation, but Harry was on the board of governors of most of the charities Malfoy donated to, so he knew the sums he was donating and they were not insubstantial. These days Malfoy didn’t even talk about most of his philanthropy publicly, so it wasn’t like he was benefiting in any real way.

He was still a bastard though, and never failed to sidle up to Harry at parties and galas with a mean quip about someone’s outfit, or a suggestion so scandalous Harry would have to work not to blush.

Harry had learned to take it all with a pinch of salt though, even if sometimes he wondered whether Malfoy was actually just joking.

Benedict Hughes—rich, alcoholic, and a desperate social climber—was tonight’s host. He stood to a polite smattering of applause and began one of his infamously nasal and long-winded speeches of introduction—he was clearly pleased to have scored the prize of Harry Potter at his high table and made no attempt at subtlety in his exploitation of it. He opened his address by listing Harry’s medals of honour—awarded long after the war, when the Ministry decided a bit of a history rewrite was needed—and Harry immediately tuned out everything the man said.

“Utterly intolerable, isn’t he?” Malfoy whispered as he leaned in. He was probably only doing it to make it look like the two of them were friendly. They weren’t. They didn’t talk outside of these events. “I might actually fall asleep if I don’t take drastic action.”

Malfoy never fell asleep at parties—he glided around looking bright and engaged until the sun came up, he was the definition of a social butterfly and everyone loved him, even if he spent the entire the time criticising one half of the room to the other.

“You’re just annoyed it’s not you giving the speech,” Harry replied.

Malfoy hummed, then rearranged himself in his seat. “I’m annoyed because you used to be interesting. Can’t even rely on you to throw a punch, these days.”

“Is that what you want, then?”

Harry looked out across the room, more than fifty tables were filled with the beatifically smiling faces of people who had never been touched by the poverty this fundraiser was supposed to fight.

“I told you exactly what I want,” Malfoy muttered. And then his hand slipped under the table and he leaned against the side of his chair—it looked comfortable, insouciant, but it brought him within inches of Harry. Close enough to reach across and undo the zip of Harry’s finely tailored suit trousers.

“What the fuck are you doing, Malfoy?” Harry whispered, carefully maintaining the bland smile that was the particular mask he wore when he was being paraded on stage like this.

Malfoy’s hand was deft, he had his fingers trailing up and down Harry’s cock before Harry’s words were out of his mouth. Harry stared ahead, desperately trying not to give away what was happening. Malfoy’s hand was warm, and Benedict was droning on, and Harry was getting hard.

Malfoy laughed along with whatever asinine joke Benedict had made—Harry didn’t hear it, couldn’t hear anything above the roar of shocked arousal and pumping blood in his ears—and thumbed at Harry’s foreskin. It was wet now, with precome, which Malfoy smeared around to make the tiny, gentle twists of his wrist even slicker, smoother, more devastatingly aching. Harry held his breath.

“Potter,” Malfoy said, before he used his free hand to lift his wine and take a sip. “I’m going to make you come before dear old Benedict has finished his speech. I’ll even charm you clean before you have to stand up.”

“I’m not—”

Malfoy continued as though Harry hadn’t spoken. “You are.”

He was. He was dangerously close already; hundreds of eyes on him, and one hand, and Harry couldn’t think of anything but the strength of Malfoy’s fingers and how gently, how expertly they dragged pleasure out of him. If they got caught—he clenched his hands into fists, grit his teeth, and tried to ignore the way that thought made his belly hot and tangled with anticipation.

“You are going to come,” Malfoy said. “And then after this farce of a night, I’m going to let you bend me over and fuck a load into me. How’s that for fair play?”

Harry’s balls tightened. Fair play, indeed.

Read on Ao3

October 5th from this prompt list

Read the series here on Tumblr or here on Ao3

a rainy day

Will sitting on Hannibal's desk

Hannibal 1.02 Amuse-bouche | 1.05 Coquilles | 1.08 Fromage | 2.09 Shiizakana