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jomiddlemarch · 3 months

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While You Were Sleeping

Chapter 5

The chandelier was enormous, each crystal perfectly clear, tier after tier, every facet brutally sharp. An enormous peony with petals made of knives, Hermione saw it as a kaleidoscope, shifting and reassembling, every time with the same purpose: illumination. And death.

(She did not know one single person who was still speaking with her who knew what a kaleidoscope was.)

The angle should have been unfamiliar. She’d never looked at the chandelier in the Malfoy ballroom from the threshold, not long enough to observe it in such detail. When she lay beneath it, the agony of the repeated Crucios had blurred it, the smallest compensation for the devastation, which itself was too large and splendid a word for what it was: pain. Pain that was not intended to be borne. That took a person and made them into a carcass to be carved. Bellatrix was most efficient, combining the actions. She’d done something to the spell, so that Hermione didn’t hemorrhage from her arm, but the incisions were far deeper than they appeared and in the waning of the Crucio, there had been the undeniable sensation of being consumed, not by the heat of an acid but the more noxious, irresistible bitterness of base.

And then there was the reawakening of previous curses, the weight of Dolohov’s incantation beginning to collapse her lungs, constricting around her pericardium like a fist. She’d had every reason to gasp and could not manage it.

Draco, at least, must be spared that.

For he was the one lying on the floor, writhing and then limp, looking like a child again and then like the man he was becoming, his jaw tight, his legs pulled up close to protect his genitals. His scream she felt more than she heard, the tenor warped by his anguish, resonating along her every nerve, within her spinal cord, but the torment in his grey eyes held her; she could not mistake his desperate plea for some relief, the tears streaking down his cheeks and into his hair tinged pink with blood. He’d never called her name like this, she’d never heard it, and it was as familiar to her as her heartbeat, as her voice reciting the simplest charms. Lumos, the blinding light of the chandelier irradiating. Annihilating. His voice, crying for her, crying out—

“Hermione—"

“Hermione, wake up,” he said. He sounded close, the words brushing her cheeks and then his hand was, the one that was not jostling her upper arm. She opened her eyes. He was right there, healthy, his bright hair mussed, his brow furrowed.

“You were—I couldn’t,” she said, floundering. She tasted salt. She must have wept in her sleep. It wouldn’t be the first time.

“It was a dream. A bad dream, that’s all,” he said.

“You were hurt—”

“I’m fine. I’m perfectly fine and you’re safe,” he replied, the hand at her cheek reaching to stroke her hair.

“She was hurting you. You were screaming, screaming for me and I couldn’t stop her. Bellatrix,” Hermione said. Draco would want her to stop, no one ever wanted to listen to someone’s nightmare, but she couldn’t help herself.

“She’s dead,” he said. Somehow he’d known that was what would make her calm down. Make her feel her own steadily beating heart and the warmth of his palm against her skin. “She’s dead and we’re safe. She never—not like you, she never dared with me—”

“The chandelier was about to fall. I could see it happening. You knew, you wanted it,” Hermione said, the words spilling out but without the same frantic terror, the dread that she hadn’t woken up after all.

“Did you want it to come down? In the ballroom?” he asked.

“Maybe. It’s hard to remember. It would have been an ending and I wanted that. I wanted it to end,” she said. There was no one else who’d ever been willing to talk about the torture with her, no one she trusted. Harry had to be blithe, to go forward, and Ron couldn’t bear it. He’d cry, choking back sobs, wordless, and then she had to comfort him. Like Draco, he’d grown noticeably after Voldemort died and trying to stop the trembling in his large hands with her own smaller ones was difficult.

“I know,” he said. She wondered if he meant he’d wanted Bellatrix to stop cursing her or was remembering how much he had wanted it all over then, by any means. She shivered and he squeezed her shoulder.

“C’mere.”

He took her into his arms fully, without any awkward fumbling, and settled her with her face pressed to his chest, held in a loose embrace. She could smell a hint of the cologne he put on in the mornings, cedar and sandalwood, the clove of the tooth cleansing potion he used at night, the faint musk of his sweat. She felt she ought to pull away, back to her side of the bed, but her nightmare was still potent, the sound of his screaming ready to overtake her. The brilliance of the chandelier blinding when she closed her eyes.

If anything, she wanted to be held closer, tighter. To feel how wrong the dream was, to be convinced by his words.

“It didn’t happen, what you dreamt,” he said.

“It was worse,” she said. She meant it was worse than what had happened. What she recalled. Draco, cursed, tortured, calling for her, believing she could do something to save him.

“No. I don’t think so,” he said. He had been there, when Bellatrix was breaking her. “But terrible, in its own way. Devastating. To watch. When you want to help. When you can’t help.”

“I didn’t blame you,” Hermione said, very low, nearly a whisper. “I don’t.”

“You could,” he said. “I do.”

“Don’t. Don’t let it be something that keeps going,” Hermione said. “You said, we’re fine, perfectly safe, she’s dead. Don’t feel guilty, don’t let it still be alive between us—”

“Shh,” he murmured. “I won’t. If that’s what you want, I won’t. It was only a bad dream and anyone can have a bad dream. I have nightmares too.”

“Tell me,” she said. More than anything, she wanted to have him keep talking to her, to listen held close to him, discovering what it was like to feel his voice through his body, to overlay the melody of his baritone atop the bass of his heartbeat. She was beyond analyzing the rightness of her desires, whether she would feel a fool in the morning.

“Failure, when I was younger. Losing a Quidditch match, potions exploding, my father’s face when I had to tell him you’d come first in the exams. Again. Snape disappointed, always disappointed in me,” Draco said, seeming to recite a list he knew by heart.

“Snape never seemed disappointed in you,” she said.

“Maybe not in front of a bunch of Gryffindors. He wasn’t just my Potions professor, he was my Head of House. And he and my parents were almost friends. If anyone could be friends with Snape,” Draco said. “He didn’t mince words when we were in the Slytherin common room. Or when he called me into his class early for a dressing-down before I’d even done anything.”

“I set him on fire, when we were first years,” she said. “His robes, anyway.”

Draco laughed softly. “And he never knew it was you, did he?”

“I don’t think so,” Hermione said.

“I had dreams I could speak Parseltongue,” Draco said. “That I could understand Nagini, that we’d have long conversations and I’d start to agree with her. To try and please her—”

“Is that why you like Neville better than Harry?” Hermione asked when Draco broke off, the disgust he’d felt with himself too real; it needed to be cut and he had a dry sense of humor, he’d respond to her remark as she intended.

“Because he’s the Snakeslayer? Partly. And because he’s so kind. Also, he’s never vanquished me in Quidditch and he knows how to make a proper cup of tea,” Draco said. The fondness he felt for Neville was clearly audible and had dispersed the revulsion his memories of Nagini had conjured. She smiled to herself. “Potter stews the tea, every bloody time.”

“What about now? What are your nightmares?” she asked.

“Perhaps they won’t seem that bad to you,” he said.

“Is that a reason not to tell me? You and I, we disagree on any number of topics,” Hermione said, lifting her head up so she could look him in the eye. It wasn’t the lack of light—she would have found his expression unreadable at high noon. “I won’t judge. I won’t think you’re silly or daft or, or—”

“You ran out of words to mock me with?” Draco said. “How the mighty are fallen.”

“To reassure you. I’m not the best at that, comforting someone,” she said.

“I dream it’s real. This. Us,” he said. “And then I wake up.”

“You—what? I don’t—” Hermione felt like she was falling, except that Draco’s arms were still around her, the bed beneath them completely unchanged. Her wild magic had been relatively sedate, confined to books and the iced biscuits her parents had rationed like World War II had never ended, but maybe some children caught themselves jumping off a roof, falling from a tree’s highest branch. Maybe it felt like this.

“I dream we’re together, married. That you ask me to help with a necklace’s fiddly clasp, to make you a cup of coffee, to find the right volume of Ortolanus in our library—”

“Why wouldn’t I just use magic?” she interrupted, trying to keep her wits about her.

“Because you want me to help you. It’s easier than magic. Better,” he said. “I dream we have dinner and talk about what happened during the day, that you fuss at me for skipping lunch to work on a brief, that we have Neville over for tea with Luna and we get…held up in the kitchen.”

That pause. She knew what it meant, what he’d sidled around saying, even though she’d never imagined such a moment until he’d shared the briefest outline with her. Her back against a cupboard, his lips at her neck, his tongue on her carotid, his hand at her waist knowing, wanting. Her grasp on the Wedgewood tea-cup tenuous and then hard enough to break the slender china handle. Neville calling out that they didn’t need honey that badly, Luna hushing him, Draco laughing into the hollow at the base of her throat.

“Just that?” she asked.

“No,” he said. “No, not just that.”

“And it’s a nightmare, being with me,” she said. She knew she was wrong, but it’s what she would have thought before they came to Eguzkik. She was greedy or uncertain or both, but she wanted him to declare himself, as if he hadn’t already said enough, her remark somewhere between bravery and utter cowardice.

“The nightmare is waking up. Finding it’s a lie, a fantasy. Something I have to let go, unless I give in to being a man I can’t stand, can’t respect,” he said.

“Maybe it’s not a lie,” she said. His hand near the small of her back tensed and so did his jaw.

“Maybe it’s not something to decide after you’ve had a bad dream. When you’re tired,” he said. “Maybe in the morning, it will be nothing worth talking about.”

“You’re daft,” she said. He smiled then, a small smile that meant he understood what she was offering.

“You’re right,” he said. She felt hopeful and excited and soothed. She felt tired, like she could sleep again, the morning beckoning. “You’re pants at comforting someone.”

#dramione #there was only one bed #rom-com gets angsty #nightmares #tw: torture #hermione POV #hermione x draco #neville longbottom #luna lovegood #severus snape #bellatrix lestrange #intimacy #hurt/comfort #post-hogwarts #epilogue what epilogue #ron weasley

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wolfpants · 2 years

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like a brother would (a ronarry one-shot)

Like A Brother Would | Rated E | 5.2k

Ron shivers, and his fingers are numb as he rearranges his jeans on the back of a chair. He starts slightly when he feels the rough slide of a blanket drape over his back, and he turns to find Harry right there, clasping it closed with slightly trembling hands over the front of Ron’s chest.

His eyes are so big. Too big. Ron’s always thought that Harry carries the whole fucking world in his eyes and—it’s too much.

“You just left,” Harry says. His voice is rough. His eyes are too big. He’s too close.

“You told me to,” Ron whispers.

“Yeah,” Harry says, and he hesitates. His hands are still clasped around the front of the blanket, holding it in place over Ron’s bare chest. The front of Harry’s hair is a little wet, just where it curls against the slant of his cheek, the edge of his scar.

Ron wants to tell him, again, that he’s not focused, that he’s not planning this whole thing through properly, that he keeps missing things. That they need more structure, that he wouldn’t have lost his temper like he had if only they had the safety of a strategy.

But he also wants to say that they’re kids, they’re just fucking kids, and what the hell are they doing, how are they supposed to fix this, and he just wants to go home, and have a decent fucking meal, and not think about how Harry and Hermione are getting closer, and how even though he chose Harry first, Harry always seems to choose someone else.

⛺️🌲🌕🍂

Or,

What if Ron returned to the tent that night in the Forest of Dean?

This is a humble little (early!) birthday fic for the wonderful and wonderfully talented @oknowkiss. Thank you for being you - funny, warm, endlessly gifted with the old pen. I cackle every time we share our (often filthy) headcanons and fic ideas across the pond. You mentioned once that you'd like me to write a canon divergence fic set in the Forest of Dean after Ron storms off and, well... this is the result! I hope you like it! 💖

Thank you so much to my wonderful superteam of betas/cheerreaders @academicdisasterfic @sweet-s0rr0w @the-starryknight!

Like A Brother Would on ao3

#happeee birthdeeeee #honestly could write thousands and thousands of words from Ron's POV #had to control myself here #writing #ronarry #ron x harry #harry x ron #rarry #ron/harry #harry/ron #harry potter #ron weasley #harry potter fic #harry potter fanfic #ronarry fic #hpfanfic #hp fanfic

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hinnyfied · 2 years

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Anna

Hermione's relationship with her parents was permanently altered after the war. As they celebrate Rose Granger-Weasley's eleventh birthday, old wounds are reopened.

Read on AO3 here or continue below

*** *** *** ***

The small silver spoon tinkled softly against porcelain as Hermione sat at her parents’ dining table, stirring a dash of sugar into her teacup. It was pink with a delicate trim of white roses, not unlike the ones she had loved dearly as a child. Hermione glanced up at her mother across the table, wondering with a guilty pang if perhaps she had done her best to replace them with a close match when they moved back to England.

Anna Granger, meanwhile, gazed lovingly at her granddaughter, Rose, as she ripped at the bright purple wrapping paper covering her birthday gift, slowly unveiling the present within. Hermione watched as her daughter pulled out a box bearing a picture of some sort of electronic device and the words Nintendo Switch emblazoned on the front.

“No fair, I want one!” cried Hugo from across the table.

“I’m sure your sister is happy to share, aren’t you darling?” Anna asked sweetly. Rose, however, was too busy looking utterly perplexed to properly appreciate her present.

“Will this work at Hogwarts?” she asked with furrowed brows. It was of no surprise to Hermione that this was her first question. Rose would be departing for her first year at the school in a few months time and had spoken of little else in the weeks leading up to her eleventh birthday.

“I’m afraid not sweetheart, but won’t it be so fun to use when you’re home visiting?” Hermione asked encouragingly, painfully aware of the way her mother’s jaw had suddenly tightened.

Rose grinned widely. “Yes, it will. Thank you!” She got up from the table and hugged both her grandparents tightly.

“That means I can use it while you’re away!” Hugo declared excitedly.

“You’d better not break it,” Rose said sternly. “I’ll know how to hex you when I get home if you do.”

“Can’t do magic at home, Rosie,” Hugo teased in a sing-songy voice.

Hermione’s mother got up quite suddenly from the table, picking up plates with remnants of birthday cake on them and taking them over to the kitchen sink as Rose and Hugo bickered back and forth. There was a stiffness in her movements.

“Why don’t we go play outside?” Ron suggested to the kids with a quick, knowing glance at Hermione.

“That sounds fun,” Hermione’s dad added jovially as he clapped his hands together, equally eager to distract the children from their spat. “How about I join you and we play a game of tag – we’ll see if I can outrun your dad.”

“Dibs on tagging first!” Hugo yelled before running to the back door, swinging it open and disappearing into the back garden, his grandfather not far behind him.

“Thank you again for the present, Gran,” Rose called back into the house as she followed them out to the garden. Ron gave Hermione a kiss on the cheek and squeezed her hand reassuringly. He shut the door behind him a moment later, leaving Hermione alone with her mother.

The kitchen was quietly tense, Hermione still rooted to her seat at the table while Anna furiously scrubbed at the dessert plates one by one.

“That’s a really nice gift, Mum. Thank you,” Hermione said tentatively, clutching her teacup.

“Is it? Even though she can’t take it with her to…that school in the fall?”

Hermione winced. The poorly masked resentment in her mother’s voice raised the hairs on the back of her neck.

“It’ll be more special then, since she’ll only be able to use it when she’s home for the holidays. She’ll enjoy it for much longer.”

Anna nodded stiffly, scrubbing even harder at a plate that looked perfectly clean to Hermione. She felt she ought to say something, but found herself lost for words.

Clink. Another plate set into the drying rack.

“She doesn’t have to go, you know,” Hermione’s mother said in a measured tone, breaking the silence. “I know she’s different, but that doesn’t mean she couldn’t do perfectly well at a normal school.”

“Of course she’d do well at another school, but Hogwarts is what’s best for someone like her.”

“Someone like you.”

“Yes.” Hermione felt herself growing defensive. “Someone like us.”

“So that settles it,” Anna’s voice shook. “I’m going to lose her, too.”

Hermione’s heart sank.

“Too?” she asked breathlessly. “Mum, you haven’t–”

“Don’t.” Anna dropped a plate into the sink with a crash and gripped the edge of the counter angrily. “You left us behind from the very moment you first set foot on that train. You couldn’t wait to go, and now neither can Rosie.”

“I was just a child who was excited to be somewhere with people like me, and so is she.” Hermione clutched her cup more tightly, taking a deep breath. Her heartbeat quickened, anxiety and anger coiling up within her, intertwining like a two-headed viper.

“I suppose you were just a child, then, when you chose to spend nearly all your holidays away, feeding us lies about studying while you went off to play soldier. I may be a Muggle, but I’m not a fool.”

“I was trying to do the right thing. You have no idea the things I was dealing with.”

“Yes, well, you made sure of that, and look where it’s got us.”

“You don’t get to pin this all on me,” Hermione said with as much composure as she could muster. “I was in a living hell after the war, and I needed you, but you wouldn’t come back for me.”

“We came back for you when it was the right time.”

“You came home when you had a grandchild on the way. That was not for me.”

“And whose choice was it, that we had somewhere to come home from?”

Hermione’s lip began to tremble as she felt hot, angry tears well up in her eyes.

“That’s not fair.” Blood pounded in Hermione’s ears. Her hands began to shake. “I did what I had to do to protect you.”

“You did what you had to do to get us out of the way,” her mother said bitterly, tears now pouring down her cheeks.

Hermione parted her lips to retort, when she was interrupted by a timid voice.

“Are you fighting?” Rose stood in the doorway to the garden, her eyes wide with concern.

Anna quickly wiped her cheeks and plastered a big smile on her face.

“No no, darling, we were just…talking about some grownup things.”

Hermione couldn’t stay in the room a moment longer; full-blown panic threatened to overtake her. She got up from the table and marched down the hall into the bathroom, refusing to let her daughter see her tears. As soon as the door clicked shut behind her, they began to stream down her face, and her chest heaved with silent sobs.

It had been this way ever since her parents regained their memories – uncomfortable, distant. Hermione had accepted long ago that their relationship was irreparably damaged, and she was kicking herself for still letting it get to her all these years later. They’re good grandparents, and the children love them, she thought to herself. Just be grateful for that.

There was a gentle knock on the bathroom door. Hermione took a few steadying breaths, wiped the tears from her face, and opened it to find Ron on the other side. No words were spoken. He simply took one look at her and pulled her into a hug.

“Let’s go home,” he whispered in her ear as he held her tightly.

Hermione thought of their home together, the one filled with laughter, joy, chaos, and magic – a place where she could be herself with the people she loved most in the world. She looked up into Ron’s eyes, filled with affection for her not in spite of who she was, but because of it. She smiled softly.

“Yes, please.”

#harry potter #hp fanfic #fanfiction #harry potter fanfiction #canon compliant #hermione granger #post war #angst #ron weasley #hermione's parents #pov hermione granger #romione

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weasleys-bae · 1 year

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Y/N: Why can't any of you ever clean up after yourselves?

Fred: I have a person who does that for me.

Y/N: Yeah, ME.

Fred: I'm glad you agree.

#fred #george #harry potter #incorrect #weasley twins #y/n #pov #quotes #weasley #imagine #harry potter pov #weasley pov #hogwarts #ron weasley

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darling-hogwarts · 1 year

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i’ve said it a thousand times and i’ll say it a thousand more.

this series from ron’s pov would be so SO cool

((and then be totally honest, i think i would probably like the ron version just as much if not more. like with the same events going on, and the story isn’t changed, harry still has all of his hardships and challenges and whatever, just viewed from ron’s lens. that pov would grant more insight into the burrow and the other weasley’s, how ron feels about all of the events that go on, plus more clear elaboration on how he feels about hermione earlier on))

((completely an unbiased remark by the way, obviously, certainly no favouritism detected here nope, i would never be biased (/s, /j)))

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spinderella-umbrella · 11 months

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I thought I’d take the #make it [make sense] Monday quote prompt and write the scene from Peters perspective.

@peterpettigrewproject

“Goyle reached toward the Chocolate Frogs next to Ron — Ron leapt forward, but before he’d so much as touched Goyle, Goyle let out a horrible yell.

Scabbers the rat was hanging off his finger, sharp little teeth sunk deep into Goyle’s knuckle — Crabbe and Malfoy backed away as Goyle swung Scabbers round and round, howling, and when Scabbers finally flew off and hit the window, all three of them disappeared at once.”

HC: Peter has a grudge against elder Goyle. (Don’t ask me what it is, I don’t know. If you know, feel free to share)

The last thing Peter remembered before falling asleep was feeling overwhelmed by the chaotic rush of the Weasley’s trying to make it out the door on time. He had quickly burrowed himself into Ron’s jacket pocket and fallen asleep against the warmth of his chest, the stressed shouting of Mrs. Weasley and the kids shouting back and forth muffled by the fabric.

He roused now on Ron’s lap, the sound of pure-blood snobbery and entitlement ripping him from his slumber. He peaked an eye open at the intruders of the cozy compartment on the Hogwarts express, and recognised the shock of blonde hair immediately. A Malfoy. Friend or foe? Judging by the tone of Ron and his… Friend? He was foe.

Peter blinks both of his little eyes open. He can’t see the kid on Malfoy’s left, but he can clearly see the taller, broad kid on his right, arms crossed and trying to appear tough.

Even in rat form Peter recognised that was Goyle’s kid.

As a rat, he was unable to truly enact his revenge through the son of his former nemesis, but he could try to ensure he stays away from his current Weasley.

He narrows beady little eyes at the boy who unluckily inherited all of his fathers worst physical characteristics. His eyes were dull and deep set; if he were thin he might look like a skeleton but his saving grace, perhaps, was his absolutely enormous square head.

Peter considered for a moment climbing onto Ron’s head and leaping off, grabbing onto the hair that fell onto Goyle’s forehead and giving him the fright of his life. That could be fun. But as he deliberates, the situation escalates. Malfoy says something about finishing all of their food and taking theirs- Peter looks to the seat for the first time and his eyes widen as he takes in the sight of all of the candy strewn across the seats. Rons new friend must have bought out the entire trolley when the witch came around.

He saw as a hand reached out to help himself, a hand that was not Ron’s milky white freckled one, and he didn’t think, he only lurched forward and latched onto the thieves finger.

There was a yelp and then he was flying through the air, being shaken off. This was not his first rodeo, though, he used to run with a pack including a werewolf, after all. He sunk his teeth deep as he could into the flesh on the shouting child's finger, blood in his mouth now, and held on for dear life.

When he was thrown off into the window, he took a chunk of skin with him, and when he saw that it was the Goyle kid that he had taken it from, he smirked menacingly.

He chewed the flesh in his mouth and swallowed, licking the blood from his mouth, the would be bullies gone, they’re replaced with a bushy haired girl who’s shrill tone is too much for Peter. He promptly falls back to sleep in a pile of sweets.

#peter pettigrew project #peter pettigrew #marauders #maraudersfanfiction #drabble #lightning era #Ron weasley #make it monday #make it make sense #peter POV #POV re-write

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books1031 · 1 year

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“I can’t be sure it’s him.”

Draco knew that sitting on the floor cross legged with his back against the door was not only undignified and unmalfoy-iso of him, but it was also a dumb decision in terms of being able to hide and escape in the case of an emergency.

But he couldn’t help it.

He was trapped. In his bedroom. Not even the wing, but simply the bedroom and washroom. That’s all he had to himself and only because his mother had put her foot down when anything to the contrary was proposed.

Sure he was allowed to leave his room, but he would be at risk of running into Death Eaters at every turn, casting hexes, invading his mind - in terms of his aunt.

So he didn’t. He didn’t leave his room unless specifically summoned by the Dark Lord, and even then he kept his occlumency shields up and as strong as possible. If anyone. Anyone. Found out he doubted the Dark Lord in the slightest way he would be killed on the spot without hesitation. He knew too much after all.

So he spent his days like this. Sitting on the floor in a way that he knew his father would pinch his mouth at, and listened through the door to hear what was going on. His quarters were one hallway off the main entrance so there were constantly people coming and going, and he’d be able to hear snippets of conversations. Snippets of what was going on in the outside.

His mother decided he wouldn’t go back to school after the Easter holiday much to his displeasure. Sure Hogwarts wasn’t the safest place at the moment, but it was sure as Salazar safer than the manor.

He should have a silencing charm up. Because if he can hear out of the room, they can hear into his room. But he couldn’t help it. After weeks of just sitting here, occasionally reading books but stopping the second he could hear footsteps in the hallway, he was going mad.

Nobody should spend this much time in their room. Trapped.

Suddenly there was commotion in the hallway. Footsteps rushing past, shouts from whoever it was. There was no way he would ever be able to memorize all the people who come through, they change far too much. Although there was the inner circle of the Dark Lord that Draco could recognize simply by their footsteps.

There was shouting and suddenly a knock against his door. Soft and slow, only three thumps. His mother. He jumped up and tried to flatten his shirt although he was sure the wrinkles wouldn’t just go away. He unlocked the door and pulled open the door slightly and made sure it was his mother before pulling it further open.

“Draco.” She smiled softly at him. “We need you to come identify someone.”

If they wanted him it meant that it would be someone that he went to school with, but he also wasn’t there when Thomas and Lovegood were brought in so he wasn’t entirely sure why they actually wanted him.

“Who is it mother?”

This is when she let a hint of fear show on her face, only for the smallest fraction of a second before hiding behind her mask again. Had anyone but he or his father been looking they wouldn’t have caught it. But Draco did. And he knew that it wouldn’t be anyone he liked.

“Harry Potter. Snatchers believed they found him and his friends in the woods. But he’s been hit with a hex and your aunt believes you’ll be able to identify him.”

He was right. It wasn’t anyone he liked. Or rather, it was his only hope here in his house about to be slaughtered. He nodded slightly and followed his mother out of the room, making sure to pull it shut and cast a strong locking spell to keep the curious out.

As they walked the few hallways to the main sitting room Draco mentally prepared himself. There was a good chance that it wasn’t Potter here, that it was someone who just looked like him. However Potter had been on the run for months now, and there was also the slightest chance that it was.

He wasn’t sure which he hoped it to be. He wanted to see Potter, sure. Make sure that he’s okay and alive. But then he also didn’t want to see Potter. He didn’t want him to be here, in his home. He wants the man to be oh so far from here.

Although there was noise all throughout the manor he couldn’t hear a thing over his heart beating in his ears.

When they entered the room there were more people than he had expected. His Father, Aunt, three snatchers, and the golden trio. And it was them. There wasn’t a doubt about it. Granger and Weasley were the most obvious, but after years of fighting with and obsessing over Potter, there wasn’t any doubt it was the man. His eyes were too perfect of a green, his skin -although seeming to sag off of his tiny frame- the right shade of brown. And although he couldn’t see the other boys forehead or hand he knew that they both had scars. There wasn’t a doubt about it that it was Potter.

He took in a breath and looked to his Aunt who was looking at him expectantly. “I’m not sure.”

His father walked up and grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, pushing him towards Potter and down onto his knees to inspect him better. “Have a close look Draco. This could- put us back in the Dark Lord’s favour- if we are the ones to hand him in.” He said in a slow draw.

Potter looked at him expectantly. The boy looked like he wanted to raise an eyebrow in challenge to him. But he didn’t. He just stared into Draco’s eyes.

Draco glanced at both Granger and Weasley on either side of Potter. Weasley looked upset -no surprise there- but Granger looked intrigued. He knew that she knew that he knew it was Potter.

He look back into those brilliant green eyes and just stared, openly, for a moment before standing back up. “I can’t be sure.” And turned around to go stand with his mother near the door. She placed a hand on his back lightly.

Just then his aunt lost her mind about the sword of Gryffindor, screaming and yelling and demanding that someone go check her Gringotts vault and that she have a moment alone with Granger. That couldn’t be good.

“Draco go to your bedroom.” His father instructed before calling in other Death Eaters to help drag Weasley and Potter elsewhere.

As he walked out of the room he knew he couldn’t just leave them like this. He couldn’t wait of the swelling to go down and Potter be revealed. He needs the boy to live. He needs him to.

His mother followed a moment later and walked with him towards his bedroom, following him in before casting the strongest silencing spell Draco had ever witnessed.

“It’s him isn’t it?” She asked him with a knowing look. He looked down at his feet before nodding. “Okay. This is what you’re going to do, you’re going to take these extra wands and go to the dungeons. Summon Dobby to help you. He still is allowed to go in and out of the manor -dungeons as well- undetected. Give them these wands and make sure they come get Granger. Sooner than later darling. I love you.” She kissed him on the forehead before cancelling the spell, and pulling wands out of her dress pocket, handed them to him, and left the room.

Draco stared at the wands in his hands for a moment. Unbelieving. Had his mother just done what he thought she did?

He didn’t have time to dwell on this, because he could hear the screams of Hermione Granger from here. Hallways away. Taking a final large breath he slipped the extra wands in with his own and open the door stepping into the hallway.

As he made his way down the stone corridors, stepping softly and carefully as to not draw attention to himself, he couldn’t help but try and figure out what the plan was when he got to the Dungeon door. There would be someone there guarding it. Would he bind them? Confund them? Turns out both. And an obliviation for good measure.

He took the stairs carefully, knowing that when he got to the bottom and was in full sight of those down there they were probably going to eat his head off.

When he finally made the final step and walked around the corner he casted a muffliato quickly before speaking up. “Hello? Potter Weasley?”

“Hullo Draco.” Lovegood responded in her dreamy voice. “Here to rescue us?” The girl always knew everything didn’t she.

“Save us?” Weasley laughed. “As if Luna, if anything he’s here to curse us some more. Rub it in.”

“Ron-“ Potter started, but Draco cut him off.

“No you’re right Wealsey I’m here to curse you that’s why I’m about to unlock this door, summon a house elf and hand you some wands.” He rolled his eyes before unlocking the door. “Now listen to me very closely. Potter I need you to summon Dobby, he can come in and out of the wards, dungeons too, unnoticed. Get him to take these three to safety first before coming back. Granger is upstairs with my aunt and as im sure you can hear it’s not going well for her. The path as it is is clear to the sitting room down the hall to the right.”

Potter nodded as he took in this information and called out for Dobby who predictably answered immediately. “Dobby is here to help Mr. Harry Potter sir. What does Mr. Harry Potter need?” The elf asked then yelped when he saw Draco behind him. “Master Draco! My apologies I didn’t see you here.”

Draco let out a small smile at the elf, “Don’t worry Dobby you’re longer our elf.” He always did like Dobby.

“Dobby listen, we need you to get Griphook, Dean, and Luna to Shell Cottage before coming back for us upstairs. We are going to grab Hermione and then we need you to take all three of us, do you think you can do that?”

“Yes of course Mr. Harry Potter. What about Master Draco?”

All eyes turned on him and he opened his mouth in shock before closing it and repeating the cycle like a fish for a moment. “What about me?”

It was Weasley who surprisingly spoke up this time. “I mean unless you’d rather stay here. Although when you know who finds out you’ve let us go I don’t imagine it’ll go well for you. Come with us, to safety.” Dracos mind went blank before he nodded, not realizing he nodded until later of course.

“Excellent, okay Dobby you take Griphook and Dean first.” Potter said and with a snap Dobby disappeared. The three of them all stood there quietly before Potter thanked him for his help. A few minutes later Dobby reappeared and grabbed onto his and Lovergood’s hand.

“Thank you.” Draco said before being spun away to a house by the sea. There was a small house about 50 meters away and already Draco could see two people, a Weasley for sure and a very familiar blonde walking towards them.

Luna and him started walking towards the couple who were holding cups of steaming liquid. “The others mentioned you two would be joining us. Bill Weasley.” Weasley -Bill- said putting his hands out. And that’s when Draco realized who it was. Bill and Fleur from the TriWizard Tournament had married the summer prior. He shook the mans outstretched hand and then sheepishly smiled at Fleur who was looking at him with a strange sort of recognition.

Before anything more could be said the trio were back with Dobby. Granger with tears still flowing down her cheeks but otherwise the trio seemed unaffected.

He followed Fleur inside and Weasley went it go help the trio out. Ten minutes later everyone was inside and sitting around a small table that’s been covered in seashells eating warm soup. Not much talking other than Weasley updating them all about what’s been going on, and Luna occasionally swiping the air at whackspurts.

His room was shared with Luna who agreed she would be perfectly fine sharing a room with him and the top of the stairs. There were two small beds and a side table squeezed in-between. When Draco was younger he would’ve turned his nose up at it, but now it seemed like a more than welcoming little room. Cozy.

He fell asleep quickly after the surprising excitement of the afternoon. He knew that his father was probably being punished for this, but he knew his mother would be okay. She was always going to end up okay. She had to.

He had his usual nightmares, waking in a start, sitting up breathing heavily. In books it usually takes the main character a second to remember where they are, but Draco had no moment of disorientation. He knew immediately and turned to make sure Luna was still asleep. Thankfully she was.

He carefully got off the bed, cringing when the bedsprings squeaked before making his way out of the room and down the stairs to the kitchen to get a cup of water. There was nothing but black and stars out the windows so he was sure it must be very late at night and he needed to stay quiet.

He looked through a couple of cupboards before finding the cups and turning on the sink, letting it run a few moments to get the water cold before filling the glass and drinking it in three gulps. He filled it again before turning off the tap.

He nearly jumped a mile when he felt a tap on his shoulder, and turned to see Potter looking at him with an amused look.

“What?” He whisper-yelled, not knowing where anyone else was sleeping and not wanting to risk them hearing him.

“I just want to say thank you for today. You risked your life to help us.” Potter whisper-yelled back.

“Well I couldn’t let them give you to the Dark Lord. You’re the only one who can do it Potter. You have to live, my roll in this isn’t like that. I’m expendable.”

Draco had spent many hours thinking about his role in the war, thinking about why he had to fight in a grown-ups war anyways. And he was right, he was just a pawn in this game of chess. A pawn of a side he didn’t even want to be on. He had just chosen to follow his father as any child would and look where it led him.

“Malfoy-“ Potter frowned at his words. “You’re not expendable. You’re so needed here. Hell, without you today we would’ve all been killed this afternoon. You’re so damn important Draco you don’t even know it.”

Before Draco could say anything Potter was leaning into him, eyes closing and breathing softly. Draco didn’t even have time to blink before realizing Potter was kissing him. In the Weasley’s kitchen. In the middle of the night.

He kissed back, not really knowing what he was doing but as long as it felt right he went with it.

Potter put his hand around Draco’s neck, pulling him closer to him as though it was possible before finally pulling away. “Like I said, I just wanted to say thank you.”

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dronmalfoyweasly13 · 2 years

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I hate Draco Malfoy.

I hate Ronald Weasley.

He is a no good Slytherin.

He is a goody dumb Gryffindor.

He walks all over people he believes are beneath him.

He is a Blood Traitor who likes to run off with Mudbloods and the Chosen One.

When he doesn't get his way he always goes running to his Voldemort worshipping father.

Everything he owns is a hand-me-down from the other 16 or so Muggle loving Weasley's.

He has no sense of kindness or loyalty.

He has no sense of honour or anything remotely decent.

He walks around like he bloody owns Hogwarts.

He basically follows Potter everywhere.

I hate absolutely everything about that ferret.

I despise the Weasel without a doubt.

With his silky smooth platinum blonde hair.

With his fiery red locks.

His glassy grey eyes.

His ocean blue eyes.

His milky white skin.

His freckle covered skin.

His dreamy sharp smile.

His adorable laugh.

His charming smirk.

His toned arms.

His everything.

I hate Draco Malfoy because....

I hate Ronald Weasley because....

I LOVE HIM.

#ron wesley #draco malfoy #multiple povs #first person pov #hp fandom #draco malfoy x ron weasley #dron #harry potter #ron x draco #ronaco #golden trio incorrect quotes #enimes to lovers #hogwarts #death eaters

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dramioneasks · 2 years

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Light Mark by TotallyTalia - E, 42 chapters, Words: 140,176 - No one has ever found the cure for Muggle Obliviation, but if anyone can do it, it's Hermione Granger. After five years of researching after work and using her status as a war heroine to gain access to Europe's most prestigious wizarding libraries, Hermione's hit a wall when it comes to her research. However, after running into Draco Malfoy one night in Muggle London, the path of Hermione's research takes a turn that she hadn't expected when she set out on this journey.

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jomiddlemarch · 4 months

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The Black Widow

“I think I’ve been too hard on Blaise’s mum, all these years,” Hermione said, her shoulders slumped instead of maintaining her usual impeccable, McGonagall-inspired posture, her chin held in the hand that wasn’t curled around a cup of tea. It was actually a very fine cup of masala chai that Padma had made using the Patil family’s own karha recipe and Hermione had chosen it over a glass of Shiraz and the two fingers of bourbon that had also been offered and perhaps foolishly declined. She took a breath, tried to let the scent of the spices soothe her.

No dice.

“Maybe you’re, I don’t know, exaggerating a bit?” Padma said carefully.

“She means you’re being more dramatic than Celestina Warbeck and Sarah Bernhardt put together, darling,” Theo said. They were her two most rational friends, Theo a hatstall for Ravenclaw, Padma properly Sorted and also Second Wrangler for her year at Cambridge. It had made sense to come to them and not, say, Harry, who was pants at validation, or Ginny, who only ever wanted salacious details and sulked when Hermione wouldn’t share, or Luna, who might say something daft or something that was as sharply acute as an Unforgivable, with the additional burden of being Unforgettable, and who was also in Svalbard. It had made sense and yet now Hermione was considering she could have just gone to any wine-bar in Soho and gotten sloshed without any incisive commentary.

“Incisive, I like that,” Theo said as Hermione had evidently voiced that bit of her internal monologue aloud.

“I always said she must be a dreadful person and now I’m the dreadful person,” Hermione said. Was there a slight moaning quality to her tone? She had come seeking tea and sympathy. “I should have understood the cards were stacked against her and that she couldn’t fight the patriarchy of the Wizarding world by herself—”

“I’m not discounting the point about the patriarchy, but I don’t think you and Madame Zabini are much alike. Nor are your circumstances,” Padma said.

“She means you haven’t murdered any of your men,” Theo said, peering at Hermione through his glasses. “In case you were too addled to make out what she meant by circumstances. You’re still a Gryffindor, you often need things told to you point-blank. Or at wandpoint, but that seems unnecessary.”

“He’s right,” Padma said. “Though to be unfair, there’s no confirmation about several of Madame Zabini’s husbands’…demises. There was no body recovered for the last one and she’s always spoken fondly about Blaise’s father. She’s allowed to have some bad luck and there have been two wars—”

“Come off it, Padma, the witch is a bloody menace and even Riddle was scared of her. That’s why Blaise didn’t have to get the Dark Mark,” Theo said. “Tom was into Dark magic, but Madame Zabini knows the Old Ways.”

“Fine,” Padma said. “Still, Hermione, it’s not the same.”

“First of all, no one you’ve dated is dead,” Theo pointed out.

“Anthony said I was a life-ruiner,” Hermione replied.

“As if he had a life worth ruining, the tosser,” Theo said, scoffing. “So full of himself.”

“Ron got cursed at the Final Battle because he was trying to protect me,” Hermione said.

“He’s been getting free rounds of drinks off that injury for the past twenty-odd years,” Padma said. “If he’d listened to anyone, he could have had it repaired at St. Mungo’s that first week instead of relying on a field dressing by a fifth year Hufflepuff. He’s only still got the limp and the scar because he waited and then it was permanent.”

“Bill said that too,” Hermione admitted.

“And just because Viktor Krum hasn’t been heard of in about nine years, that’s nothing to do with you,” Theo said. “I know you’ll mention that last letter of his, where he wrote about Ioanna and her amber halo, but really, that could mean any number of things. And also, again, not confirmed dead and not at your hand.”

“McLaggen had it coming to him,” Padma said and sniffed. “You were helping out all female-presenting creatures and beings when you hexed him.”

“I don’t feel that bad about him,” Hermione said.

“Good. That’s progress, love,” Theo said. “You’re not still counting Snape, are you?”

“I mean, I let him die, Theo. I was right there—”

“You had a crush on him during sixth year but I don’t see how he counts as one of you men. I think he would rather have died again, more gruesomely, as Nagini kibble, than have a relationship with any student, let alone a Gryffindor like yourself,” Theo said.

“You couldn’t have saved him,” Padma said more softly. “You were with him when he went, his portrait said as much. He doesn’t bear you any ill-will. Quite the contrary, I think he’s a bit fond of you now, though he’d say this was a bunch of bloody sentimental shite. And probably take one hundred points from Gryffindor and call you a silly cow.”

“Death has not softened him up much, has it?” Theo said. “Good old Snape. Or Bad old Snape. Whichever. That was his thing, double-agent, et cetera, wasn’t it? But he’d never see himself as one of your victims.”

“I appreciate you are both trying to cheer me up,” Hermione said. She took a gulp of the chai, which was at the perfect temperature, because Padma had used the good Charmed china.

“We are trying to reason with you, brightest witch of our age,” Theo said.

“Neville—” Hermione said, breaking off.

There was a moment of silence, respectful, sincere, thoughtful. Sort of like Neville had turned out to be, besides being the Prophecy’s spare, the slayer of Nagini, champion wearer of Fair Isle jerseys and well-worn cords, strider of moors, Sprout’s successor. Hermione’s former almost-fiancé.

“It never would have worked out,” Padma said.

“I know. I just loved him so much, he was so dear,” Hermione said. “When he proposed, it was like a dream—”

“He fell in a bog and broke both his legs,” Theo said. “Again, Not Dead. Perhaps terminally embarrassed, especially since he lost the ring in the bog and now the bog kassapu won’t give it back and Madame Longbottom is furious—”

“His gran didn’t mind that much,” Hermione said. “But she did say it was a sign. And that because Neville broke his legs in an enchanted bog, it wasn’t something St. Mungo’s could heal up easily and I wasn’t to think twice about refusing the offer. Neville said the same thing.”

“I suppose you could wait for him,” Padma said. “You are a witch. Another couple of decades—”

“We agreed it was for the best, ending it. We’ll stay friends, close friends, but he saw what was happening,” Hermione said. She’d often been told, dismissively by Slytherins, that one could read her face like a book; at the moment, it must be a torrid, fraught romance, albeit one without any ripped bodices or irascible, secretly wounded dukes.

“It’s not like you and Draco planned to meet at St. Mungo’s,” Theo said. “It’s not like you orchestrated it for him to be on-call when you and Neville arrived and for him to be the one who sat up with you the whole night while the other Healers stabilized Nev. It’s not like you tried to fall in love with each other, former rivals and adversaries who had more in common than they’d admit until they couldn’t any more, wouldn’t—”

“Even though the rest of us could see it coming from a mile away. Years before. Since that first night at the pub,” Padma said. “Harry saw it. George Weasley’s had a bet going since you went to the loo that night, the pot could buy a lovely holiday villa in the Algarve by now. Minerva—”

“You call her Minerva now?” Theo whistled. “I thought that was reserved for the brightest witch here.”

“I advise some of the more gifted Arithmancy students who are beyond Vector’s skills,” Padma said. “Hermione might have done, but she had that Potions torch to carry and then Bill roped her into the side-gig at Gringott’s. Minerva told me she didn’t want to be called Professor by a colleague, certainly not one who made a better pot of tea than she did.”

“She said that?” Hermione exclaimed.

“I made the masala chai. She’s not stupid,” Padma said. “She said she’d wondered about you and Draco since the Yule Ball and that if Dumbledore had simply managed the Voldemort situation better, we could all have spent our Hogwarts years waiting to see if the two of you would get together.”

“Oh my,” Theo said, laughing. Hermione made a face, scrunching up her nose, then shoved back the hair that had come loose from the combs she’d used to pull it back.

“I guess the truth is, I’m afraid,” Hermione said. “I’m thirty-eight years old and I’ve never had a successful romantic relationship, they’ve all been unmitigated failures, well, maybe I get a pass on Neville, but otherwise it’s all been utter shite and I don’t want to mess anything up with Draco. I don’t want to hurt him. I don’t want to be the Black widow and Walburga has been giving me the evil eye since she heard—”

“There it is,” Padma said.

“You cannot let that blasted portrait bother you,” Theo said. “Draco ought to be able to shut her up, heir to the House and all.”

“You’re not going to mess anything up. At least, you won’t do it by yourself. This is about you and Draco, what’s between you. What you make with how you care about each other,” Padma said. Theo nodded.

“And for the record, Draco has done a superlative job of keeping himself alive in situations that would have killed any lesser being. He survived Riddle as a houseguest. He survived Bellatrix changing his nappies. He survived Lucius finding out you’d beaten him in every class and Harry winning the Tri-Wizard Tournament,” Theo said. “You can’t take him out, darling girl, even if you try.”

“You should talk to him,” Padma said.

“I don’t know, he’ll think I’m being silly or that he has to take care of me,” Hermione said.

“You are being silly and he does have to take care of you,” Theo said. “So, yes, he’ll think that. But I am confident that he will express himself most eloquently on the topic.”

“How care you be so sure?” Hermione asked.

“Because this isn’t the first pot of masala chai I’ve made that one of you hasn’t drunk this week,” Padma said. “You’re the more secure of the two of you though—he went to Harry first.”

“And then to Millie,” Theo added. “She has not become more patient with age. It was a near-fatal error.”

Bonus image of my Madam Zabini fancast:

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