#house proud

[asoftepiloguemylove]

everything i've ever let go of has claw marks on it

Frank Bidart The Third Hour of the Night / Ashe Vernon IT'S A CIRCUS AND WE ALL PAID TO BE HERE / unknown / Rachel Swirsky A Memory of Wind / unknown / unknown / @borzoidaily

#on love #on heartbreak #on anger #web weave #web weaving #poetry #frank bidart #the third hour of the night #ashe vernon #it's a circus and we all paid to be here #rachel swirsky #a memory of wind #amelia gray #house proud #poem #words #writing #text #quote #spilled ink #dark academia poetry #dark academia quote #dark academia #spilled thoughts #spilled poetry

[theserpens]

Drarry Fic Rec: Part Eleven

Find a new place to be from by @oflights 47,626 words, E

Something is wrong with Malfoy Manor, and it’s driven Draco into the Muggle world. Thankfully, Harry is now on the case. A story about houses that haunt you and homes built for two.

House Proud by @astolat 23,112 words, M

His house liked Draco Malfoy more than him.

Stately Homes of Wiltshire by @waspabi 57,582 words, E

Malfoy Manor has mould, dry rot and an infestation of unusually historical poltergeists. Harry Potter is on the case.

You guessed it: this set features magical houses. All of these stories include very mild horror and scary old homes filled to the brink with ghosts, bloody roses or creeping shadows — but also with Draco and Harry, trying to save each other and falling in love in the meantime.

'Find a new place to be from’ is hilarous and soft and just a tiny bit spooky. 'House Proud' is gorgeous and catches that old magic feeling; something creaking on the stairway, something breathing on your neck. 'Stately Homes of Wiltshire' features grumpy ghost and a grumpier Draco. Whats not to love?

Also as a final little treat: here are some magic-house-stories, but without any spooky stuff. Just Grimmauld Place setting Harry up: Etched, Curled, Stationed by @tepre 1,769 words, T

The day Draco Malfoy turned 21 was the day that 12 Grimmauld Place had decided, with all the grand and pointed fanfare that a house could manage, that it was him that was its rightful owner.

Matchmaker, Matchmaker by @firethesound 11,766 words, E

Sometimes, Harry can't help but wonder why such strange shit always happens to him.

That was it. So, Enjoy!

#drarry #harry potter #draco malfoy #draco x harry #fic rec #fic reccomendations #drarry fic #drarry fic rec #find a new place to be from #house proud #stately homes of wilshire #etched curled stationed #matchmaker matchmaker #art by #rené magritte

[h0mespun]

The inestimable MangoPomelo is translating House Proud into Chinese and I’m so excited.

#dramione #fanfic #house proud

[dewitty1]

House Proud

astolat @astolat

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter Characters: Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley, Kreacher (Harry Potter), Horace Slughorn Additional Tags: Post-War, EWE, Grimmauld Place, Malfoy Manor Series: Part 3 of Harry Potter works, Part 9 of Astolat Sampler

Summary:

His house liked Draco Malfoy more than him.

Excerpt:

“I don’t think this room’s been open in half a century,” Draco said softly. It looked nearly forty feet long.

“I’ll have to have a party,” Harry said, equally hushed. “A real one, this time,” he added, glancing up at the ceiling apologetically. He looked at Draco. “You know the right dances, don’t you? The old ones,” thinking of the Yule Ball, later in the evening when he and most of the Gryffindors had come off the floor and the music had changed. He’d been occupied with mooning after Cho, but he’d seen out of the corner of his eye Draco leading Pansy out into a dance with only the ghosts and the most snooty of the Slytherins joining them. Something elaborate and complicated and sharp that left any dancers who made a mistake looking stupid and clumsy. One by one they’d slunk from the floor red-faced, but Draco hadn’t missed a step, whirling Pansy expertly through the line, and for a moment, poised together perfectly as the music had ended, they’d looked radiant, dazzling, and Harry had—he’d looked away.

“Yes,” Draco said, and turned to him, offering his hand.

Harry stared at him, and slowly reached out his own. He wanted to feel stupid, letting Draco lead him out onto the ballroom floor, but he didn’t. There wasn’t any music but the sound of their footsteps on the floor, the click of Draco’s shoes and his own painfully wrong trainers. Draco moved him into position, standing side to side facing opposite ways, their hands together from palm to elbow. He said, “You don’t know the dance, so you have to follow. That means there’s nothing else for you to pay attention to, just me. Do you understand?”

Harry nodded and looked into his eyes, letting the cool grey trap of them close on him, and when Draco moved, he moved. A step backward, and then forward again, movements barely telegraphed by the slight pressure of a finger, the shift of his arm. A full circle paced around one another, then both of them whirling to meet with the other hand, going the opposite way, and the circle paced round again. It got easier with every step. Thought was sliding away, a faint music starting distantly, almost like a ringing in his ears. They were moving together, the walls of the ballroom beginning to blur around them.

Harry’s trainers kept annoying him—not enough to make him step wrong, because he didn’t look away from Draco, didn’t let them distract him that much, but he wanted to be wearing something else, and then between one step and another, he was, boot heels clicking on the floor. Draco’s eyes glittered with satisfaction and he moved in closer: his hand going across the body to the far side of Harry’s waist now, drawing Harry’s hand to his own, their bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder, and he started moving them faster, steps growing more intricate. The music wasn’t just in Harry’s head anymore: it was playing ghostly from the balcony, their footsteps striking the rhythm as Draco started them on matched whirling turns down the whole length of the ballroom. Harry didn’t hesitate, the long skirts of formal dress robes unfurling round him as he whipped along, breathless and nothing like dizzy at all as they landed back in each other’s hands at the other end.

They went on even faster, moving as seamlessly as if they weren’t separate at all. Harry did know the steps, suddenly, as if Draco was giving him the whole dance and not just a lead, and it was just as well because it was almost impossible to keep up anymore. And then it was impossible, and they did it anyway, the whole world somehow slowing down around them so they could manage the pace. A final furious interweaving of steps and movements, changing places thirty times with dust motes glittering suspended in the air, spiraling away and flying back in to one another in a last almost deadly move, moving so fast as the world sped back up that they would have hurt each other if either one of them had so much as put a finger wrong.

They finished standing underneath the chandelier pressed chest to chest, Draco in his arms and Draco’s hand perfect in the small of his back, a rush of completion like a small explosion right there at the base of his spine, running straight up to his brain, fireworks going off. Harry didn’t even hesitate as he slid his hand up to the back of Draco’s neck and pulled his head down.

Draco kissed him back ferociously, his mouth full of sharp edges and danger. Harry just pulled him in closer, something wild and terrible in him shuddering fully awake, hungry for it when Draco bit at him, when Draco’s hands tightened painfully on his arms. He wanted, he wanted, he wanted to pull Draco to the floor and—no, that wasn’t right; he wanted to take Draco upstairs, he wanted to spread Draco out in his own bed, where he belonged—

꒰˘̩̩̩⌣˘̩̩̩๑꒱♡

#House Proud #Astolat #Drarry #Drarry Fic Rec #Fic Rec #Hp Fic Rec #Harry Potter Fic Rec #Drarry Fanfiction #Harry Potter Fanfiction #Hp Fanfic #Drarry Fanfic #Harry Potter #Draco Malfoy #Sentient Houses #Sentient Grimmauld Place #Post Second Wizarding War #Carey's Bookmark fic recs #Carey's personal Bookmarks #hp

[hivisduck]

Horsing around

#found objects #house proud #well well well #unicorn #seashell #mushroom #Smurf #ducky

[liquidstar]

If my mom sees a significant amount of blood she gets lightheaded, and has fainted on some occasions. Once it happened when we were kids, I wasn't there to witness it but I heard the story from my dad. Basically my brothers, around 7 or 8 at the time, were playing outside while my mom was making their lunch, and she accidentally cut her finger. It wasn't anything serious, but it drew a fair bit of blood and she passed out. My dad saw this and rushed over, but he didn't really know what to do so he just sort of started slapping her to wake her up (not recommended, but he had no idea and panicked)

At that exact moment my brothers both came in from playing, and all they saw was our mom unconscious on the floor and our dad slapping her. So, like, without even saying a word to each other they both just INSTANTLY start whaling on him, like, full blown attack mode to defend our mom. Which obviously didn't help the situation, but she did wake up and everything was fine.

Now our dad says that he's actually really glad they attacked him over what they thought was going on, because it means he raised good boys. And I still think that's true, they're very good boys.

#i think about this story sometimes like yeah I'm proud of them for that too actually. good job baby brothers #they're not babies anymore of course they're turning 20 next year which is crazy #but they're still the type of people who'd do something if they saw something of this sort happen for sure #respectful of women and everyone else too. they're good guys #I'm glad I ended up with them living in my house against my will for like 14 years #anyway i have no idea where i was for all this but my best guess is probably a friends house given the time period #i was always at my besties house lol #i hope she's doing well too actually. haven't spoken in forever... #bestie from greek elementary school... if you're out there... let's get muffins and fanta at the bakery across the street again someday 💜☮️

[chewytran]

happy 3 oct 11 ❤️🏠🔥

#playing with a lineless style..... #really happy with it !!!!! #aaaaa!!! #sometimes.... experimenting is good..... #proud of this one though :''') #3 oct 11 #don't forget 3 oct 11 #fma #fullmetal alchemist #edward elric #happy birthday elric family house fire

[bonojour]

they are not going to talk about this when they wake up (bigger version)

#hilson #house md #gregory house #james wilson #hilson art #my art #i'm SO proud of this one :DD heehee

[turquoisespace35]

"Darius I'm in love with a criminal" 🎶

- Hunter TOH

#toh #the owl house #willow park #huntlow #A MENACE #proud of her crimes #she stole his heart #the silly

[ukdamo]

Bb is for book. Cc is for cleaning.

One of mine

Me and cleaning.

We're acquainted, you know; we meet in the street, there's a nod of recognition - but we don't put our shopping bags down and chat for five minutes. Still less, adjourn to Costa for coffee and tiffin. It's not that I'm dirty. Or lazy. Or enjoy mess. The nexus of our tenuous connection isn't to be found there. 'It's complicated', people inevitably say of irregular relationships. So say I about me and cleaning. If I was pushed to name names, I could legitimately point the finger of blame at mum. Not that she was a slattern, you understand.

Our house was ever spick and span. The ancient hoover used to rumble and clatter from room to room, and clunked on each and every step of the stair (there were thirteen to the landing, then a turn, and another one). The cupboard under the sink was full of relevant paraphernalia. We stocked Lanry, Vim, Brillo Pads, Windowlene, Swarfega, Pledge, and a forgotten tin of ancient lavender funiture polish. Dusters were ever old pillowcases, torn up - but there was a purpose-bought floor cloth. And there were always J-Cloths for kitchen messes.

I've mentioned Vim. Now there was a product. It scoured everthing scrupulously clean – and left a film of white residue on every surface it touched. What on earth was that about? I think it was deliberate. You had to use another product and wipe everything over in order to get rid of the residue. In effect, you had to clean up twice. There was the Protestant Work Ethic and the Capitalist Profit Motive writ large, in bold, and underlined. That we were Catholics and Socialists didn't alter the outcome – we still had to clean up twice.

Next to the Brillo Pads (in the old, handle-less, cream and gilt-patterned teacup) were the donkey stones. One yellow, one white. They've been consigned to history now, along with most of the other products and mores of my childhood. God forbid, back then, that your backyard wasn't swilled and your front / back steps not mopped and donkey-stoned. Not to have that chalky white or yellow edge marking on each step was tantamount to admitting you lived in a hovel. Our donkey stones were sourced from the rag-and-bone man (also consigned to history). Periodically, this affable character would jingle along back streets on an old, wooden, flat-bed cart, pulled by a comfortingly-scented horse, and give out a timeless call; “Aag-Bow!”. You could hear him half a street away, which gave your mum time to rummage about and find some booty. You gave him whatever salvageable detritus you had and he'd give you a donkey stone. It was a sort of anti-bacterial barter arangement. Everyone was a winner. He had stuff to recycle, you got rid of clutter, and your mum was not labelled a brothel-keeper.

You might think I'm undermining my assertion that mum is responsible for my ambivalent relationship with cleaning, since I've given a long litany of cleaning products and house-proud moments worthy of an article in Lancashire Life. But no. Not so. She is the prime culprit.

She encouraged me to read. You know – Aa, Bb, Cc: the alphabet, books… She was a reader herself – she'd always have a magazine or book to read in the evening after dad had gone to bed. Her magazines were of the era: the People's Friend (with its watercolours of Scotland); the Reader's Digest; or a slim novel. Later in life, her reading was more devotional and always included the Daily Office for the Secular Franciscan Order. I associate mum with magazines, books, puzzles: word searches, crosswords, arrow-cross. She kept her brain exercised long after she'd allowed her body to take more ease: ever a force to be reckoned with if you watched Countdown together. Switched on to the very last, mum.

So, there was mum with her familiar pile of books and magazines and there was dad, saying goodnight and heading off to bed (being a wagon driver, he had to be up early). Now, as I cast my mind back, I see that he had a hand in my aversion to cleaning, too. Not that he, too, was a reader: I can only recall him reading three books in my lifetime: The Robe, Lloyd C Douglas; Cherrill of the Yard, Fred Churrill: and a book about the Border Regiment's campaign in Burma (that was his war)* Dad made a more subtle contrbution: the morning routine at 89 Napier Street was built around his need to be up and out early. That routine was instrumental in binding me indissolubly to books.

But I started the story with mum and the fact that she signposted me to the written word.

Not a sporty child, not interested in sport (except for Wimbledon fortnight), I was a devotee of Hollywood musicals, and books. The literary devotion started early. I was a member of the local public library as soon as I could hold cards in my own right. I held six in my name; I was voracious. I was one of the (few) kids who learned to read using the ITA system – the idea being that you if you taught children to read using a phonetic method, where words were written as they were pronounced, it would speed up learning. Then, at age seven or so, you'd switch to regular spelling and ditch the ITA alphabet. Some adults schooled in ITA, I have read, have never been confident spellers, as a consequence of not using the standard alphabet at the beginning of their schooling. As you can see, that is not my story. But, I digress.

September, 2020; update. A diligent online search and the cooperation of local library staff resulted in me finding a copy of that same book. If you want to read a first hand account of (part) of dad's India / Burma campaign (the author was wounded and invalided home prior to the Burma offensive), check out “B Company - 9th Battalion, the Border Regiment” by Raymond Cooper.

I'd walk down to the library almost every Saturday morning, scooping up books before heading home to devour them through the coming week. When I was eleven I sat the 11+ exam. I was one of the last kids to do that (it was phased out in the late 60's and early 70's as Comprehensive Schols supplanted the Grammars and Secondary Moderns). Having pased the exam, I was enrolled at St Thedore's RC High School in Burnley, and the shape of my life was definitively cast.

Mum and I would sit up and read late in the evening, after dad had gone to bed. Then, in the morning, I'd read before getting the bus to St Ted's. Dad would wake me at about 6:15am, as he left the house. (Thinking about it now, I have no idea why he didn't wake either of my elder brothers. Well actually, I probably do – they would have been unrousable. They didn't need to be up, and would have resisted any attempt to stir them into premature activity. I was more pliable.) My job then, by default, was to get up, light the coal fire, and wake up the rest of the household at the appropriate times. The bus I used to reach school was BCN Transport's 60. It wended its way from Nelson to Burnley via Halifax Road, Hill Place, Marsden Road, Briercliffe Road, and Eastern Avenue. I used to get on at Hill Place:if I left the house at 8:10am, I could reach the stop in good time. I'd be joined there by Andrew Thornton and Keith Haydock - classmates at St Ted's.

So, now you see me - solidly located in the 70's, on any given weekday morning. Dad's up and gone, the fire's lit, and I am aged eleven and I have nearly two hours to fill before I go for the bus. What is there to do but read? No such thing as Breakfast TV back then. Nowadays, when there is breakfast TV, I still prefer to read. In fact, I get up 90 minutes before I'm due at work so that I can read. By doing so, I invite another snag: I can't put the bloody book down! I'm usually 'last minute' or marginally late, arriving at work. But we're talking books… What can you do? The setting conditions for my literary efflorescence were present throughout my adolescence: mum was promoting literary explorations and dad was affording me ample opportunity to stick my nose where it belonged.

All of this may appear to be but tangentally related to my allergy to cleaning up but the two are, actually, inextricably bound. In my universe, Books and Cleaning are binary stars; suspended in the vacuum of space, locked in an eternal embrace.

The incomparable Quentin Crisp had an unique perspective on cleaning. He said, “There's no need to do any housework at all. After the first four years, the dirt doesn't get any worse”. Now, that's a sterling silver quotation – great to deploy if the Aggie and Kims of this world ring your doorbell, step into your home, and proceed to look snootily down their noses at you, whilst pinching their nostrils firmly closed. So, thank you, Quentin.

But don't think this lets you off the hook, Quentin. I haven't forgotten how you died the night before I was scheduled to see you on stage in Manchester, in November, 1999. You owe me for that lack of consideration. When we meet in the heavenly (diabolical?) Cage aux Folles in the sky, I expect you to obtain a corner table for our exclusive use, with mood lighting. If push comes to shove, we can always drape one of your pink chiffon scarves over the table lamp. I'll stand us drinks but I anticipate, from you, a cavalcade of hilarious and outre anecdotes. Don't disappoint. Though I appreciate Quentin's contribution to the debate, we're not allies. We may both be Friends of Dorothy but I don't subscribe to his philosophy of detergence. I like clean and neat. I like minimalist.

I am my mother's son, after all. She liked elbow grease and order, and knick-knacks were strictly regulated; few in number and of weight and moment. We're similarly constituted, she and I. I readily confess that this outlook on the house beautiful lends itself well to spick-and-span, clean and calming. I sign up to that: I love it when my space is elegantly muted, crisply orangised, dust-free and soft-sheened. But the truth is, my impulse to clean always defers to my impulse to read.

Some people say that when food whispers to them, Eat me, they are helpless to resist. I sympathise. Books, I tell you, are equally invidious.They beckon, invitingly. They murmur, insistently, Read me. I try to be motivated by hoovers and mops. I urge myself to be excited by Mr Sheen. It'd be great if Cilit Bang raised my blood pressure. But it doesn't. I struggle. Even the most jaundiced comentator will acknowledge that Descartes' aphorism states Cogito, ergo sum not Expurgo, ergo sum. Still, I'm no slothful coward. I am not one to admit defeat easily. I've devised a graded cleaning routine to spur me to action.

I'm not one to boast, but the USA has adopted something similar to grade their national preparedness to defend against threats: they call it DEFCON. The Yanks and I share an ordered sequence of alert settings. You can find theirs on the internet. For simplicity's sake, I decribe mine below.

DEFCON 4: There's visible dust on flat surfaces. Response: SCOWL DISAPPROVINGLY OVER THE EDGE OF THE BOOK

DEFCON 3: Visible dust, an assortment of specks / crumbs on the carpet. Response: CONSIDER HOOVERING, at some future date

DEFCON 2: As above, plus fluff balls near skirting boards. Response: QUICK HOOVER and a bit of DAMP DUSTING

DEFCON 1: Imminent arrival of guests (particularly transatlantic ones) or, threat levels as detailed above, plus shower cubicle and bathroom sink clouded by soap scum. Response: BLITZ EVERYTHING

Sometimes, for reasons I don't quite understand, the C-in-C seems to initiate DEFCON 1 without adequate justification. I mean, if book precedes clean in the dictionary, by how much more does it precede deep-clean? Ah well. Fits of absence of mind have been know to happen. Or maybe it's the breath of God blowing through me - a burst of genuine enthousiasm? Of course, it's possible, too, that (in the depest bunker of my brain) there is some unimagined Stellar Intelligence Service that continually monitors the binary stars Book and Cleaning and detects perturbations in their orbit. Once an aberration is discovered, the agency leaps into action to rectify any threat to the creative tension that holds them in equilibrium. A bit like NASA, but with Marigolds and a pinafore. If so, it's effective.

The upshot of DEFCON 1 – however it's triggered - is a mad two hours; every resource is allocated. There's a burst of frenetic activity which I sustain until, sweat dripping off my nose end, I have successfully transformed my homely abode into a showpiece. I must admit, the sense of statisfaction arising therefrom is a natural high. It's lush. I beam, inwardly. And what is it that I do next, when I hit this high? I'll tell you.

I make a pot of tea, get comfy on the sofa, and pick up my current book.

© Damian, June 17th, 2019.

#damian's writing #books #reading #cleaning #domesticity #motivation #house proud #literature #mundane tasks #housework

[subpar-celestial]

THE GIRLLLLLL

#the owl house #owl house #toh #owl house season 3 #owl house season 3 spoilers #watching and dreaming #luz noceda #luz titan form #luz death #GODDDD THIS EPISODE #and THIS DESIGN IS SO SIIICKKKK #it like jumpstarted my creative juices #i havnt been able to complete a drawing im proud of in ages #AND JUST WHEN IM STARTING TO THINK I WONTTT #OWL HOUSE SWOOPS INNNNNNNN #im genuinely grateful for it #i love this show #and everything that went into it #im really gonna miss it #my art

[redfoxthesixteenth]

Dana Terrace really said “and for my last trick I shall make God bigender” and then ended her series which is some real queen shit

#the owl house #the owl house spoilers #watching and dreaming #everything she does is in spite of disney and im so proud of her #watching and dreaming spoilers

[sbartdump]

stole his dad's fashion style 🫢 (darius is ecstatic)

a redraw of this from a year ago! + an extra waffles coz i was figuring out how to draw her

#the owl house #hunter the owl house #toh hunter #post finale toh #my art #awesome growth if i may say so myself #past me would be proud #toh waffles

[h0mespun]

Welcome!

Let’s be friends!

#dramione #dramione fanfic #house proud

[snorkrats]

of course my first finished art in months is my boy hunter

(twitter)

#the owl house #toh #toh hunter #art #look at him! #he just looks so happy and and #I’m so proud #he’s just so precious he deserves all the happiness in the world #screenshot redraw #toh waffles

[waitineedaname]

Al coming back from his travels: Xing was great! I've learned so much about alkahestry, and I think we're really making progress and getting Jerso and Zampano's bodies back! It was really nice to see Mei, and Ling is doing a great job as emperor, and I even got to visit some of Xing's neighbors to the east! I feel like I'm learning more about alchemy and alkahestry every day

Ed coming back from his travels: I Have Been Banned From Five Countries

#fma #blatantly stealing this joke from my sibling because it made me laugh so hard on our call #fmab #alphonse elric #edward elric #even without his alchemy and military rank ed still manages to cause trouble wherever he goes #roy calling on a private line: edward if you cause another international incident i swear to god I am putting you on house arrest #ed minutes away from breaking into a government building in creta: I'd like to see you try #al accomplishes so much and ed is very proud of him but unfortunately ed is fundamentally a gremlin that is a magnet for trouble #fma posting