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colossalcriminal · 1 year

Text

Housekeeping

Pairing: Harry Potter x Fem!Reader

Summary: When Harry gets a part-time gig cleaning the house down the street to escape the Dursleys for a few hours a week during the summer, he soon recognises the residents’ daughter as his own schoolmate.

Content Warnings: None, really? Not proofread. There’s no specific time this takes place, you could say it’s the summer after fifth year. Reader is also a Ravenclaw but it doesn’t have too much of an impact. Mentions of a functional family.

“There you go, Harry. Don’t worry about the downstairs, today. Just some light dusting upstairs and wiping the windows.”

Harry nodded, smiling down at the many shiny coins that lay in his hand.

He got to work, somewhat disappointed that there wasn’t much to do today. He wondered if there really was more, but the L/Ns were too nice to ask. Dusting along several shelves that lined the wall of the upstairs hallway, he made his way to the first room.

It’d been his first time in this one. The door, for the first time ever, was slightly ajar, a stark difference from its usual shut position. It wasn’t too clean, the trunk open and closet half empty, not yet finished with unpacking for the summer holiday. Books and trinkets were scattered about the table, bed haphazardly made. The walls were painted a pretty shade of cream, almost completely covered with posters of musicians such as Celestina Warbeck and Lorcan d’Eath, he was surprised to see them accompanied by several Ravenclaw banners and a blue and bronze tie hanging from the bedpost.

He had an inkling that the L/N family knew of magic and wizards, but for their child to attend Hogwarts? Harry did as he was paid to do, wiping the windows. Dusting the shelves, he was oddly determined to find out who lived in this bedroom.

A Ravenclaw.

Judging by the clothing style and size, which he knew very little about, she couldn’t be much younger than him.

The boy refused to snoop through the stack of letters on her bedside table, only one name catching his eye. Dean Thomas.

Were they friends? He hadn’t noticed Dean with a girl, but lately, he hadn’t noticed much at all. Were they dating? “Who are you?” Harry murmured, sighing as he went to look at the framed moving photographs.

With narrowed eyes, the name he’d been searching for had uncovered itself in his brain. “Y/N L/N.”

△⃒⃘

It was warmer than it was a few days ago when he was wiping windows and dusting shelves, Harry walked down the street, knocking on the door of number 8 Privet Drive.

Would she be home?

The door swung open several minutes later, but it wasn’t to address him. Perhaps his knock was too quiet, too nervous, to be heard. “I’ll be back late, tonight!”

“No, Y/N! Not a single minute after twelve!”

“Let's make it twelve-thirty!” She shut the door before her parents could retaliate, eyes widening slightly at the sight of him. “Oh, I think you’re cleaning the kitchen today.” Y/N told him before scurrying off, readjusting the purse strap on her shoulder.

His eyes trailed after her as she walked away. Summer was most definitely here, one could tell from her skirt and vest, along with the sunglasses that covered what he remembered to be very pretty eyes.

Shaking his head, Harry scolded himself for looking too long, getting one last glimpse of her wonderfully styled hair before entering the house.

He’d seen her, she’d spoken a total of eight words to him.

△⃒⃘

Thursday came, the second and last day of the week he had to clean, Harry would have to wait four more days to return on Monday to find any sort of reprieve from the Dursleys.

He insisted on wiping the countertops slower, ensuring maximum shine, scrubbing with utmost precision while Mr. L/N sipped on tea in the living room and Mrs. L/N judged the flower arrangement on the dining table.

The front door shut, and no one flinched. “I’m home!”

She placed her bag onto the table her mother was sitting at. “Hair up please, darling, Harry’s just cleaned the floor.”

Y/N huffed slightly before bunching her hair up into a clip, plopping down onto the sofa next to her father. “Hi, dad.”

Her father’s eyes remained on the newspaper. “Hello, you.”

“I’m hungry.”

“Hi, hungry. I’m dad.” She pouted at the awful joke. “You should’ve eaten while you were at the burrow.”

“I wasn’t hungry at the time.”

Harry kept to himself, brows furrowed. The burrow? He’d never seen her there, it must’ve been a remarkable coincidence that their lives overlapped so heavily, yet they have yet to speak more than ten words to each other.

“Go make a sandwich then.”

“I’m lazy.”

She retreated to her bedroom after a light chat with her mum, and soon he was due back at number 4.

△⃒⃘

“Why don’t you stay for dinner, Harry?”

“What?” Y/N almost dropped the plate she held while setting the table.

“What?” Harry’s face was one of surprise. The two spoke simultaneously. “Oh, I wouldn’t want to intrude, Mrs. L/N.”

The older woman waved him off, supplying her daughter with a fourth plate. “Nonsense, we would love to have you.”

And so the quartet sat for dinner, the teenage girl beside her father, the boy beside her mother. “This is really nice, Mrs. L/N.”

“Thank you, dear.” A short pause. “Are you and Y/N good friends in school?”

The pair weren’t sure of what to say. “We don’t talk much, mum. Different houses and that.”

“Speaking of houses, that final game for the Quidditch cup!” Mr. L/N began, eliciting a sigh from Y/N. “Absolutely ridiculous! I always tell Y/N, just because you score the first few points, doesn’t mean you calm your attack, don’t you think so, Harry?”

“I can’t say much, sir, but I know that Y/N is a great player.”

“Not great enough for Ravenclaw to beat you.” She murmured, slightly annoyed. “We would’ve won that match if Davies hadn’t substituted Chambers for Bradley.”

Harry smiled. “I have no doubt. Fair game, though?”

With hesitance, she nodded. “Fair game.”

He took notice of her face, the lipgloss she wore and the darkness of her eyelashes, a blush creeping up his neck.

As dinner soon came to a conclusion, Y/N was tasked with the light burden of walking him to the door. “See you Thursday.” She dropped the coins into his hand, their fingers brushing against each other, but only he took notice of the warmth radiating between them.

Had he been hallucinating?

△⃒⃘

“Mum and dad are out, come in.”

He nodded meekly, the confidence he’d built up since Monday dissipated. “You’re working on downstairs, today. The floors.” It was his first time seeing her at home, comfortable. Not leaving, or just returning.

But the thought of it reminded him of a particularly embarrassing day.

The upstairs flooring was completely carpeted, easier to clean than downstairs as all he had to do was a quick vacuum.

He pushed the machine along, running it over every imperfection he could spot, until he found himself before a certain door that was now shut, like always.

Harry contemplated. Her bedroom counted as upstairs, right?

The boy was itching to refresh his memory of her room, dying to know if her decor had remained the same, despite it being just a little over a week since he’d last seen it.

With an odd spur of confidence, he wrapped his hand around the old knob, twisting it and opening the door with a quiet click.

He didn’t expect her to actually be home, and he wasn’t surprised she hadn’t noticed her door open just about three inches, a bespectacled eye peeking through. It was much too loud to hear the opening of the door, with the noise of the vacuum and the melody of Celestina Warbeck’s debut album playing at a considerably loud volume.

She laid on her stomach, bed lazily made underneath her, her cheek resting on her palm, the other hand holding an arithmancy textbook.

Her legs occasionally swung back and forth in the air. Y/N was clad in just a pair of pajama shorts and a vest to combat the summer heat they weren’t used to in London, or Hogwarts.

Harry’s breath hitched into his throat, all of his willpower being used to ensure he was not to choke and break out into a coughing fit at the sight of her chest pushed up due to her positioning. After all, he was a teenage boy.

With a gulp, he quietly shut the door, shaking his head at no one but himself.

She didn’t instantly run upstairs, instead, she returned to her seat at the dining table, picking up her quill and continuing her scribble.

Y/N’s system was neat, efficient. Several relevant textbooks were scattered around her, each open to a different section. Multiple past essays she’d written, and scored especially high on, displayed for her to copy any impressive vocabulary. The television was on, but she didn’t seem to be distracted, instead, she hummed along to the tune of whatever Weird Sisters song was playing, continuing to write.

Grabbing the broom, he began his duties.

Minutes passed, downstairs was a lot of ground to cover.

He worked around her. “Would you like anything to eat?”

Harry’s head snapped up to find her already looking at him with a sheepish smile. “Sorry? Erm, no. Thank you, though.” She nodded, unsure of how to feel after what felt like his rejection. “Do you like music?”

The girl chuckled at his question. “I do, a lot. You?”

“I don’t listen to it much.”

“You should come over more often, then. I have a massive collection of records upstairs, we could listen together, find out what’s to your taste.”

He only nodded with a small smile, internally giddy a the thought of this being their first conversation, instigated by no one but them. His heart nearly burst at the thought of being in her room, a record turning while they chatted about whatever. “Do you go to the burrow a lot?”

“Only sometimes, to see Fred and George. I’ve never seen you there, do you go often?”

“Sometimes, yeah.”

“Must be a coincidence, we keep missing each other.”

In his effort to get the mop out and ready for use, his shoulder jerked, hitting the shelf next to him.

Multiple books had come off at the impact, falling onto the floor and landing with a harsh thud. “Here, let me help.” Harry didn’t hear her, and he didn’t notice the speed at which she’d walked around the dining table and to the shelf, too soaked up in his nervousness and silently scolding himself.

Y/N crouched down, collecting the fallen books into a pile. “Thank you, I’m sorry for the mess.” He forced out.

She let out a giggle, then another, and then a proper laugh. He only stared at her in utter bewilderment, wondering whether he was a joke, or she was a madwoman. “Sorry,” She calmed down, a few chuckles still coming between her words. “you’re just so oddly charming.”

The Ravenclaw took notice of his expression, an adorable mixture of worrisome, flushed and somewhat flattered. “It’s a good thing. You’re cute.”

“Cute?”

She shuffled closer to him to reach for the stack of books he’d picked up, the pair of them now fully sat on the cold floor. “Yes, Potter. Cute.”

He turned his head to face her, they were now aware of their proximity, the closeness. The lack of space between them. His brows furrowed nonetheless, his mouth forming a pout. “Cute? Really?”

“Would you prefer another adjective? Adorable?” Her face moved toward his, a bashful smile playing on her lips. “Harry?”

“Yes?” The call of his name didn’t aid him in snapping out of his trance, he was hypnotized by the colour of her eyes, the strawberry scent of her moisturizer filling his nostrils. “Can I kiss you?”

With her nod, their lips joined, his hand travelling to cup her cheek.

The front door shut, with a brief announcement from her parents, declaring their return. “Better get to work.” Y/N whispered, patting his chest twice before returning back to her study station.

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awyeahitssam · 7 months

Text

A cold male voice rang across the courtroom.

“You’re late.”

Harry considered his response as he stepped farther into the room, head tipping up to take in the fifty some-odd witches and wizards that made up the Wizengamot. They were all watching him keenly, some with open derision and others with curiosity. His head pulsed faintly at the weight of the attention on him, their emotions eagerly battering his Occlumency shields. Harry worked to think through the sensation even as he reinforced his mental defences. He could already tell by the sweat beading on his back that this would be a trying experience. The fact that this section of the Ministry was deep enough to obstruct the weight of all other presences did not make up for the fact that he was in front of fifty people rather than the expected four to six. He hasn't practised for this, has had no means to.

Fudge sat in the middle of the first row, and the smugness he and the witch to his right were emanating made it rather easy to pinpoint who had been responsible for the sudden change in the time of his trial.

"Am I?" Harry asked, and the jolt of astonishment, annoyance and fury that swept through various members of the court almost had him gritting his teeth. Harry imagined that Fudge's anger and embarrassment would have been obvious to him even without his abilities. The man had turned faintly red at the question, face pinching.

"You were sent notice of the change in time this morning," the Minister barked out. "It is not the Wizengamot's fault you are late. Now sit down."

Harry allowed his eyebrow to quirk, slow and incredulous. This version of Cornelius Fudge was far different from the one he had met two years ago.

“While I would hardly blame the Wizengamot as a whole, it sounds as if whoever is charged with correspondence is at fault. Per a standing law written in 1839, all changes in time and venue must be completed in excess of twenty four hours prior to a trial's start time. Said correspondence must have been confirmed as seen by the person or persons on trial and their representatives at least sixteen hours before the scheduled start time.”

“That is for an official trial,” the Minister returned, voice sharp despite the fluster and anxiety Harry could sense beneath it.

“Apologies for my presumption, then,” Harry said dryly. “I assumed that any trial which our entire governance presided over would be considered official.”

“Besides which, there is no such specificity to that law,” A broad, square-jawed witch to the left of Fudge said, giving the Minister a quelling look.

The Minister did not respond to the implied reprimand, instead puffing himself up a bit and saying, “Now that we’re all here, let’s begin. Are you ready?”

“Yes, sir,” Harry was surprised to see Percy Weasley, horn-rimmed glasses perched on his nose as he stared down at a piece of parchment, quill poised to write. Unlike most everyone else in the room, his attention did not seem to find sole focus on Harry. Harry didn’t expend any effort to attempt to see how Percy felt about the entire situation, his focus drawn to an approaching presence. It was a whirlwind of concern, faint annoyance, and a dash of enjoyment.

“Disciplinary hearing of the twelfth of August,” said Fudge in a ringing voice, emphasising the word hearing, and Percy began taking notes at once, “into offences committed under the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery and the International Statute of Secrecy by Harry James Potter, resident at number four, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey.”

Fudge continued on, listing interrogators, and Harry’s attention was distracted from Fudge’s words, the approaching presence, and his Occlumency shields by a jolt of glee and greed. His gaze flickered up to meet the icy grey eyes of Lucius Malfoy. The realisation dawns quickly that the Dursleys address was now a matter of public record. Harry had already decided he wouldn't go back, and this only provided more incentive.

He hesitates around the thought of whether the Dursleys will be targeted. Whether he should warn somebody that they need to be moved. Whether he cares enough to, after so many years of their oppressive hatred.

Behind him, the door presses open.

“—Witness for the defence, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore.” Dumbledore’s voice isn’t projected like Fudge’s, but there is no doubt that he is heard. The press of the Wizengamot’s emotions is momentarily overwhelming: annoyance, bemusement, fear, anger, respect, deference, joy… Harry’s own anger is hardly a blip amongst the cacophony.

When he strides into Harry’s view Dumbledore's expression is serene, but Harry can feel his spiteful enjoyment at the reception his disruption has created. He looked up at Fudge through the half-moon spectacles that rested halfway down his crooked nose.

A few of the Wizengamot members muttered to one another, but most were quiet, eyes locked on Dumbledore.

While Harry’s presence had invoked interest and curiosity, the reactions to Dumbledore were far more substantive. Perhaps it was that the Headmaster had interacted with all of these people personally, socially, and they knew him by more than reputation. They had personal feelings and opinions fully developed about Dumbledore, while Harry was still, largely, an unknown.

“Ah,” said Fudge, thoroughly disconcerted and flustered by Dumbledore’s presence. “Dumbledore. Yes. You—er—got our—er—message that the time and—er—place of the hearing had been changed, then?”

“I must have missed it,” said Dumbledore cheerfully. “However, due to a lucky mistake I arrived at the Ministry three hours early, so no harm done.”

It was a lie, Harry recognized, and one the Headmaster took a good deal of amusement in stating. Some of Dumbledore’s lingering frustration seemed to melt the longer he watched Fudge, the genial cast to his face a farce. He took joy in Fudge being wrong-footed, and the longer he fumbled, the more Dumbledore’s contentment with the situation grew.

“Yes—well—I suppose we’ll need another chair—I—Weasley, could you—?”

“Not to worry, not to worry,” said Dumbledore pleasantly; he took out his wand, gave it a little flick, and a squashy chintz armchair appeared out of nowhere next to Harry. Dumbledore sat down, put the tips of his long fingers together, and looked at Fudge over them with an expression of polite interest.

Harry had never thought of Dumbledore as anything approaching petty before, and perhaps he typically was not, but there was no denying that he was fond of making Fudge feel foolish. Well, his name had been dragged through the Prophet by the Minister's word; Harry couldn’t be surprised by a grudge. Seemingly omniscient or not, Dumbledore was only human.

The Wizengamot was still muttering and fidgeting restlessly; only when Fudge spoke again did they settle down.

“Yes,” said Fudge again, shuffling his notes. “Well, then. So. The charges. Yes.” He extricated a piece of parchment from the pile before him, took a deep breath, and read, “The charges against the accused are as follows: That he did knowingly, deliberately, and in full awareness of the illegality of his actions, having received a previous written warning from the Ministry of Magic on a similar charge, produce a Patronus Charm in a Muggle-inhabited area, in the presence of a Muggle, on August the second at twenty-three minutes past nine, which constitutes an offence under paragraph C of the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery, 1875, and also under section thirteen of the International Confederation of Wizards’ Statute of Secrecy.”

“You are Harry James Potter, of number four, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey?” Fudge said, glaring at Harry over the top of his parchment.

“Yes,” Harry agreed, not looking at Malfoy this time.

“You received an official warning from the Ministry for using illegal magic three years ago, did you not?”

“Yes, but—”

“And yet you conjured a Patronus on the night of the second of August?” interrupted Fudge. Harry felt his vindictive pleasure at cutting him off—even with Dumbledore here, he was finding his footing—but as Harry failed to answer this question, his irritation rose to overtake it.

“You are expected to answer,” the witch to the left of Fudge said, raising a brow at him. She had been the same woman to defend the law he had parrotted.

Harry lets his silence linger for a moment, feeling the anticipation of the Wizengamot build, before returning, “Will I be allowed to do so in full?”

His voice is perfectly respectful, but Fudge’s outrage still blooms. Dumbledore, a glance away, feels of surprise-concern-suspicion, and it makes the hairs on Harry’s nape stand at attention.

“Yes,” the woman gave the Minister yet another quelling look, “of course you will.”

“Thank you. To your last question, Minister, I did receive an official warning three years ago. The warning was,” it took a moment for Harry to recall the right term, said by three other representatives in three other trials, but the momentary pause has the interesting effect of focusing attention on him all the more, “improperly dispersed. The magic that triggered it came from a visiting House Elf. Being the only known magical in Little Whinging and without the supervision of an adult witch or wizard, the charms used to enforce the Statute of Secrecy were triggered. If anybody would like to see a memory of the event in question, I would be more than happy to provide it, assuming there is a pensive available.”

“There is no pensive,” a man with dark hair and an austere demeanour said, then emphasised again, “This is no trial.”

“Isn’t it?” Harry asked, eyebrows raising as he glanced tellingly down at the chair in which he sat, wrapped in chains. “Very well.”

“Either way, it is rather late to be blaming your troubled past on elf magic,” Fudge dismissed, and let out a short laugh, as if he expected others to join him in it. At his side, the woman still cloaked in shadows let out a titter. “A unique and unprecedented excuse, as, I suppose, we should have expected from a young man trying to squirm out of trouble.”

It is Fudge’s tone, a mix of condescension and chiding, even as his emotions are anything but, that does it. Behind his Occlumency and building headache, Harry realises that he's angry. He is disgruntled, disgusted and dissatisfied. He had accessed the public records available, he had pulled transcripts from previous underage trials, and this—this is a farce.

This is Fudge, afraid to believe that Lord Voldemort is alive and smearing Harry’s name because he can. Because Harry has nobody looking out for him, and he’s been fair game since nobody stepped in the first time Rita did it. Beside him, Dumbledore is perfectly silent.

Harry is a symbol, but he's also fifteen, and it's an odd thought that reeks of his Godfather.

“You're fifteen, pup,” Sirius had insisted mere days ago, like it meant something, like it mattered. “You deserve the chance to be a boy without all of this added pressure.”

The glimmer in his eyes had been just as telling as the mingled pain-grief-exhaustion-despair. He was speaking from experience, Harry had thought, throat tight. It made Harry want to fight for his Godfather, for the boy that he once was. Where, then, was that impulse to fight for himself?

“You matter, Harry. What you want matters.”

Harry does not want to play their games, though he has already begun to. He does not want to use the information he's researched, as he sits in a chair with chains, and struggles through polite phrasings. He won't let his research go to waste, though. He knows something for once, and he'll use that knowledge.

The look he levels to Fudge, then, is faux-concerned. “I understand you've had no reason to research this, Minister,” he says, voice kind in a way that is mockery and can not be called such, “but I take the threat of having my wand snapped very seriously. According to public records, the Statute of Secrecy charms have been proven defective in the exact scenario I've discussed once before, in the case of Richard Pike, who’s classmate had an elf deliver things on multiple occasions until he was brought between a five-panel jury to plead his case.”

“Mind you, the Ministry hadn't been running a campaign to discredit Richard Pike,” Harry added casually. The reaction from a simple remark didn't disappoint; Fudge spluttered, the woman beside him leaned out of the shadows, revealing an overwhelmingly pink ensemble, and someone burst out, “Now see here, young man—!” before being abruptly silenced. “He was fifteen, too, but he actually had adults willing to advocate on his behalf.”

Dumbledore’s concern is growing beside him, but Harry doesn't turn to meet the man's eyes, and Dumbledore does not speak out, despite Harry’s accusation.

Harry’s rage is bubbling at the back of his throat, and he wants to shout, but he had learned about the ineffectiveness of screaming his ire long ago. That lesson had only been reinforced after his outburst at Ron and Hermione, and he is more than willing to try something else now.

He takes a moment to consider his approach, and then goes with something that feels natural, a release that will keep his shouts in check; Harry laughs.

“Something funny, Mr. Potter?” A cold voice comes.

“Not really, Something is ridiculous, though, and I’m sure you’d all rather I laugh than deal with a moody teenager's temper tantrum.” He lets his smile go a little sharper, and feels the good his reminder does. There is a particularly keen sense of culpability from a woman he faintly recognizes from his research; Head of the Panel for Underaged Sourcery, Irena Covey. Is the guilt for allowing this to spiral so out of hand, into a room meant for criminal proceedings, or something else?

“I have before me the entire government of magical Britain, wasting their time at a hearing for underaged magic which is typically handled by an empaneled jury of four. We are in the bowels of the Ministry, in a room that has not been used for anything but trials of the most dangerous criminals, and yet this is not a trial, but a hearing to decide disciplinary methods, as if there is no doubt of my guilt and I must be punished.”

“My ‘crime,’” he uses the air quotes readily, “is using the Patronus Charm to protect myself and my cousin from a dementor. My cousin, who knows about magic and does not count as a breach in the Statute. If you'd like to see the memory of the encounter, I give full permission to have it pulled from my head. If you'd like to give me veritaserum—well, I have no parent to consent to the use of a regulated substance, but that's never stopped anybody before. I’ll submit myself willingly to that as well. And if,” he smiles sharply, “you'd like to handle this especially quickly, and get back to your doubtlessly busy lives, I will swear upon my magic that I'm telling the truth. How's that?”

It’s nothing that can be compelled or asked for, not ever, but the offer is a powerful thing. Vows on your magic can be taken as irrefutable testimony, and are rarely given, as they rely on objective rather than subjective fact, a twist that always leaves one with the slightest chance of turning squib.

He feels the shift in the air, the reconsideration of biases, the sharpening curiosity.

“I find your tone disrespectful, boy,” says a man with the longest straw-coloured hair Harry has ever seen. It lies in neat curls, soft and touchable, but the man’s face is cold and his tone hard, and Harry can’t pinpoint his intention with so many other people in the room.

“Perfectly understandable, sir. I find this entire theatrical display disrespectful. You are all very important and busy people, so I can understand that you are frustrated with having your time wasted. However I hope you'll forgive if my frustration outweighs your own, as I am being treated like a war criminal rather than an underaged child due to a bewildering grudge that our Minister seems to be harbouring.”

“You want to snap my wand?” Harry asked the Minister if Magic, eyes blazing but posture relaxed, “Then you can be certain I will put up a fight.”

He let his eyes trail over the rest of his jury, the heady, odd feel of their captivated attention allowing his shoulders to relax into something looser and more confident.

“Magic is the only thing I have of my mother and father. So forgive this fifteen year old orphan for his sentimentality,” Harry bared his teeth, “but I plan on keeping it. Especially considering that I have broken no laws, and there are clear caveats in place that allow an underaged witch or wizard to use magic when in fear for their life.”

He let his gaze slide over the Wizengamot and paused to meet every set of eyes that were not looking away. His point has been well and truly made. Dumbledore is surprised by his outburst, or perhaps by its effectiveness, and faintly suspicious for some reason.

“Strong words prove nothing,” a man larger than Harry’s uncle says when Harry’s gaze lands on him, and he doesn't believe Harry, but he is used to that.

Harry thinks back to the books on magical vows he had studied during the tournament, and the book in the Black Library that he had read two days ago. He thinks of the vow that he had carefully drafted, under Sirius’ supervision. His godfather has emphasised the importance of his wording, so that there could be no mistake.

“Harry, wait.” Dumbledore’s order comes curt and harsh, but Harry pays it no attention. He knows what has caught the Headmaster’s attention; the golden glow that had encapsulated Harry the moment he chose his words. It hazes around his form, and Harry looks down at his hand with interest and curiosity.

There is a sudden murmuring from his audience as they catch on.

“I, Harry James Potter, vow on my magic that on the night of August 2 I used a patronus charm to ward off dementors in Little Whinging, Surrey, in fear of losing my soul.”

The golden glow retreats. Several people gasp at the act, but it is no mere dramatics; the shock he feels pulsing through the room is genuine. He allowed the pause to linger for a moment before saying, “I would cast a spell to prove my claim, but this is a disciplinary hearing for underaged magic.”

Dumbledore cleared his throat, but before he could speak a worn voice sounded from the top tier of the gallery. “I vote an exception be made. Raise your wands if you are in agreement.”

It was nearly unanimous, and Fudge’s expression was taut. His emotions were hard to pinpoint, though multiple people were radiating fear, stomach-churning and vile. Madame Bones glanced around the gallery, expectant. “Mr. Potter, if you would?”

Obediently, Harry drew his wand and murmured a spell under his breath. It was a rather cheeky choice, but Harry was a Gryffindor for a reason. His patronus burst into existence and lifted its head regally, sightless eyes fixed on the Wizengamot. After a moment it turned to Harry and met his gaze before bowing its head. Harry bowed his head back in respect, tension lessening as he felt the warmth and serenity his patronus gave to him, deeply soothing. It took a step forward and pressed its head to his chest, and Harry smiled.

“Fantastic,” Madam Bones murmured. “Very impressive.”

She said it, but Harry could feel it radiating from all around the room; respect, wariness, keen interest. A couple of people even seemed amused by his gall, which, he supposed, was better than offended. Fear was regulated to an undertone in the room, pervasive but not overpowering.

Harry’s patronus raises its head, a huff ruffling his hair. He raised a hand to brush over its snout, feeling the warm, welcoming peace it emanated more than its fur. It stares into his eyes for a long moment, grounding Harry, before lowering its head one last time and glimmering out of existence, purpose served.

“Well then,” the shift in the room was abrupt. With two words the attention of the Wizengnot had been captured by a dark-haired woman, whose brown eyes were cataloguing Harry. The abrupt pull and shift of emotions might have been startling had his patronus not left him so balanced. “I might have agreed that all of our time was wasted on this day, Mr. Potter, if not for this exquisite demonstration of a mastered patronus. That it is tactile as well as spiritually corporeal is a rare and impressive feat, especially given your age.”

Beneath her intrigue and open interest, the turn of her emotions had an odd chill to them. Her fascination is detached and clinical. Her regard had the effect of sharpening the interest towards Harry all the more. Dumbledore’s emotions pulsed behind him, an odd mix of wary, vexed and rueful.

“Perhaps, Lady Laurier, it would be most appropriate to turn our attention to how a dementor managed to make its way to Little Whinging in the first place.” Dumbledore said pleasantly.

Bones clears her throat. “That is certainly a matter that needs attention. First, however, Mr. Potter’s verdict.”

“I believe that Mr. Potter’s vow constitutes irrefutable proof, and this tria—hearing should be closed.” Covey spoke up, her slip made all the more apparent by its correction.

“So it shall be,” agreed Bones. “As Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, I accept into the record Harry Potter's magical vow. In combination with his subsequent proof of magic, this vow is considered irrefutable evidence. As such, all charges against the accused are dismissed with the Ministry's sincere apologies. I put forward my professional recommendation that future cases of underaged sorcery are dealt with by the bench traditionally empaneled.” She added pointedly.

#my writing #Empath Harry #I'm desperate to start writing this story again #but as in love as I am with the premise I've set up and other scenes that've been written #writing this is like pulling teeth #Harrymort #unless I'm incapable of continuing

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marauderverse · 3 months

Text

With Love// F.W x Reader pt.4

Summary: Y/n Dursley of number 4 Privet Drive hates her life. That was, of course, until the summer before grade 9, after an oddly charming redhead and his brothers helped her cousin escape. it was probably a good thing he forgot to return that key.

word count: 1.7k

The letter came one June afternoon.

Y/n was on her way back from school, and her brother running off with his friends to do god knows what.

Her father was at work, and her mother was out getting groceries.

She had the house to herself and couldn’t have been more elated.

A light tapping on the widow by the kitchen sink alerted her to the barn owl.

She stood up, making her way over and tentatively taking the letter from its beak.

Dursley family

Number 4 Privet Drive

Little Whinging

Surrey

She turned the letter over; sure, this was again a letter explaining what Hyginks Harry had gotten himself into this month.

To her surprise, it was an invitation.

Dursley Family,

You have been cordially invited to spectate the third and final task of the 1994/95 Triwizard Tournament.

If you are to accept this invitation, we expect your owl no later than June 20th.

A representative will escort you to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry at 11:30 am on June 24th.

We eagerly await your reply.

Yours sincerely

Minerva McGonagall

Deputy Headmistress

She grinned as she read the letter. She turned to the owl that was still perched on the window sill.

“Can you just wait a moment?” She asked the owl; it simply blinked at her with its large eyes.

She ran up to her room, grabbing a pen, paper and the owl treats from her room.

She stopped at her kitchen table, quickly scribbling down a reply.

Dear Deputy Headmistress Minerva McGonagall

I would be delighted to attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry to spectate the 1994/95 Triwizard tournament.

The rest of my family will not be in attendance.

Yours Sincerely

Y/n Dursley

Harry’s Favourite Cousin

She folded the paper in half.

She gave the owl a treat before handing it the letter and watching it fly off into the evening sky.

She grinned, excitement bubbling in her chest at the prospect of being able to see the magic school. She, a muggle (Which Harry would often call her to annoy her), surely this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

Her spirits were high all evening; even her mother's nagging couldn’t wipe the grin off her face.

“Why are you so happy?” Dudley had asked rather loudly.

y/n shrugged.

“It’s nothing, and even if it were, I wouldn’t tell you because you would just spoil it,” she shot back.

“I would not,” he protested, face scrunching up and beginning to turn red.

“Yes, you would; you always do. Remember my year four violin recital? I was so excited to show Mum and Dad what I had been working on, and the night before, you threw a tantrum because you didn’t want to go, and I had to miss my own recital,” she explained.

“I did not!” he was beginning to sound like an overgrown baby.

“Or what about when I was thirteen? And I was having my friends stay the night for my birthday, and you didn’t want them in the house because you wanted to play your video games in peace, so you screamed and cried until I had to cancel my birthday,” she retorted.

Dudley was on the verge of another one of his tantrums; she could feel it. His face was red as a tomato, and he breathed heavier than normal.

“So no, Dudley, I’m not going to tell you why I’m so happy tonight,”

“Mum!” Dudley wailed, throwing himself onto the ground.

Three seconds flat, and their mother was already by his side.

“What’s wrong, duddies?” She cooed.

“Y/n’s tormenting me,” he fake bawled.

She turned her attention to her daughter.

“What have I said about bullying your brother Y/n? You’re sixteen now; this is completely unacceptable behaviour,” She screeched.

Y/n shrugged, turning around to make her way up the steps.

“I ought to ask the Weasley twins for more of those magical toffees,” She said loudly enough for her brother to hear.

She grinned at the genuine scream of terror he let out at her words.

She didn’t have to wait long for a reply from the deputy headmistress.

It was the Saturday of the same week the letter had initially arrived. This time it was delivered directly to her.

Y/n Dursley

First Room to the Left

Second floor

Number 4 Privet Drive

Little Whinging

Surrey

Dear Miss Dursley,

We appreciate your timely reply.

Due to the nature of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, it is pertinent that a witch or wizard must escort all Muggle Family Members.

A representative will arrive at precisely 11:15 a.m on the 24th of June and escort you to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, where you will be able to spectate the third and final task of the 1994/95 Triwizard tournament.

If you have any questions or further enquiries, please don’t hesitate to contact me.

Yours sincerely

Minerva McGonagall

Deputy Headmistress

She grinned at the letter in her hands, an excitement she hadn’t felt before making its way to the surface.

She couldn’t help the slight squeal of excitement from her lips.

It seemed the morning of June 24th couldn’t come fast enough.

She hadn’t told her parents what was happening, fearing they would lock her away in her room or something just as horrible.

By some good fortune, everyone in her household was out that Friday.

Her father was at work, her brother at school and her mother was out with her friends for brunch.

Three loud knocks echoed through the silent house.

Y/n jumped up from the couch, swinging the door open.

“Hello Y/n,”

She was slightly taken aback by the man standing before her, but a wide grin cracked across her face.

“Mr Weasley, it’s good to see you. I take it you’re my escort to Hogwarts?” She questioned.

Mr Weasley nodded his head.

“That’s right when McGonnagll told me you wanted to watch Harry in the last trial, I immediately volunteered myself.”

She smiled bashfully at him.

Stepping out into the warm June morning, she clutched the bouquet of flowers she got her cousin, Mr Weasley instructed her to grip his arm tightly and not let go.

Hesitantly she did as she was told.

In less than five seconds, they were standing in a little village she did not recognise, considerably more nauseous than she was a moment ago.

“What the hell was that?” She asked, willing herself not to throw up.

Mr Weasley let out an amused laugh.

“Sorry, I often forget Muggles aren’t used to magical travel,”

Y/n took a second, dropping the bouquet to the ground and inhaling deeply, placing her hands on her knees.

“Are you alright?” He asked, now slightly concerned for the girl.

She dry heaved a few times, willing herself not to throw up in front of Mr. Weasley. Eventually, the bout of nausea left, and she could stand up straight once more. Collecting the flowers she had thrown aside.

“Okay, we are all good to go,” She smiled.

Mr. Weasley was still wearing a concerned expression, but he nodded in understanding.

"Sorry about that. Apparition can be a bit disorienting for those who aren't used to it. But you handled it well," he said with a friendly smile.

Y/n chuckled nervously, "Yeah, well, it was definitely unexpected."

As they walked towards the magical carriages that would take them to Hogwarts, Y/n couldn't contain her excitement. The whole wizarding world was still a mystery to her, and she was eager to learn more.

“What's it like?” She began, “I ask Harry all the time but he won’t tell me anything interesting, he mostly just talks about quidditch and his classes and stuff. Are there any rules I should know about?"

As they settled into one of the carriages, Y/n couldn't help but be curious about Mr. Weasley's world. "And what about the Ministry of Magic? How does it work? Are there laws that everyone must follow?"

Mr. Weasley nodded, happy to elaborate. "Yes, indeed. The Ministry of Magic oversees magical law in Britain. We have various departments, such as the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, etc. Laws ensure the proper use of magic and protect the magical and non-magical communities."

Y/n absorbed the information, fascinated by the intricacies of the wizarding world. As they continued their conversation, Mr Weasley expressed his interest in the Muggle world.

Before she even knew it they had stopped; Mr. Weasley stepped out first and helped y/n down from the carriage.

She turned, excitement bubbling in her chest. This was it; she was finally going to see the place Harry held so dear to his heart. The place she had envisioned for four years.

But to her dismay, ruins stood staring back at her. It was a dilapidated building that was unfit for anyone to inhabit, never the less than 300 witches and wizards from across the country.

“Uhm, Mr. Weasley?” She began jogging to catch up to him as she realised he had begun walking up the path towards the ruins. “Are we in the right place?”

Mr. Weasley stopped and turned to look at the girl, a look of confusion on his face.

“Yes, of course we are, my dear,” he turned back and continued to walk.

y/n hesitated for a moment.

“It’s just, is this like a trick or something?” she couldn’t help the question.

Mr. Weasley paused for a second, a look of realisation dawning on his face.

“I’m so sorry, I completely forgot,” Turning to look back at the ruins “, There are enchantments and all sorts of muggle-repelling charms put in place, you know, to keep from prying eyes. But I assure you, my dear, the castle is here, and once we are past those, you'll be able to see it as if you were a witch yourself.”

Excitement rose in her chest at those words. She was here; she was going to see it.

One moment, it was ruins; the next, it was a magnificent and imposing castle.

y/n was breathless.

Maybe it was her imagination, but she swore she could feel the magic around her.

tagged : @aki-ham @ashdoctor

#fred weasley #fred weasley x reader #fred weasley x y/n #fred weasley x you #harry potter #harry potter fandom #harry potter imagine #fred weasly x reader

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pottersource · 2 years

Photo

Hedwig was the only friend Harry had at Number Four, Privet Drive.

#hpedit #filmedit #harrypotteredit #hedwigedit #hp #userdiana #usertom #underbetelgeuse #userpat #userlindir #userlera #userdraconis #usergal #usersameera #*#by nia

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momo-t-daye · 1 year

Photo

“Uh, Professor, er, sir,” Harry stumbled over the seldom-used honorifics in his bafflement. “Uh, on your mouth…?”

“Lipstick, Potter,” Snape sneered, the expression all the more pronounced with the cosmetic assistance.

“Oh, uh, it’s, um, it’s black?” Harry hadn’t known lipstick came in anything other than his aunt’s subdued pinks or the vivid shades of red that Petunia considered sinful and salacious (and intolerably reminiscent of Lily to ever be permitted back into the precariously normal life of Number Four, Privet Drive).

“Very good, Potter,” Snape said sarcastically. “Twelve years old and you’ve learned your colors.”

That was pure nastiness and entirely unfair.

“I’m fifteen!” Harry protested, which earned him a merely sardonic eyebrow. “Almost fifteen,” he amended. “I’ll be fifteen on Monday.”

Harry longed to surpass Snape in sheer churlishness and considered pointing out that muggle men generally didn’t wear skirts. Certainly not in Little Whinging. Definitely not when Dudley and his gang were roaming the streets.

He’d seen plenty of oblivious wizards sporting spiffy new dresses as their muggle disguises at the Quidditch World Cup the previous summer (a lifetime ago, before Cedric was murdered and he hadn’t been able to stop it from happening). But there was something peculiarly well-tailored and suspiciously well-worn about the Potions Master’s garb that suggested less “disguise” and more “daily wear”. He found that his brain was oddly unwilling to acknowledge the existence of Snape’s psychedelic cardigan. His mind kept trying desperately to wallpaper something sensible over the bizarre image his eyes insisted on perceiving.

“…nice skirt,” he mumbled.

“Thanks,” Snape drawled the false gratitude out with a smirk. “It has pockets. Dipshit and Dumbass there were too excited to get on the road this morning and didn’t give me any time to do laundry.”

“Am I ‘Dipshit’ or am I ‘Dumbass’?” Sirius whispered loudly, grin gone well past manic.

“I believe Severus called me a ‘dipshit’ among other things for forgetting to take my Wolfsbane last year,” Remus replied thoughtfully, “So, Sirius, that probably makes you the dumbass.”

“I’m more of a hot piece of ass, but okay,” Sirius said with a wink. “Hi, Harry!”

“Hi, Sirius,” Harry said weakly, glad for the excuse to sidle past Snape. “Uh, what are you doing here?” The Daily Prophet hadn’t said anything about Sirius being pardoned and news like that, while less of an urgent headline than Voldemort’s return, wouldn’t lurk about in the society pages or behind an advice column.

“Dumbledore told me to lie low at Lupin’s place,” Sirius beamed with an innocence so intense it could only be artificial.

“And, er, well, what with one thing and another, it really hadn’t seemed like a good time really to mention that I’d been, ah, evicted,” Lupin added, “…again.”

“Renting really seems like such a bother,” Sirius opined. “So I bought a house for Remus here.”

“Oh,” said Harry, who had witnessed Aunt Petunia compulsively twitching the curtains as she tried to discover how Mrs. Number Seven had eluded neighborly surveillance and, somehow, managed to sell her house to a person or persons unknown to the remaining residents of Privet Drive. “Isn’t that supposed to take a long time?”

“Building a home takes a lifetime,” Sirius said sagely. “Buying a house just takes money.”

Snape’s scornful snort brought Harry’s attention back to the least welcome visitor to Little Whinging.

“So, uh, why did you bring,” Harry gestured vaguely, unsure if the word ‘him’ could accurately encompass the snidest professor present, “Snape?” He’d rather noticed that Snape hadn’t lifted a finger to help Sirius and Lupin move any of the large boxes from the lorry into Number Seven.

“Severus knows how to drive,” Lupin explained gently. Sirius’ mouth opened, prepared to protest.

“Severus,” Lupin repeated, louder this time, “Has a valid muggle license to drive.” Sirius’ subsided.

“And I know how to hot-wire cars and lorries,” Severus added smoothly. “And,” Lupin echoed wearily, “ Severus knows how to ‘hot-wire’ muggle vehicles.”

“I’m learning to do that,” Sirius said helpfully, “I’m going to figure it out too. I’ve nearly got it.”

“Talk is cheap, Black,” Snape scoffed starting to stroll in the last direction Harry wanted him to go, “I’ll believe you when I see some tangible results.”

“Wait! Stop!” Harry wondered if he’d get in trouble for tackling a professor outside of Hogwarts. It would be worth it, to try to alter Snape’s trajectory towards the front door of Number Four. “Stop, stop, stop!”

For all Harry’s desperate scrambling, Snape maintained his lead.

“Please stop!” Harry begged as the professor hitched up his skirt slightly, “Use the bell! You don’t have to kick the door in!” Aunt Petunia was probably at the door, surely she’d spied them across the street at Number Seven.

Snape kicked the door, already unlatched in Petunia’s nosy anticipation, open.

Aunt Petunia let out a shrill little scream.

“Hello, Piss-Tuna,” said Severus Snape, far more gleeful than he’d been even when Harry and Ron were facing the threat of expulsion after flying a car into the Whomping Willow. “You look as awful as ever.”

Piss-Tuna, Harry thought as his world tilted on its axis, Snape, Professor Snape, just called my aunt Piss-Tuna. This can’t be happening.

“You—!” Her face was white, her eyes were wide, and Petunia Dursley, née Evans, practically growled in her outrage.

Harry found himself thinking that Brazil might be a very nice place to live. It was far away from Privet Drive, for a start. He wondered what it would take to get there.

“Aren’t you going to invite me in, Tuney?” Snape’s foot had blocked the door from closing. “I’m more than happy to have this confrontation on your front step if you’d prefer.”

“We, ah, brought some biscuits,” Lupin added. “Store bought. Assorted. With chocolate. Er, I’m, ah, we’re the new neighbors. So nice to meet you again.”

Petunia goggled at the lot of them.

She also stumbled back, which Snape seemed to take as an unspoken invitation. Harry found himself dragged along in the professor’s wake, with only Sirius’ hand on his shoulder to steady him in the swift tide of strangeness.

“I can’t believe your taste in interior decoration deteriorated into this level of disgusting kitsch and doilies, Tuna,” said the man who decorated with floating dead things in jars. Severus surveyed the photos on the wall, on the mantle, on the little side table. So many perfectly posed pictures of a happy family of three- mother, father, son- and a lock on the cupboard under the stairs. Narcissa had been absolutely right.

“Is that my jumper?” Harry jumped. Petunia’s voice was high and thin and quite peculiar.

“You’ve really done a terrible job of raising Potter,” said Snape, and Harry bristled. Of course Snape wanted to criticize him, Harry had been expecting the criticism, but he loathed the thought of his two biggest critics were now sharing notes and combining forces.

“Not only is he, like the majority of students, a careless menace in the laboratory, but I have also wasted entirely too much of my already limited time deciphering his atrocious penmanship to correct insipid essay after insipid essay only to see the same flawed reasonings repeated week after week.” It was news to Harry that he was supposed to read the sea of spidery red notes Snape deposited on every essay. It seemed rather unfair, given that Snape could fit five lines of text for every one line Harry wrote. The single “P”, or the occasional and welcome “A”, was more than sufficient in Harry’s view.

“That’s my jumper.” There was a touch of hysteria in Petunia’s tone now.

“He will be taking his O.W.L.s this year, his O-levels if you prefer,” Snape continued, demonstrating more confidence in Harry’s continued survival than Harry typically expected to hear from the Potions Master. “Unfortunately, his current record of scholastic mediocrity, his stubborn refusal to revise, and a peculiar incuriosity about magical theory does not bode well for his continued academic career.”

“You little bastard! That’s my goddamn jumper!” Petunia’s shriek derailed Snape’s momentum. The unexpected profanity from his aunt made Harry’s brain stutter to a halt.

“Tuna,” Snape frowned, “We’re not here to discuss my sartorial decisions and I will never take wardrobe critique from you. I only deigned to enter this suburban hellscape to discuss your horrendous failure to raise and parent Mr. Potter.”

“Biscuit, Harry?” Sirius offered, retrieving the tin from Remus.

“You stole my jumper!” Shockingly, Petunia’s epiphany failed to shatter glass. Yet.

“Didn’t,” sniffed Snape.

“I thought it was Lily who stole my jumper!”

“She did. I just hid it for her.”

“I bought that jumper myself! I’d saved up!”

“Yes, I know.”

“It was for an interview!”

“We wanted to spare you the humiliation of being seen in public wearing such a hideous thing. You even got that position, even if you didn’t keep it for very long.”

The biscuit was rather good, even without tea, and it was beginning to dawn on Harry that Snape and Aunt Petunia were more inclined to tear into one another than join forces against him. He felt oddly inclined to cheer for Professor Snape, despite the ranting about Harry’s scholastic shortcomings. Perhaps it was because Harry knew so little about his mother that every glimpse was a pearl he treasured.

“I want my jumper!” Did she learn that tone from her little Diddykins or had Dudley inherited that petulant demanding pitch from Petunia?

“And I want you to understand how your failure to nourish any academic inclinations Mr. Potter may have shown before the age of eleven may have rather dire consequences for futures beyond his own, but I fear we can’t all get what we want.” Remus handed Harry another biscuit before he could think to protest.

“Give me back my jumper!”

“Fine!” Snape finally snapped, fingers tearing at the buttons in wrathful haste. “Fine, here!”

Petunia caught the cardigan with her face and a squeak.

Severus Snape looked like a stranger again, in the ratty, oversized band shirt, hair disheveled from the jumper’s passage. Harry hadn’t seen the Dark Mark his professor had shoved under Minister Fudge’s nose in the Hospital Wing those few weeks ago, and he found himself oddly glad that the mark was concealed under a peculiar leather bracelet with metal studding. A wand holster, perhaps.

“Are you prepared to face your shortcomings now, Tuney?” That dangerously silky tone was entirely familiar, and Harry took another biscuit before he was told to go serve detention during summer vacation.

“It smells like Cokeworth,” Petunia’s complaint was bitter, for she dreaded the day her neighbors discovered the lingering taint of the Cokeworth streets sullying their Surrey security.

“Hey,” said Sirius, who had gone oddly still.

“I wasn’t going to take it to Hogwarts, was I?” Snape said. “It’s acrylic, you know that sort of stuff doesn’t hold up around magic.”

“Hey,” said Sirius. “Hey.” His face was a rictus of delight, as pleased as Petunia had been put out. “Snape. Isn’t that, isn’t that my shirt you’ve got on?”

“Oh, oh,” snarled Severus. “Not you too!”

#Severus Snape #Harry Potter #Sirius Black #Remus Lupin #Petunia Dursley #Moving into Number Seven Privet Drive #Severus 100% wore the stolen sweater for the exact purpose of winding Tuney up #self-indulgent AU #My art #ficlet

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ace-of-pussy · 3 days

Text

JK Rowling’s funeral will be beautiful.

The cameras, the faceless attendees, the press swarming outside the gates. The touching notes left by her followers, thanking her for building their childhoods. The radfems mourning the loss of their god.

The grey-faced family and friends, escorted out of the gates by countless bodyguards, hounded by journalists and flashing light that illuminates all of the little details in their hand-woven black clothes.

Every stitch, every seam, there on display. Every tear, every bloodshot eye for the world to see.

But then They come. After the last stragglers of the funeral have left, whether it be hours or days, We will arrive.

Black combat boots and worn Converse, crop tops and baggy jumpers, ripped jeans and tartan skirts.

We will find our way in, jumping fences and picking locks, weaving through the neglected stones of others until we reach the corner that she bought for herself.

Her gravestone is inscribed and decorated, at least twice as big as the others in the graveyard.

We read it aloud.

“Mr. and Mrs.Dursley of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. Thank you Joanne, for making our childhoods.”

We laugh. The angel over the grave, hands clasped in prayer, neck and wings strung with scarves of red, yellow, green, blue seems to smile with us.

We take the books first. Most of them are signed copies. They will make our kindling. The scarves and cloaks are too polyester-stuffed and mass produced for that.

We burn the books, dancing and laughing in the dying light, mocking her denial of the burnings back in the 40s.

The pictures are next. Portraits of her, posing elegantly, smiling gracefully. The kind face that hides bigotry and disgust at fellow human beings.

We burn them. Their ashes fuel our crazed laughter.

We celebrate our childhoods. We celebrate the world, the magical, fantasy world she crafted for us. We do not celebrate her. We celebrate her soon to be deleted Twitter account, after one last mournful post about how incredible she was.

We shall mock it, tomorrow. But tonight we celebrate.

#text #text post #anti jkr #fuck jkr #jk rowling #screw jkr #fuck transphobes #poetry #poem #pride

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saintsenara · 4 months

Note

I’m obsessed with your unhinged ship opinions! They’ve really gotten me thinking about interesting combinations which is such a fun activity for the subway

My submissions:

- Narcissa Malfoy/Petunia Dursley

- Voldemort/Molly Weasley

- Nagini/Crookshanks

- Walburga Black/Barty Crouch Sr.

ahhh, thank you so much @epigaea-repens - light of my life and producer of the finest piece of fan art i've ever seen - i'm genuinely delighted to discover that somebody other than me gets something out of doing these.

narcissa malfoy/petunia dursley

i'm oddly partial to a bit of draco/dudley - entirely because the idea of vernon trying to out-pompous lucius is funny to me, as is the fact that they'd clearly both think harry would care and harry's actual response would be 'who's draco?' - and i have to confess myself partial to this too.

narcissa's narrative mirror is molly weasley - both of these women share a certain fierceness [and, especially, a fierceness and strength one might not expect of them at first glance], but they also share a certain disconnection from the rest of their family, and an undercurrent of loneliness can be detected in their characterisation.

this is present in the way petunia is written too - the implication of canon is both that she's married "up" in terms of social class and that vernon is quite a bit older than her.

[and her fandom reception is a victim, i think, of the aging up of the adult cast of the films - petunia is, at most, twenty-four when lily dies. like her sister, she marries and has children young, even by the social standards of 1970s/1980s britain, and having to take on harry changes the trajectory of her life when it's only just started - i am absolutely wedded to the idea, for example, that harry being placed in her care means that she gives up a plan to have a second biological child.]

she is, of course, also confined in a prison which is directly of her own making - the bland domesticity of her perfect little house, all of which is an artifice constructed so she doesn't have to admit how deeply she once longed to be magic. narcissa experiences the same - i always read her as someone who leans heavily on the gendered conventions of the wizarding world as a way of coping with how utterly both of her sisters defied them, and as being someone who is very concerned with keeping up appearances [hence why her wildness and desperation when she goes to see snape in half-blood prince is so shocking]. i think you can imagine that she runs malfoy manor to have the same nothing-wrong-here vibe as number four privet drive, and i think you can do something very interesting indeed with the idea of two women who live behind masks being forced to drop them when they find each other.

lord voldemort/molly weasley

does, in fact, exist, in the form of a story i will recommend to everyone - come slowly, eden by paimpont - which, like all the best rare-pair fics, takes two implausible characters and creates a genuinely meaningful love story between them, through a lovely character study of molly and her ability to notice when people [and, especially, when people who are very much in want of a mother] are hungry.

nagini/crookshanks

i had to look up crookshanks' gender for this - which is a wild thing to say on a weekday afternoon - so that i could confirm... flopping. nagini's a lesbian, crookshanks misunderstood when she said she liked pussy.

it's fine in the end, though. nagini's got something happening with one of the malfoys' peahens, and crookshanks can go back either to the enemies-to-lovers thing he's got going on with mrs norris or to the soulmates thing he's got going on with sirius.

walburga black/barty crouch sr.

i am completely obsessed with this concept, i don't even think it can be considered a crack ship, and i would like to see it written immediately.

debilitating grief at the son you thought you knew disappearing - whether literally or metaphorically? delicious.

#asks answered #asenora's opinions on ships #unhinged and deranged ships #but only a bit

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hptheboywholived · 3 months

Text

Harry Potter & the Chamber of Secrets-Fan Art - 02 - by Vladislav Pantic

Official

#harry potter #the boy who lived #number four privet drive #hogwarts #the chamber of secrets #the burrow #uncle vernon #vernon dursley #the dursleys #harry potter & the chamber of secrets

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twiceinadream · 2 years

Text

Twice React- Sitting on S/O’s Face

Requested: Yup

Request: Can I recommend face sitting with twice. 😗👉🏾👈🏾

a/u: Hey, y’all! I’m back~! Sorry I’ve been gone for so long, writer’s block is a bitch and so is writing Reacts again after doing one shots for so long. I hope you all enjoy and thank you for all the love and support! I love you guys! (Also, I forgot how difficult it was to find gifs, knowing Hangul was my saving grace)

Category: NSFW and Fluff

Nayeon

“A Queen needs her throne.”

You couldn’t really explain had the two of you had ended up in this position, but you weren’t complaining. Nayeon’s thighs quivered on either side of your head as she stood above you as you had your head hanging off the bed. Your hands gripped her ass firmly as you craned your neck to suckle her clit as your girlfriend moaned out loud. Your eyes flicked up to admire the beautiful woman above you, her fingers toying with her own nipples as your gazes met. A light blush colored her cheeks as her chest glistened with a sheen of sweat as you dove your tongue into her pulsing entrance. Her breath caught as you redoubled your efforts and continued eating her out, your nose bumping her clit as she finally came all over your lips. You gingery cleaned her up as you helped her onto the bed, a very satisfied smile on her lips that mirrored yours perfectly.

Jeongyeon

“If you wouldn’t mind…”

“Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive,” Jeongyeon’s voice was strong as she held the book in her hands, her thighs framing either side of your head as she was still able to ignore the fact your tongue was running up and down the length of her pussy as she continued to read, “were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much.” You snorted as she over annunciated some of the words as you continued to eat her out, she shifted a little signaling her facade was experiencing a few cracks. The two of you continued without more than a few deep breaths from Jeong, until she got further into the chapter and you were becoming a lot harder to ignore, “It was on the cor…corner of the..the..oh god..” Your tongue pressed firmly into her clit as she gripped the sides of the book, “street that h..he noticed the fi…first ss..sign of..oh!” You shoved your tongue completely inside of her as she couldn’t stop trying to grind down into you, “some..some..something pe…peculiar — a..ah cat reading a m..ah..p!” Jeongyeon’s wall of ice had completely shattered as she put the book down and just reveled in the pleasure as you brought her over the edge. You smiled proudly as you held her in your arms, after cleaning her up, as you pressed soft kisses to her jaw and neck, “You did so good, baby.” Jeong smiled teasingly, “Thanks, I can’t wait to return the favor.”

Momo

“Could we try something different?”

You could tell by the look on your girlfriend’s face that something was bothering her, she was rarely ever nervous around you anymore. So when you finally broached the subject, you subsequently found yourself in a very satisfying position. Your hands grasped tightly to the back of her thighs as your fingertips left small red marks against the soft skin beneath them. Momo’s breathing was shallow as she looked down at you between her legs, biting her lip slightly as you left fluttering kisses all along her inner thigh as she waited nervously for you to make a move. You gave her a small smile as you left one last kiss along her thigh as you used your hands to lower her on your face, you darted your tongue out to get your first taste of your girlfriend that night before diving right back in again. The taste of her felt like the most potent aphrodisiac as you lapped up every bit of essence that leaked out, working your way up to her clit as you took the bundle of nerves between your lips and sucked. A loud moan fell from her lips as she bucked against your face, her hips rolling in time with every suck and lick as you brought her to the edge. Momo’s eyes were closed and her head was thrown back as she finally reached the peak of her pleasure, moaning unabashedly as you drank in every drop she had to offer you. Finally slumping back onto the bed, a very satisfied smile painting her lips as she cuddled into your side, “Thank you.” Her voice was a little hoarse from moaning as you pulled her closer to you, “Anytime, Momoring.”

Sana

“Breath baby.”

The car must have been shaking, there was no doubt about that. But you didn’t really care as you laid on your back on the folded seats as Sana rode your face. Her hair was curtained around her eyes as she let out small huffs and moans as you drilled your tongue into her honey hole. Licking away at her center as her juices dribbled from your lips and a drop or two made streaks down your chin. Her hands were placed firmly on your head as she kept you in place, using you for her pleasure and her pleasure alone. “Get ready, Jagi.“ Sana’s voice was breathless as she ground her hips down into your eager tongue. Sucking her clit into your mouth as she let out a long moan and came into your waiting mouth.

Jihyo

“Umm…”

You were propped up against the headboard as you crooked a finger towards your girlfriend, she looked at you hesitantly before slowly making her way up to where you directed her. Directly over her face. You had been teasing Jihyo for the better part of the past two days and you could tell she was just begging for your attention. Her panties were damp in the center as she hovered above you, your hands running along her calves before moving up to squeeze her ass. She let out a scandalized gasp as you chuckled, “Something the matter, Jihyo-ah?” Her cheeks were pink with frustration, “You’re a tease.” You smirked at that, “So?” Jihyo huffed, “Do something about it, I’m sick and tired of…oh!” You suddenly pressed your tongue into the dark fabric of her underwear as your tongue created friction against her clit as you lapped at it. Her thighs shook as she was finally given the stimulation she was craving, “Anything else you’d like me to do, baby?”

Mina

*Smirks in Japanese*

Your body trembled under Mina as she crawled up from between your legs, the aftershocks of your orgasm still wracked your nervous system as she climbed up higher. Only stopping when her knees rested on either side of your head, “I’m gonna ride your pretty little mouth till I cum. Okay?” You could only nod in response as the Japanese woman lowered herself onto your mouth, your tongue already darting out to taste the wetness before you. Mina tasted sweet and also like nothing at all as you craned your neck to get a better angle as you ate her out. Your nose brushed her clit every so often as you pushed your tongue into her gushing passage as her juices tricked down your chin. You lapped up every drop of her essence as you moved your lips to suckle on her clit, your girlfriend groaned from above you as she grinded down onto your face. Her breathing came out in clipped pants as she moaned out loud, shaking above you as she came. Your tongue worked overtime as you helped her ride the high you had given her before she sat back onto her thighs finally allowing you to breathe, “Th…that was amazing.” You smirked as you pressed a kiss to the side of her thigh, “Only the best for you, Minari.”

Dahyun

“Well I saw something online…”

Dahyun was always down to try new things, so that’s how she found herself with her hands tied behind her back as she sat on your face. Her mouth hung open as she panted as she balanced herself above you while you went to town between her thighs. Your fingers found their way into her entrance, pistoning into her wetness as her juices coated your digits. One finger had turned into two and two had turned into three as you continued working in and out of her contracting cavern. You busied your mouth with her clit or sucking hickies into the pale skin of her thighs as she continued to move her hips in time with your thrusts, “Yes, yes, oh my, Y/N!” You could tell she was getting close by how hard she was squeezing down on your fingers, in return you redoubled your efforts as you pressed into her g-spot the same time you took her clit into your mouth. She fell apart instantly as she shook and writhed above you, her voice cracking from how loud she was screaming.

Chaeyoung

“Just like that.”

One minute you and Chaeyoung were just sunning yourselves in the backyard of your guy’s house and the next thing you knew she was grinding on your face. Your hands grasped the back of Chaeyoung’s thighs as your fingers left small bruises from how hard you were holding her to control her grinding. She bucked her hips frantically as she worked your jaw for all it was worth. The thrill of doing it out in the open really got her going as she was practically gushing into your mouth, “Oh god, Y/N! I’m so close!” You were able to maneuver around a bit as you latched onto her clit making your girlfriend’s hips stutter as she fell forward, she caught herself as she fell apart on top of you. You watched her face as her eyes were screwed shut and she moaned loudly above you. You couldn’t help the wide smile that grew on your lips as she moved down to rest on top of you, her head rested on your chest as you placed a kiss on her head, “Insatiable Chaengie.” She snorted as she snuggled into you, “So are you Y/N-ah.”

Tzuyu

“Oh, wow.”

Tzuyu’s long legs framed your face perfectly as she looked down at you with her lip caught between her teeth. You hands ran up and down her calves as you exhaled a hot breath against her inflamed lips, she watched more than felt as you brought her down to your lips and ran your tongue up the length of her slit. Tasting your girlfriend on your tongue was always a treat as you could hear her breath hitch above you as you ate her out. Your tongue delving into her depths as she rocked her hips in time with each swipe of your tongue. It didn’t take long for Tzuyu to reach her peak as you suckled on her clit, her legs trembling on either side of your head as you softly cleaned her up before she fell to the open stop beside you.

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