Stolen from musyc:
I have 'some' WIPs...
a random sentence (or three whole paragraphs)something from every WIP you're currently working on, even if it's very short. Then invite people to ask questions about your WIP. With any luck, you'll get talking about writing, and the motivation to take that WIP one step closer to completion will appear as if by magic!
I have 'some' WIPs...
- January Veela Fic
- Childish Things
- Dark Magic Bonding
- Otter and Ferret Fairytale
- The Silver Serpant
- Genderswap Firstime
- An Act of Theft
- Interwar Jazz Age
- Memory Charm
- In the Library
This bond between them is as fragile as glass and as opaque as the North Sea. Sometimes he feels that he's standing above an abyss, with only a thin sheet of ice keeping him from plunging into arctic waters.
She's in his head, in his heart, but he has no glimpse into what might lie in hers.
“Come on. Everyone knows that he's been secretly in love with Granger for years.”
Ron choked. “That's not funny.”
“Everyone,” Blaise said, and then walked away.
Harry Potter was worried. It took a lot to worry him, given that his life included the return of Voldemort, nearly being eaten by a giant evil basilisk, surviving various attempts on his life by a not-inconsiderable number of his secondary school teachers, and a Wizarding War. Now that he thought about it, Harry made a mental note to Incendio the next alumni donations request from Hogwarts.
The current cause of Harry's worries was sitting in his office, drumming his foot so loudly on the floor that Harry was sure the office below his would complain. At half past ten in the morning, Harry's office door had slammed open. Harry hadn't even had time to look up from his desk before Draco Malfoy had hurled himself into the office, plastered himself flat against the wall and sealed the door shut with some of the swiftest wards Harry had seen since his Order days.
Hermione is on the Tube, traveling to Picadilly Square, when she starts to cough. The first one merely tickles at her throat, a barely felt whisper of sound. The next pulls at her lungs and hurts. The third is outright painful, racking her lungs, and she is no longer coughing but choking for air. She pulls a hand away from her mouth to brace herself on the chair in front of her, and she is numb when she sees that it is covered in blood. Then her guts twist, and there is no time, no time to do anything but pull out her wand and Apparate, sure in the knowledge that every second spent on that train is one more second she's spending speeding to her own death.
She Apparates with a crack, dully noting that someone will have to try and Oblivate that streetcar, but as she hits the ground with her knees, she finds that she no longer cares about what the Ministry will have to do. She's kneeling on Malfoy Manor's clean garden grass, which she can smell even over the coppery taste of blood in her mouth, and all she can do is hope that that her last sight on earth will not be Draco's tulips beds.
His little ferret heart went flip-flop.
“If you don't accept our love, I'm going to run away and become an investment banker!”
Lucius fainted. Narcissa was on him in a flash, unlacing his corset.
“Mother!” Draco squeaked. “Now is not the time.” He clasped his hand over Hermione eyes. Hermione tried to pull his hand away, but he was determined to protect his innocent little blue stocking from his parents' depravity. At least he was, until she stomped on his foot. He let go of her with a yelp.
Narcissa huffed and continued yanking at the laces. “He's had the house-elves over-lace himself again. I've told him not to be so vain, but does he listen?” Done with the laces, she leaned forward and smacked her husband across the face. Lucius came-to with a gasp.
He rubbed his jaw. “Sweetheart, not the face. You know I bruise.”
Narcissa leaned over him and cooed. “I know, dear, but things are dire. Draco wants to go into investment banking.” Narcissa spoke in the same terms that she might have used to state that Draco now wanted to go around eating small children or perhaps wear stripes with plaid. Lucius' eyes started rolling back, but Narcissa patted him on the cheek. “Focus, darling.”
Draco wasn't conventionally pretty. She didn't draw the kind of praise that followed Padma and Parvati. Instead, Draco had what her Aunt Bella called “striking looks,” a statement which Bella usually made while holding Draco's chin and looking at her with a frown. Draco had a pale, pointed face, as well as her father's white-blond hair and grey eyes. She only faintly resembled the Black side of her family, which was famed for producing dashingly good-looking wizards and witches. Unfortunately, “that Malfoy blood,” to steal another one of her Aunt Bella's phrases, had run strong in Draco. There were plenty of girls at Hogwarts who were prettier than Draco, but Granger didn't seem to mind. He had a way of looking at her, as if he was trying to remember every angle of her face, that made her feel as though she'd captured all of his attention. She liked how he made her feel, which made him valuable to her, and not to be discarded without careful consideration.
It wasn't going to get better. She'd been deluding herself all along. Why he'd ever married her was beyond her understanding; she'd thought they'd been in love. She'd loved him, at least. But if he loved her, this was nothing like she'd imagined it.
Harry and Ron were right. He'd used her. She should have seen it coming.
“I'm filing for divorce.”
“Normally I'd find this ludicrous, but I'm more than a touch potted, so you'll have to speak up.”
“You heard me the first time.”
“Malfoys don't get divorced, darling.” The last word was bitter. She knew that if he looked up, he'd be wearing that same schoolboy sneer that he'd sported so often during Hogwarts. The same one that he'd taken to using all the time, towards her.
“If you were ever around. You're a fucking terrible wife.”
“At least I'm not fucking half of London in our home!”
It has been – difficult – since the War, to find someone who would live up to the exacting standards necessitated by his family's position. Eligible brides are fewer in number these days, either due to their own family issues that arose during the war or a marked reluctance to enter into an arrangement with a family as slandered in the papers as his. Still, his parents are pressuring him to wed and there is an heir to, eventually, consider.
What Draco doesn't tell them is that there is a small, personal reason for his reluctance to wed. A tedious, irrational thing that has dogged his heels in the years after the War. He blames the Ministry for throwing him into the situation that allowed this to happen, personally and financially, because no Malfoy has ever before had to concede to mandated weekly meetings with an officer from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.
It was fun, holding one over the Weasel, out there working at some stupid joke shop and not knowing what Draco was doing with his girlfriend in the dark.
He'd shown up in the courtyard just to throw her, to make her blush and look away, to make her nervous about what he could say. He hadn't expected her to just ignore him, to so obviously utterly not care and spend all of her time hanging off of Weasel's arm.
Draco slammed back a drink. Ron winced.
“Do you--” Draco slurred. “—do you know this whole thing started as a bet?” He nodded towards the stage. “I bet Granger that if she could hold a tune, I'd pay for her entire damn tuition for the quarter at that the Muggle university of hers.” He snorted. “That cost me a pretty penny.”
“Three years,” he hissed. “Three years she's been coming down to this stinking hole and singing. I'm paying her a bloody fortune, it's—it's unreal.” He swayed in his stool. “First year, my solicitor asked if I'd developed an opium habit—he's a daft old bastard—had to tell him it was heroin. Couldn't tell him—couldn't tell him--” Draco waved in the direction of where Hermione was swaying gently to the music.
He swallowed. “It's her last year. After this year—” He waved his hand vaguely. “Bye-bye birdy. I'm too invested in her—too invested—too much built up for her. Don't know what I'm going to do when she leaves.” Draco stared at Hermione.
“Maybe she'll go off for more of that Muggle university, stay a couple extra years. Need more money. I keep on trying to get those damn Muggles to raise the tuition fees, but they stay the same. Could get her to work more if they went up higher.”
Draco has his wand drawn, and he's pointing it at her, and she doesn't understand.
“Draco, what's going on?” He looks so broken and so tired, and she just wants to know what's wrong. She can't find her wand and her head aches, and he's supposed to make everything better.
“Hermione, love, I'm so sorry. Imperio.”
Draco feels like a human sacrifice. He's properly attired to be one, all trussed up in his finest dress robes and deposited against his will in this manor at the whim of arrogant, too-powerful forces. A manor that he technically owns half of as today, but which he's never set foot in his entire life. Whatever the Ministry might call justice, it's Draco that has to suffer for his parents' actions; he and the future generations of Malfoys to come. It's his twenty-first birthday and it feels like the last day of his life.
He's standing in a gloomy formal hall, dark wood inlaid flooring under his feet and twisting carved wood paneling on the walls and overhead. It looks late Renaissance, and there are doors at either end which hint that the rooms extend far beyond what he can see. He can almost feel the presence of wings and floors beyond the walls, the feel of the wards tingling against his senses. He's not quite used to them yet, nor they to him, but they're keyed to him already. The gloom is pierced by the fading sunlight streaming in through the wall of leaded-glass diamond windows facing the setting sun. It's beautiful and elegant, something that even his mother would have to admit befits a son of the Blacks and Malfoys; Draco doesn't care.
He's waiting for the fireplace at the end of the hall to flare green. He knows that it's overly dramatic to wonder if this green is preferable to the flare of an Avadra Kedarva; whatever else he is, Draco is not his father. He'd always have picked this fate over that one. At last, the sun sets and the hall is shrouded in the deepening colors of twilight; the fireplace flares green and a woman steps through.
His wife has arrived.
He crossed his arms and leaned against his desk, looking at her intently. “I can get you anything you need. Anything you want - ”
Hermione choked on her coffee.
“ - from the interlibrary loan system.” Malfoy raised an eyebrow, but said nothing more. Smug bastard. Probably thinking terrible things about her table manners, but it was law school and sleep deprivation that was short-circuiting her mind and making her hear things from pointy-faced little ferrets who showed up in place they weren't supposed to be. Like Oxford's law library.