There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.

[ART] Don't Wait Until Later

digthewriter — Mon, 15 Jun 2026 16:03:00 GMT

Title: Don't wait until later.
Created by: digthewriter
Fandom/Pairing: HP / HD
Rating: G
A/N: Created for ♦ JMDC No. 244 - wait until later. The art is vaguely inspired by the prompt. I just wanted to make something for enchanted_jae's birthday.

Is AO3 commenting down, or is it me?

digthewriter — Tue, 09 Jun 2026 19:23:12 GMT

I am not someone who chases after comments that much. I am happy to share my work when and where it's appropriate. But in the past, when I post a story, I get at least one or two stragglers who read it right away and comment or something.

Which gets me to thinking: maybe, there are so many fests, like running all the time, there are so many discord servers, and Tumblr fests, that non-fest posting works aren't getting the love or the recognition that they used to be before.

Just a random thought on a Tuesday.

[FIC] Enough to keep wanting tomorrow (Sirius, Harry, Draco.)

digthewriter — Mon, 08 Jun 2026 17:09:31 GMT

Title: Enough to keep wanting tomorrow. (READ ON AO3.)
Author/Artist: digthewriter
Pairing: Sirius/Harry. Harry/Draco. Sirius/Harry/Draco
Word Count: 3700
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Azkaban takes a great deal from Sirius, including his ability to perform. That doesn't stop him from finding pleasure. His participation may not be traditional, but it is no less willing.
A/N: Unbetaed. Tags: Erectile Dysfunction, Sexual Dysfunction, Disability, Post-Azkaban Sirius Black, Consensual Sexual Content, Non-Traditional Sexual Dynamics, Intimacy, Pleasure Without Penetration, Emotional vulnerability, Hurt/Comfort

The storm inside me
rises and rests with you
it is how I love
- digthewriter

Enough to keep wanting tomorrow.

"I can't." Sirius closed his eyes with shame as Harry stayed in his lap. Want sat openly in Harry's expression, and Sirius liked that, wanted it, but he couldn't. Azkaban had left him lifeless, mind, soul, and body. No matter how much he wanted to give Harry what he wanted, he couldn't bear the shame at the same time.

"Sirius, it's okay", Harry said softly. He leaned closer, placed his head against Sirius's chest, and breathed. "I want… I can… I can be with you like this. As long as you don't push me away because you hate me."

"Hate you?" Sirius asked, surprised. "Sweet, I could never. I love you so much."

"So it's not me? I'm not repulsive?"

"Harry, no…." Sirius pulled Harry's face close to him and kissed his cheek, then kissed Harry on the lips. Harry gave in to the kiss easily, taking Sirius in with abandon. Sirius felt tears, tasted Harry's tears, and he felt as though he was going to give in, too. But, he couldn't. He needed to be strong for Harry. Firm.

"You're perfect," Sirius said, running his fingers through Harry's hair.

He had wanted this with Harry ever since Harry had shown interest. Harry was a different man now from the boy Sirius knew when he had been released from Azkaban, and the war had changed them both.

The loss Sirius felt after his found family was taken from him was almost unbearable; he carried the shame of it like another wound. And though Harry was patient, understanding, and willing to try again and again, each failure only deepened Sirius's humiliation.

"Turn for me," Sirius said, softly. He tried to put as much sex into his voice as he could. Maybe he couldn't give Harry what he wanted, but he also desired to make sure Harry felt good, sexy, and cherished. Harry rested his back against Sirius's chest and rested the back of his head on Sirius's shoulder.

Sirius reached down with his hands, all the while kissing the back of Harry's ear, whispering sweet nothings, and meaning every desirous word he uttered. Harry's body vibrated with desire against Sirius, and Sirius's hands stopped when they reached Harry's cock. Harry rocked back and forth on Sirius's lap, as if he was trying again and again. But Sirius didn't mind. He was no longer focusing on himself but on Harry's needs.

He played with Harry's balls as he stroked Harry's cock, feeling the precome from Harry's cock down his hand.

"That's my sweet boy," Sirius said, and Harry's breath hitched. Sirius knew Harry was being called a "boy" in the context of the war and the child who had survived, but this term of endearment, he didn't seem to mind.

"Tell me what you want."

Harry gulped. He turned his head to kiss Sirius's lips and then mumbled. "This. This and you. This is solely…" He gasped when Sirius twisted his wrist a certain way, and Harry's entire body shuddered. Sirius's heart swelled. For some reason, this was enough. Knowing Harry was enjoying himself seemed enough.

He didn't know why he hadn't tried this before. All those nights when Harry sought a certain type of comfort from Sirius, Sirius could have done this. It would have been enough. Now, all these ideas were exploding into Sirius's head. He could find so many ways to pleasure Harry without caring about his own traumas. He didn't have needs, but Harry did. Depression had hollowed him out so completely—every pleasure had felt unreachable. He had been wrong. He had been so, so wrong.

Harry came with a quiver, his voice gravely, and he nearly sobbed Sirius's name.

"Don't hold back. You're doing so good, my heart."

Harry breathed deeply, as if releasing a sigh he had been holding, and he rested against Sirius for a bit longer. Eventually, he got up off Sirius and pulled him up from the armchair in his room.

"Let me wash you," Harry said.

"I'm not an invalid, Harry," Sirius said, laughing.

"I didn't say that," Harry said. "I want to take a shower with you. I'm allowed, aren't I?"

*-*

The market in Diagon Alley was crowded and noisy, full of people carrying bags and shouting over one another as they moved between stalls. Sirius had stopped to buy coffee while Harry wandered nearby, looking at a table stacked with old Quidditch magazines.

Then Harry froze.

Draco Malfoy stood a few feet away outside an apothecary, holding a small paper bag in one hand. He looked equally as surprised to see them.

There was an awkward pause.

"Potter," Draco said finally.

"Malfoy."

Sirius looked between them and immediately noticed the way Harry kept glancing at Draco before quickly looking away again. Harry's face had gone slightly red, and Draco didn't seem much better. Sirius felt a sudden sharp twist of jealousy low in his chest before he could stop it. It was strange seeing Harry look at someone else with that kind of interest.

The silence dragged on.

"Oh, for God's sake," Sirius muttered. Then louder: "Malfoy, come over for dinner tomorrow."

Harry nearly choked. "What?"

Draco blinked. "Are you serious?"

"Unfortunately, yes," Sirius said dryly. "Watching this is unbearable."

Harry looked as though he wanted the ground to open beneath him.

Draco stared at them for another second before a small smile appeared on his face.

"All right," he said. "I'll come."

Harry groaned and covered his face while Sirius laughed beside him.

*-*

Sirius had been waiting for Draco Malfoy to arrive, as if it were a threat he couldn't quite name.

Grimmauld Place felt tighter than usual, its shadows pressing into corners which didn't normally bother him. He told himself it was a habit, a war reflex, an old paranoia, but it sat deeper than that. Harry was upstairs for the third time in an hour, pretending to check his appearance in the mirror, pretending not to be nervous.

Sirius knew the difference.

Harry's nerves were not of fear of Draco alone. They were something more complicated, pulled tight between anticipation and restraint. Sirius saw it in the way Harry hesitated on the stairs, in the way he lingered out of sight, as though trying to decide what version of himself to present.

And Sirius, watching all of it, felt something worse than irritation settle under his ribs.

Jealousy was too simple a word. It was sharper. A private, quiet wrongness at the idea of Harry being seen, really seen, by someone else in a way Sirius couldn't control. Worse still was the awareness that Harry didn't belong to him in any clean or acceptable sense. Yet, Sirius had already begun to behave as if he did.

That thought alone made his jaw tighten.

Harry came down the stairs slowly, stopping halfway when he noticed Sirius watching him. There was a pause between them, which meant more than it should have. They had learned how to speak in those pauses, careful, silent, hidden in plain sight.

"You're tense," Sirius said quietly.

Harry's mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. "So are you."

A lie. A mutual one.

Sirius stepped closer, enough to straighten the collar of Harry's shirt with deliberate precision. His fingers brushed the line of Harry's throat. The contact was brief and controlled, but it still left something lingering in the air between them, something neither of them acknowledged.

"Don't let him get in your head," Sirius said.

Harry looked at him then, properly. There was something unsettled in his expression. Not fear exactly. More, the strain of wanting too many things at once and not knowing which ones were allowed.

"That's not the problem," Harry said softly.

Sirius understood a little too late.

The doorbell rang.

The sound cut through the house... a warning. Harry went still. Sirius didn't move immediately. For a moment, he listened to the silence that followed, aware of how much of himself he was already hiding in this house, how thin the boundaries were becoming between control and collapse.

Then he exhaled once, controlled, and turned toward the door.

"Stay close," Sirius said.

Harry hesitated long enough for it to mean something it shouldn't have meant.

Then: "I will."

Sirius opened the door before either of them could think better of it.

*-*

After dinner, Sirius decided to step back.

Harry and Draco stayed in the sitting room longer than they needed to, talking. It was too easy, as though it shouldn’t have been. Harry leaned forward when Draco spoke, listening closely. Draco looked less tense now. Sirius remained in the doorway, not moving away even though he knew he should.

It was not sustainable. He kept telling himself this, but it didn't change anything inside him. What he had with Harry had always been half-hidden, half-quiet, something made in dark rooms and silence. It couldn't exist in daylight.

Harry deserved more. Something stable, something people could see without question. Sirius could give him company, understanding, even closeness. But not the rest. Not the simple physical certainty Harry would want.

Not the sexual part that didn't fail or stop at the wrong moment. Sirius knew such a part of him was broken now, or gone. Draco could give something real outside of the shadows. Someone Harry could stand next to without hiding.

Sirius hated himself for stepping back. He hated it more because he still did it. He watched Draco too much now, every small ease between them, every time Harry looked at him instead of Sirius. Jealousy stayed. It didn't leave.

He wanted to despise Draco. Part of him did. Too clean. Too easy. Too present in a way Sirius was not anymore. And still he watched; he couldn't stop himself.

"You're avoiding me," Harry said one night in the kitchen.

"I'm not," Sirius said too fast.

"You are."

Sirius didn't answer.

Eventually, Harry left on Friday nights without looking back. And the house stayed too quiet.

Sirius should have been relieved.

Instead, each time the door shut, something in him tightened: a refusal he couldn't justify anymore.

*-*

After six months, Sirius noticed Harry had stopped going out. Only work, or the occasional work pub event. Nothing else. No plans, no late returns, no excuses.

He stayed in the house again, sleeping in Sirius’s room as though it had always been that way. Quiet most of the time. He didn’t talk about Draco, or anything else beyond work. He only stayed close, lingering in doorways, in shared silence, in the small habits that replaced conversation.

He came to Sirius for touch instead. Kissed him without hesitation. Let Sirius help him when he needed it, in the dark, in silence, in a way he didn't ask for anything more than what Sirius could give.

Sirius convinced himself he was happy. They both were. Harry was there, with him, steady again. But something still felt off; a space hadn't been filled. Harry was not sad. Sirius was not sad either. Still, it didn't feel complete, and Sirius had yet to realise why.

*-*

At a Ministry charity gala, Sirius saw Draco across the room near the drinks table. Harry was talking to someone from the Ministry, not looking. Sirius crossed the room.

"Malfoy."

Draco looked at him. "Black. Hi. How are you?"

"I'm fine."

A pause. Draco nodded once, already looking past him. No follow-up. No interest in staying. "Excuse me," Draco said and walked away.

"No problem," Sirius said, "I'm heading to the Men's anyway." When Sirius went to the loo, empty and quiet - he was at the sink when the door opened again. Draco came in and locked it behind him.

"What are you doing?" Sirius started to say.

Draco didn't answer. He grabbed Sirius by the front of his jacket, pulled him into the nearest stall, and shut the door hard. Then he kissed him.

Sirius didn't move at first. Then he pushed back. Draco stopped, close, breathing fast. He looked at Sirius's mouth.

"You taste like him," Draco said, "...same scent."

"Well. You did stop fucking him, so I am the consolation prize."

A dry laugh slipped out of him, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing, like the idea itself was almost laughable in its simplicity or denial. "You're anything but that."

"What happened between you two? He's not heartbroken exactly, but the boy… I care about him."

Draco laughed again. "He wants you to fuck him." Sirius only stood there, shocked. "I know you can't." Sirius' eyes widened. He felt his face flushed. His knees were about to buckle. "Don't," Draco said softly.

"Don't what?" Sirius snapped. "Did you threaten to out me to the news. Did you threaten him? Is that why he left you? Did you break his heart?"

"No…" Draco sounded soft, genuine. Broken. "I know the feeling. I was there… I mean... don't make me say it, but I understand, Sirius. Maybe I healed and you—"

"It isn't something I can turn off and on."

"I know… and I don't... I don't blame you; I don't judge you. If you can't, you can't. There are many ways to love more than just—"

"Thanks for the pep talk, Malfoy."

"No, wait."

Draco kissed him again.

The desire Draco poured into the kiss reminded Sirius of Harry. It was so uncanny, the two boys were so similar to each other and yet so, so opposite. Draco pushed Sirius back against the wall of the toilet stall and shoved his knee between Sirius's legs.

"Get me off," Draco whispered against Sirius's lips. "Please."

"Why?" Sirius asked, yet at the same time, he started unbuttoning Draco's trousers. "Why do you want it? You're so needy, Malfoy? You'll let anyone fuck you?"

Draco groaned. He buried his face in Sirius's neck and bit the skin there. "He loves you," Draco said. "I… I want what he wants. I love him."

The confession nearly rendered Sirius speechless. Draco loved Harry. Loved. Harry.

"He won't forgive me for this. Won't forgive you." Sirius hesitated, but Draco grabbed Sirius's wrist and forced him to continue touching Draco.

"Fuck him. Make him jealous. He wants us both, but he can't let go of you, Black. Why? I want to know why. Why can't he…"

Sirius pushed Draco back, dropped to his knees, and took Draco's cock in his mouth. At least this way, the fucking kid stopped talking. He only moaned and groaned, eventually spilling himself as Sirius swallowed.

"Fuck." Draco whispered as if he was catching his breath. "Shit."

Sirius's knees hurt, and he took his time getting up off the floor. He spelt them both clean, the toilet stall clean, and made them both presentable.

"The war was rough on me. I couldn't find… peace. Or satisfaction. It was Potter who helped me get out of my shell. He taught me to love. To love him. I'm not saying there's a fix-it. I'm not saying the Dementors' curse on you will be cured. Maybe you're meant to be this... forever—"

"Spare me the lecture, Malfoy. I don't need your version of comfort."

Sirius let the words hang there without responding. He felt them press at him, but he refused to give them shape. Anything he answered would turn this into something it was not meant to be.

He straightened his cuffs, slow, forcing his hands to stay steady. His mind went briefly to Harry, unwanted and sharp, then he pushed it away. Not analysis. Not meaning. Control. He checked the stall door, the lock, and the clean spell work. Everything had to look untouched. That alone mattered now.

There was no fixing in this. Not by love, not by talk, not by someone trying to name it for him. It was not something he could turn off and on again.

It simply was.

"Are you satisfied now? Is this what you wanted? To hurt my boy."

"No…" said Draco.

Before Draco could say anything else, Sirius left the stall, washed his hands, and left the loo. He could feel Draco a few steps behind him. Sirius's eyes caught Harry's, who watched them both come out of the loo at the same time. Harry only looked confused.

"Is everything okay?" Harry asked when Sirius reached him, who turned to look, and Draco was nowhere to be seen.

"Yes," said Sirius. "Malfoy misses you."

Harry took in a deep breath. "I don't... I don't wanna talk about that now."

"Yes, but you never talk about it. The stupid boy loves you." Harry's eyes widened. "You love him, too."

Harry looked away. "It's not… It's not the same."

"I'm not your responsibility, Harry. You deserve love. You deserve to do whatever you want without worrying about me. I am… what I am."

Harry looked as though he couldn't speak anymore, because he wanted to scream, so he finished the last of his Firewhisky and walked away from Sirius. Across the hall, Draco and Sirius locked eyes. Sirius crossed the room and stood next to Draco.

"I don't understand," Sirius said, then, "don't say anything. Come over tonight at midnight. I'll allow the wards for you to enter."

"Why… why are you helping me?"

"I'm not. I'm helping Harry."

*-*

Harry was asleep.

Sirius sat on the sofa with a drink. The glass was low. He didn't refill it, but he didn't put it down either. The alcohol made his body slower, heavier, as if it were no longer responding properly to instructions. His mind didn't match that state. It stayed active and unstable, running the same sequence over and over again without resolution. The stall. Draco's voice. Harry sees them come out together. Harry's face after. Each image returned without order, without progression, as if it refused to become something he could finish thinking about.

His body didn't react in any other way. No physical response. No shift. Just fatigue and weight; everything had settled into place and refused to move again.

He looked toward the bedroom door once, then stopped. Harry was inside. Sleeping. That fact was fixed. It didn't move. It didn't change depending on what Sirius thought or felt. It existed there, separate from him, untouched by everything else which had already started to rot under the surface of the night.

Sirius stayed on the sofa and let the noise in his head continue without trying to organise it. There was no point in arranging it into sense. It didn't become clearer when handled carefully. It only repeated itself more cleanly, more sharply, until it felt less like thought and more like pressure.

The Floo flared green in the corner of the room.

He didn't move immediately. The delay was not a decision; it was merely a weight. The fire stayed open a moment longer than it should have, as if waiting for permission which would never arrive.

Draco stepped out of it.

Sirius didn't stand. He didn't speak. He stayed seated, still holding the glass, watching Draco fully enter the room with a kind of detached attention that didn't match the tension inside him. Nothing in his body moved to meet the moment. Only his mind did, still running, still circling, still not resolving anything at all.

"Harry's room is upstairs. Second door on the left," Sirius said.

Draco didn't respond at first. He looked at Sirius, checking if this was real or something that would change if he waited.

"Go," Sirius said again, flat. "Sleep there."

Sirius stayed on the sofa after that, drink still in his hand, not watching the stairs directly but knowing exactly what was happening anyway: Draco went upstairs. He would not hesitate. He had undressed in silence, slow and controlled, and slid into the bed beside Harry without waking him. Harry would shift slightly, the way Sirius knew he always did when someone entered his space in sleep, then settle again when Draco didn't move away. Draco would have stayed close, one arm around him, holding him steady through the night.

*-*

Sirius woke up hungover. His head was heavy, his mouth dry, and he didn't think clearly. He got up anyway and went straight to the shower without really deciding to. It felt automatic; it was the kind of morning that didn't require thought, only movement.

He opened the bathroom door and stopped.

Harry was already inside. Draco was there too. The shower was running, steam filling the room, both of them close under the water. There was no reaction from either of them when Sirius appeared. Nothing but awareness. He was expected.

Sirius didn't understand it at first. His mind stayed slow, stuck between sleep and waking. He stood there, not moving, trying to connect what he was seeing with anything that made sense, but nothing did.

Harry looked at him once, then stepped out of the shower. Calm. Immediate. Like this was already part of the sequence. Harry took Sirius's clothes without asking, a simple spell, and pulled him in by the wrist before he could decide not to follow.

Sirius went in.

The water hit him fully now. He stood under it while Harry and Draco stayed close. He watched them, still not fully processing, only registering movement, heat, and proximity. Harry didn't explain anything. Draco didn't either. It continued as if explanation was not part of the situation.

Harry held Sirius from behind, back against his chest, while Harry's legs were wrapped around Draco's waist. They took turns, making sure Sirius was there, still a part of it, more than a part of it. When they were done, Sirius washed them. Soap, fingers, moans and all.

He stayed in the stall as he watched both boys dry themselves off, wrap pristine white towels around their waist and return to Harry's room. Sirius dried off and went downstairs to make breakfast.

After a while, Draco left. Work. He dressed and went without hesitation. The door closed behind him.

Harry stayed.

The rest of the day didn't separate itself into conversation. Harry stayed close, casual in the way he touched Sirius, like nothing needed to be defined. Sirius responded in the same way, without naming anything, without stepping back. It continued, with no clear start or end to any of it.

A month later, Draco moved in.

THE END.

[DTH 2026] - ART | Waiting With Wine.

digthewriter — Sun, 07 Jun 2026 18:06:51 GMT

Title: Waiting With Wine
Artist: DIGTHEWRITER
Summary: Domestic Drarry
Rating: G

[ART] Peace and Quiet - Orignial/Gen

digthewriter — Tue, 12 May 2026 14:57:52 GMT

Created for enchanted_jae's inspiring prompt from Jae's Monthly Drabble Challenge # 243: Beside Me | Prompt: peace and quiet.

[ART] Rest and Relaxation

digthewriter — Mon, 11 May 2026 17:12:37 GMT

Title: Rest and Relaxation.
Author/Artist: digthewriter
Pairing: Pansy/Ginny
Rating: G
Challenge/Summary: Luna's place is where Pansy can just totally relax.
A/N: In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the Pansy Fest 2026 collection.

[ART] photoshop edit for snape art

digthewriter — Mon, 04 May 2026 03:10:25 GMT

Type: Photoshop Edit
Created by: digthewriter
Fandom/Pairing: Snape
A/N: Just a lovely thank you to mywitch for all your kindness.

Here's a Photoshop Edit / Digital Mixed Media of Alan Rickman as Snape.

[Appreciation Art] > Staring Competition < (Harry/Draco)

digthewriter — Fri, 01 May 2026 05:40:41 GMT

Title: Staring Competition.
Created by: digthewriter
Fandom/Pairing: HARRY/DRACO
Rating: G
Summary: Who is gonna win? IDK!
A/N: Thank you to the lovely (chose to be anonymous) people who offered financial support to feed my cat (LJ | DW POST) as I maneuver this unemployment/laid-off/no one will hire me crazy world out there.

You folks are the best. If there's more requests, please send them my way. xo. Happy to oblige, b/c you know, I am unemployed. LOL.

Every Possible Yes. (Ron/Sirius. Ron/Viktor. Ron/Neville.)

digthewriter — Tue, 28 Apr 2026 18:38:46 GMT

Title: Every Possible Yes.
Author/Artist: digthewriter
Pairing: Ron/Viktor. Ron/Sirius. Ron/Neville.
Word Count: 870
Rating: Mature?
Challenge/Summary: He doesn't know what he wants. He only knows who has mattered.
A/N: For: Hot Ron Fest 2026

I. 2021

After the war, Hogwarts relearns how to be inhabited.

Sirius Black teaches Defence with his sleeves rolled up and his past held at arm’s length. He notices Ron Weasley slowly, the way one notices weather changing. Not because Ron demands attention. Because he does not.

Ron sits where he can see the room. He listens as if listening is a choice. He asks questions that shift the direction of a discussion rather than decorate it. When others interrupt, he waits. When they finish, he answers anyway.

Sirius watches him help first years after class, correcting grip and posture with quiet authority. Ron never raises his voice. He never apologizes for knowing what he knows. When he smiles, it is brief, like something meant for himself.

One evening, Sirius finds him alone in the classroom, staring at a cracked mirror left behind from boggart drills. Ron is not looking at his reflection.

"You look like you are trying to see through something," Sirius says.

Ron blinks, then huffs a soft laugh. "Habit."

Sirius does not ask what the habit is. He only says, later, without thinking, "I can stare forever into your…."

Ron looks up. He does not finish the sentence. He does not deflect it either. He holds Sirius’s gaze until the moment settles into something shared, then returns his attention to the mirror, as if that answers everything.

They never define what happens.

There are long conversations in Sirius’s office. Tea goes cold. A kiss happens once, unhurried, mutual, surprising only in how little it changes between them. When distance comes, it is chosen. Sirius watches Ron walk away down the corridor and understands that wanting does not always need to be acted on to be real.

II. 2025

By the time Viktor Krum returns to Hogwarts as a visiting coach, Ron Weasley has learned how to occupy space.

He moves differently now. Not louder. Not bigger. Just sure. Students gravitate toward him without noticing the moment it happens. Viktor notices immediately.

They meet on the pitch at dusk. Ron explains a formation with precision, adjusting for the players he has, not the ones he wishes he did. He does not defer to Viktor’s reputation. He does not challenge it either. He treats Viktor like someone worth engaging, not impressing.

They argue. Often. About strategy, about pressure, about the difference between winning and control. Viktor is used to being admired. With Ron, he is assessed.

One evening, Viktor catches Ron watching a practice match, eyes tracking every movement. Focused. Intent. Viktor says something about it. Ron shrugs.

"Someone has to pay attention."

Later, under the stands, hands still smelling of grass and leather, Viktor tells him, quietly, that being looked at like that feels different. Ron does not answer in words. He answers by looking at Viktor the same way the next day. And the next.

When Viktor leaves, they part cleanly. No promises. No bitterness. Viktor writes once a year. Ron always writes back, the tone unchanged, the attention intact.

III. 2029

Neville Longbottom falls in love with Ron Weasley slowly, which surprises no one except Neville.

They work together in the greenhouses, dirt under their nails, sleeves rolled. Neville talks about soil composition and rare blooms. Ron asks questions that reveal he is not just being polite. Neville answers more than he plans to.

Ron teaches now. He stands in front of students without performing. He laughs easily. He listens like time is not something he is trying to escape. Neville watches him stand still in moments that once would have terrified him.

One afternoon, Neville catches Ron looking at the sunlight through the glass ceiling, expression thoughtful, unreadable.

"What are you looking at?" Neville asks.

Ron considers. "What’s still possible."

The words linger between them. Neville says, without quite deciding to, "I can stare forever into your—"

Ron turns. He does not tease. He does not correct the sentence. He steps closer instead, close enough that Neville can see himself reflected there, steady and sure.

Nothing is defined. Nothing needs to be.

Years later, students will argue about Ron Weasley. About how clever he was. About how kind. About how people loved him and were better for it.

Ron never hears most of it. He is too busy paying attention.

IV. 2035

By the time Ron Weasley turns thirty-five, he is used to being admired. He has learned how to accept it, how to enjoy it, how to let it pass without mistaking it for direction. What he has not learned is how to ignore the quiet sense that something more is waiting to be chosen.

He doesn't know what he wants. He only knows who has mattered.

So he invites Sirius, Viktor, and Neville to dinner on his birthday, without explanation and without expectation. It does not begin as anything. It is only a table, a meal, a house filled with voices that know his name.

The wine is good. The conversation is easy.

Ron moves between the kitchen and the dining room, checking on food, refilling glasses, and each time he comes back he finds them still watching him, still paying attention. No one asks what this means.

No one leaves early.

I like you (and that is enough.) (Neville/Charlie, Other)

digthewriter — Tue, 28 Apr 2026 18:30:00 GMT

Title: I like you (and that is enough.)
Author/Artist: digthewriter
Pairing: Neville, Charlie
Word Count: 2110
Rating: NC-17
Challenge/Summary: Hogwarts Professors. One of them is engaged. One of them is just along for the ride. Charlie/Original Character. Charlie/Neville.
A/N: Indiscretion Advised: A Harry Potter Infidelity Fest Part 2

It started when Neville decided to confess, even though Charlie was engaged to someone else. Neville sat at the desk in his lab, thinking about plants and such, when, for the first time, Charlie walked in, asking for advice on a medicinal plant.

Being Hogwarts professors, they had many interactions and lesson plans together. Neville always felt a pull towards Charlie, but whenever Charlie's fiancé, Spencer, came around, Neville would leave. Charlie consistently asked Neville to spend time with them, but Neville couldn't be around Spencer; it was too much.

Whenever he'd see them together, he was happy for them, but there was an ache. The ache was always there. Spencer would look away, and Neville would take advantage of the situation, simply staring at Charlie. His heart would beat fast, and he'd lose his breath. Then, he'd turn around, look down at his parchment and return to work.

Neville didn't think it was love. It was an infatuation, really. Even if it was love, which it was not, Neville didn't want to steal Charlie away from Spencer. He was not interested in being Charlie's boyfriend, partner, or other half. He was just interested. In Charlie.

*

The Christmas holiday was approaching and Charlie asked what Neville was doing for the holidays.

"Not much," said Neville, "probably go visit my grandmother for a day or two, otherwise, I'll be staying at Hogwarts as a chaperone."

"Ah. I was going to invite you to Mum's for Christmas dinner."

"Hmmm…." Neville said, looking away.

"What is it?" asked Charlie.

Neville took a deep breath and looked Charlie right in the eye. Spencer wasn't around. He was at work in London and only visited Charlie on the weekends. With Christmas coming up, he wasn't visiting because they were going to spend the holidays together.

"I have something to tell you," said Neville. Charlie looked at him expectantly. "Let me get this out, okay? And I don't expect anything or whatever, it's just…"

Charlie nodded, looking confused.

"I find you breathtaking," said Neville. "Whenever you are in the room with me, I forget to breathe. I think you are absolutely beautiful, and I am so attracted to you, I don't know what to do with myself."

Neville took a step back, one to put some distance between them and second to gauge Charlie's reaction.

Charlie's brows furrowed.

"I'm engaged."

"I know," Neville said. "This has nothing to do with Spencer, and I don't expect anything. You're going away for the holidays, and I won't be renewing my contract next year. I've decided to leave teaching and go into research. You won't have to see me again after the summer. But—"

"You're leaving because of me?"

Neville shook his head. "No, I'm leaving because I want to move on. And being around you is difficult, but it's not the reason I'm resigning. I have a better opportunity. It's just… it'll help. Being away from you. Also, I wanted to let you know. Because, Spencer… he's so lucky. And I don't even know if he appreciates you. And I'm not saying all of this because—"

Charlie kissed him. It came out of nowhere, the kiss was reserved, fast, and half-hearted. Charlie took two steps back himself.

"I'm sorry, I don't know why I did that. I love Spencer. I'm going to marry him."

Neville nodded. "It's fine. I wanted to say it. So let me say it again."

"Okay…"

"You are breathtaking. I do not want you to leave Spencer for me. I don't want anything. I wanted you to know. I'm not looking for a relationship, Charlie. I don't want you to leave Spencer for me. But, this is something for me. There's something there, and I can't deny it to myself. You should know, is all. And after this, if you stay away, it's only natural."

With that, Neville nodded once and Charlie left.

Neville avoided Charlie for the rest of the month until he'd left for the Christmas holidays. Neville focused on his lesson plans for the upcoming semester. He wrote clear instructions for the Herbology Professor for next year and made a list of books he wanted to purchase when he moved into his Research position.

*

On December 26th, there was a knock on the door in Neville's quarters. He didn't think a student would wake him up in the middle of the night, so he wondered if it was an emergency.

When Neville opened the door, he was surprised to find Charlie standing there.

"Hi," said Neville.

"Hi," Charlie said. He gently pushed his way into Neville's rooms and closed the door behind them.

"What are you doing here?"

Charlie didn't reply. He cupped Neville's face and kissed him. The kiss this time wasn't awkward; it didn't get over fast, and it was passionate enough for Neville to forget his own name.

Charlie kept pushing and kissing Neville until they reached Neville's bed, where they both fell onto it.

"I need this," said Charlie, and Neville didn't object.

They hurried to take off their clothes, and Charlie went down to his knees to take Neville into his mouth.

Neville groaned, welcoming the pleasure, and raked his fingers through Charlie's hair. When he spilt into Charlie's mouth, Charlie pushed Neville back on the bed all the way, his head hitting the pillow, and Charlie spread Neville's legs apart.

"Is this okay?" Charlie asked, and Neville nodded.

Charlie slicked his fingers with lube that Neville didn't know where he'd obtained it, and started to open him up slowly. It wasn't long until Neville was begging Charlie to enter him, and Charlie obliged.

He was big, bigger than Neville had ever experienced. He pushed in slowly and then increased the rhythm. They moved together, Charlie simply staring down into Neville's eyes and continuing to fuck him. The bed creaked, the heavy curtains shuddered along their rails, tassels brushing the mattress with every restless shift, while on the bedside table a glass quivered with each unsteady change in weight.

"I need more," Neville whispered, and Charlie pulled out of him. He turned Neville around on his stomach and had him rest on his knees. He began to fuck Neville with even more abandon than before, and as Charlie spilt inside him, Neville came for the second time.

They lay there, Charlie still on top of Neville, hot and sweaty and spent.

Eventually, Neville stirred underneath Charlie and Charlie moved off him. They didn't talk. Not right away. Neville had no idea what Charlie was even doing at Hogwarts, if anyone saw them, or what he'd told Spencer.

"I had to see you," said Charlie. When Neville didn't reply, he added, "I haven't been able to stop thinking about you."

Neville nodded, not meeting Charlie's eye.

Charlie leaned closer, wrapped his arm around Neville's waist and pulled Neville towards him. "I love Spencer."

"Yes."

And with that, they fell asleep. When Neville woke up the next morning, Charlie was gone.

*

Charlie returned after the holidays when school started again. He was a popular teacher, so he was constantly surrounded by students. In the evening, sometimes after dinner, he would come to Neville's quarters and leave in the middle of the night.

On weekends, when the hallways were emptier, as all students were in Hogsmeade, Charlie would find a dark corner, and they'd rub up against each other, mouths on each other, to stop themselves from groaning.

After hours, in Neville's greenhouse, Charlie would fuck Neville on a bed of plants. Each time it was needy, and desperate, and hot. Charlie never spent the night.

On weekends when Spencer would visit, Neville would make himself scarce, and the night Spencer would leave, Charlie would enter Neville's rooms, still smelling like his fiancé.

They'd engage in their indiscretions in every corner of Neville's room, the dark hallways in the middle of the night, as if daring the ghosts to find them, and on each surface in Charlie's quarters. It was different when Neville was in Charlie's room. He'd insist on fucking in the shower, the kitchen counter, and on the armchair he knew Spencer liked to sit on.

Charlie never commented on it. They did whatever they desired, and still, every time Charlie came inside Neville, it felt like the first time.

*

The school year came to an end, and the students left. Spencer came for the last weekend to help Charlie pack and leave for the summer vacation. They had only a few days left before all the professors would leave, leaving only the caretakers at Hogwarts.

Last week in the castle, with Spencer sleeping in Charlie's bed, Charlie came to Neville every night to get his cock sucked. They didn't talk. He'd enter, Neville would get down on his knees, and then Charlie would leave.

It was good, Neville thought, a proper ending. They would now go their separate ways. Charlie would return the next year to teach, and over the summer, he and Spencer would get married. Neville was invited to the wedding, of course. He'd have to think about whether he was going to attend.

Neville attended the stag night when Spencer was out with his own friends for his stag night. Neville and Charlie spent a good time in the toilets, hiding from everyone who were too drunk to notice. That night, Charlie spent the night in Neville's hotel room. It was the first time he'd done so. The first time he'd woken up next to Neville, his body tightly wrapped around Neville's.

They had breakfast, and then Neville dragged Charlie into the shower. He fucked Charlie with his fingers while he sucked on his cock. The hot water poured all over them, nearly burning their skin, and yet they didn't care. It was their penance.

Charlie left. Two days later, he was married. Neville didn't attend the wedding.

*

Neville's office was at the end of the corridor, past the shared lab and the storage room that smelled permanently of damp earth. The walls were plain, the desk scarred. A single window looked into the greenhouse rather than out onto anything useful. He preferred it that way. Fewer distractions.

He worked alone by design. The project had been structured for independent study, long observation blocks, and minimal interference. He spent mornings checking growth rates, adjusting light levels by small increments, and re-potting specimens that showed early stress. Afternoons were for recording results. Evenings, often, for starting again because he did not trust the first set of notes.

At Hogwarts, his days had been broken into bells. Students were drifting in half-prepared. Questions layered on top of other questions. Soil on the floor. Someone always needed reassurance. He had been good at that. Patient. Steady. But the work itself had been split into fragments.

Here, nothing interrupted him unless he allowed it. He could follow a line of thought for hours. Test one change. Wait. Observe. Try again. No one watching for quick results. No one asking if it would be on the exam.

He drank too much tea. Forgot lunch. Left the wireless off. Sometimes, when the light shifted late in the afternoon, he found his mind wandering to the life he might have had if he had stayed. A smaller flat. Shared shelves. Someone waiting up. It would not have felt wrong. It would simply be crowded.

He had chosen this instead. The move to the Netherlands had been practical. Quiet suited him.

He didn't want a relationship, to get married, to have kids.

Sometimes he thought about Charlie and Spencer and wondered how that life had settled. He found himself curious whether Charlie might have made a similar arrangement with someone else, or whether everything had shifted only because Neville had finally named what lay between them.

He wondered if, after the marriage, Charlie had stopped looking elsewhere and considered the matter closed. If Neville had simply been there because, at the time, it suited them both.

Still, he was glad.

Spencer had done nothing wrong. It had been Neville who confessed, and Charlie who acted.

**

It'd been several months, or maybe a year, Neville didn't keep a record, when he opened his office one day and found Charlie sitting on his reading sofa. Charlie stood up and crossed the room, taking Neville's face in his hands and kissing him. They didn't waste much time, and clothes started to come off, Charlie's hands down Neville's boxers, and his hot breath panting against Neville's left ear.

"Spence is in Australia visiting his family," said Charlie.

"I don't need to know," replied Neville. "Just owl me so I can pause my work."

THE END.

[ART] Her Gaze, Unbroken (Tonks/Bellatrix)

digthewriter — Fri, 17 Apr 2026 16:18:01 GMT

Title<: Her Gaze, Unbroken
Artist: digthewriter
Pairing: Nymphadora Tonks x Bellatrix Black
Rating: G
Medium: Digital Art / Mixed Media. Photoshop.
Fest: blackcestfest2026
Summary: Bellatrix never expected Nymphadora to be so intriguing, and now she cannot look away.

The Unexpected Guest (Neville, Charlie)

digthewriter — Tue, 07 Apr 2026 19:16:53 GMT

Title: The Unexpected Guest
Author: digthewriter
Pairing: Neville, Charlie
Word Count: 100x4
Rating: PG
Challenge: 1) For Neville100: Beer. 2) JMDC Challenge: One too many.
A/N: Unbetaed.

Neville placed the beers on the table and returned to the kitchen to grab the stew. He was having a get-together with his friends as they hadn't seen each other in a while, but hadn't expected Ginny to bring Charlie along.

Neville was avoiding Charlie for more than a month now, ever since he'd had one too many and confessed his feelings. He barely made eye contact with Charlie the entire evening. When everyone left, Neville started cleaning up. Little did he know Charlie was sneaky enough to hide in the loo while everyone left. When he appeared, he gave Neville a start.

"Mercy!" Neville exclaimed. "I didn't know you were still here."

"Is that alright?"

"Yes, of course. Did you need something or—?"

"I thought I'd help you clean up since I tagged along without an invite."

"No problem," said Neville, gulping. "But you don't have to. I was gonna put the dishes away and have the house-elf organise everything in the morning."

"Ah, okay..." Charlie stood straight, looking around Neville's flat. "I like your art collection."

"Thank you..." I think. "Would you like some coffee or another beer?"

"Sure. Coffee's good," said Charlie. He didn't wait in the sitting room but followed Neville into the kitchen this time. As Neville was preparing the cups, his hands were trembling. What did Charlie want? Was he here to confront Neville about his confession? Yell at him or let him down easy?

"Hey..." Charlie came around Neville and took Neville's hands in his. "Are you feeling alright?"

"Yes. Um, nervous is all."

"Is this about your drunken—"

"Please don't bring that up. I'm feeling embarrassed as it is."

"There's no need to be embarrassed." Charlie walked closer still and raised Neville's hands to his lips and kissed them. "I have been thinking about what you said. We were both inebriated. But I'd like to take you to dinner. See if there's something between us."

"You're already kissing my hands," Neville noted with a smile. He was still gently trembling.

Charlie let go of Neville's hands and placed his hands on Neville's waist. He pushed Neville's head against the counter and kissed him. Neville dared to respond similarly, except his hands untucked Charlie's shirt, and they travelled up to touch Charlie's skin. He'd been wanting to do that forever.

Charlie moaned into Neville's mouth. "If we don't stop—"

"I don't wanna stop."

FIC: The Quiet Game (Ron, Harry, Draco.)

digthewriter — Tue, 07 Apr 2026 18:54:39 GMT

Title: The Quiet Game
Creator(s): digthewriter
Wordcount/length: 4200
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Dark!Ron
Pairing: Harry/Draco. Ron. Harry/Draco/Ron (hopeful/open ending.)
Summary: Losing Harry to Draco Malfoy breaks something in him. It begins as jealousy until he learns how to turn trust into strategy.

(Read Here.)

a bee (neville, gen)

digthewriter — Tue, 31 Mar 2026 00:09:26 GMT

Title: A Bee
Author: digthewriter
Pairing: Neville
Word Count: 100
Rating: G
Challenge:NEVILLE100 "POLLEN"
A/N: Unbetaed.

Neville Longbottom lingered in the garden long after the others had gone inside. The afternoon was warm, and the flowers were open wide to the sun.

He bent carefully toward a bright yellow bloom, studying the soft cluster at its center. When he touched it, pollen dusted his fingers like golden powder.

Neville lifted his hand to the light, fascinated by the tiny grains clinging to his skin. It felt important somehow.

A bee hummed lazily nearby, and he stepped back at once, not wanting to interrupt its work. Still, he smiled, certain the garden trusted him today.

How lucky.

[ART] Coffee Date - extravaganza

digthewriter — Fri, 13 Mar 2026 02:33:02 GMT

Title: Coffee Date - extravaganza
Created by: digthewriter
Fandom/Pairing: HP / CHARLIE/NEVILLE
Rating: G
A/N: JMDC MARCH 2026: COFFEE OR TEA. Have fun.

FIC: What ifs and the world we live in.

digthewriter — Wed, 18 Feb 2026 20:29:33 GMT

Draco Malfoy, a quiet and insecure potioneer who feels out of place with his coworkers, is suddenly thrown into a parallel universe where he is everything he wishes he could be. Stuck between that world and his real one, he starts to notice things about himself and Harry Potter that only make everything more confusing.

CHAPTER 1.

(ART): covert operatives to boring dads (back in action)

digthewriter — Tue, 03 Feb 2026 15:54:28 GMT

Title: covert operatives to boring dads (back in action)
Artist: digthewriter
Pairing: HARRY/DRACO
FEST: LCD-DRARRY 2025
Rating: G
Warnings: Kidnapping
Notes: I watched this film with my family and I thought it'd be a funny little drarry thing. I hope you like it. It's "Back in Action" on US NETFLIX w/ Cameron Diaz and Jamie Foxx
Summary: Harry and Draco are parents to an adopted Muggleborn Meera and Teddy. They live a quiet life, until the past comes knocking.

muggle technology ftw (neville/charlie)

digthewriter — Tue, 03 Feb 2026 15:35:53 GMT

Title: Muggle Technology FTW
Author: digthewriter
Pairing: Neville/Charlie
Word Count: 100
Rating: G
Challenge:NEVILLE100 |Prompt 582: Cottage
A/N: Unbetaed.

Neville and Charlie cuddled on the sofa watching the episode of Heated Rivalry. When Rozanov declared he was "coming to the cottage," Charlie shrieked and Neville nearly cried.

They were glad they'd finally listened to Harry to get Muggle technology so they could enjoy Muggle entertainment. The show'd come with huge reviews; everyone in the wizarding world was too excited.

There were even many straight men discussing the Muggle show on wizarding-wireless. Queer culture was celebrated more in the wiarding world than the Muggle, still, it was sweet to see such romance and representation.

They looked forward to second season.

Magically Managed Meals & Homegoods

digthewriter — Wed, 28 Jan 2026 00:10:44 GMT

Title: Magically Managed Meals & Homegoods (ao3 link)
Creator: digthewriter
Rating: TEEN
Warnings/Content Notes: NA. Unless you count: banter and fluff.
Summary:Draco Malfoy runs a magical grocery service and quietly takes over Harry Potter’s account after noticing his poor eating habits. Through customised deliveries and handwritten notes, they begin an unspoken exchange—until Harry figures it out.
Word Count: 5750
Creator’s Notes: I didn't go for a Mature/Explicit rating for this fic b/c I wanted this to be a feel-good story that could be enjoyed by all audiences. I hope you like it. A big piece of my heart is in this story.

Chapter 1: The Sad Sandwich.

It was 2016, and yes, even the wizarding world had apps now. Blame the next generation, half of whom had grown up around Muggle technology and saw no reason not to blend the two. Enchanted mobiles had quietly become standard in progressive circles—faster than owls, safer than parchments, and far more discreet during office hours. Even the Ministry had begun to issue them.

Harry barely remembers the last time he's eaten a proper meal. The day slips away in a blur of endless meetings, reports, and crises demanding his attention. When he finally meets Ron and Hermione at the park for lunch, the fresh air does little to lift the exhaustion weighing him down. His stomach grumbles quietly beneath his cloak, a dull ache settling in his temples. As he sits on the bench between them, both exchange worried glances, their smiles tight and uneasy. Ron nudges his sandwich forward with an unspoken plea, while Hermione's eyes hold a mixture of frustration and concern.

"I've got my own lunch," Harry says quietly. "It's cold, but I packed it." He glances down at the wrapped sandwich, feeling a flicker of guilt.

They don't say it outright, but Harry can feel their concern: he looks exhausted, someone who's forgotten how to care for himself.

"Let me see your mobile," Hermione says, reaching for his phone with no-nonsense tone she always uses. Before he can protest, she's already installed an app. "Order from here now on."

Harry doesn't care for apps. Or schedules. Or anything resembling a functional adult life. But Mmmh is everywhere now—Magically Managed Meals & Homegoods. Everyone from Ron to Neville to Hermione has told him to try it.

"It's idiot-proof," Ron says once, munching on a sandwich that has magically appeared on his desk, his name spelt into the bread. "You fill out a profile, list your preferences, and the groceries appear on your doorstep. Sometimes hot."

"It's like a nanny with a wand," Hermione adds, a little too approvingly.

After eating stale toast and jam for the fourth night in a row, Harry gives in.

Draco considers Ron Weasley's orders a personal affront to the concept of food. They arrive like clockwork every Tuesday morning: crisps, four variations of sandwich ingredients, an alarming amount of fizzy pumpkin soda, and whatever dessert is trending that week. No vegetables unless Granger's name is on the joint account.

One afternoon, a house-elf slips Draco a note: "Master Weasley's orders are causing some distress among the packing elves. The food is often untouched, and several have complained of indigestion after deliveries."

Draco, ever the perfectionist, tries once to intervene, swapping in a balanced meal kit filled with fresh vegetables and protein. The result is immediate and brutal: Weasley leaves a one-star review titled "WHERE ARE MY SNACKS."

Since then, Draco hasn't bothered interfering. Instead, he quietly adds a complimentary antacid potion to Weasley's box each week and moves on with his life.

🛒🍎🥕🍞🍲🧁

Granger's orders are immaculate. Draco would never admit it aloud, but hers are the only ones he finds genuinely satisfying to process. She uses complete sentences in the "Notes" field. She cross-references ingredients with upcoming moon phases, potion brew days, and allergy seasons. Her produce is always seasonal.

She leaves thank-you messages for the delivery elves. Once, she caught a rare mislabel on a turmeric root and submitted a polite, detailed bug report; with citations.

Draco upgraded her user level to "Priority Gold" and personally annotated her preferences with a respectful "Do not touch. Perfect." She's never noticed, of course. Or maybe she has, and is just too smugly efficient to say anything. That's the thing with Granger—she doesn't gloat, exactly. Still, there's a quiet satisfaction in the way she does everything correctly on the first try, as if the rest of the world simply lacks the discipline to function correctly. Draco respects her systems. He also occasionally dreams of sabotaging her meal prep calendar just to watch her recalibrate in real time.

Chapter 2: Delivery with a Side of Feelings.

Draco never planned to be a businessman, and he certainly never intended to become a caregiver. After stepping away from the toxic expectations of the Malfoy legacy, he wanted something practical—something he could control. The wizarding world was changing, but many witches and wizards still struggled with everyday tasks, such as grocery shopping, especially those who juggled demanding jobs, complicated family lives, or ongoing health issues.

When Draco learned about the growing need for reliable magical delivery—particularly during harsh winters and chaotic times—he saw an opportunity. He quietly partnered with a group of innovative half-blood developers. He began building Mmmh (Magically Managed Meals & Homegoods): a discreet, efficient, and slightly elegant grocery service. Initially, it was just a business venture, a clever way to stay busy and generate a profit. But as he sifted through customer data and saw the real struggles of real people reflected in their orders, something shifted.

He became invested—not just in the system, but in the people. He took on the role of Experience Director, though most assumed he was just a silent partner. What they didn't know was that he personally read reviews, flagged patterns of concern, and managed a quiet "care watchlist." He told himself it was about quality control. In reality, he checked the review board obsessively.

He didn't intervene with everyone. Just the ones who bothered him. The ones who clearly weren't coping. The ones who typed "Just send whatever" too many times in a row.

When he decides to "take on" an account, he activates Care Mode—a hidden backend function that lets him override selections, assign priority packing, and leave handwritten notes.

Mmmh may have started as a convenience service. But for Draco, it's become something else entirely.

The delivery side of Mmmh runs like a well-oiled wand. There are six house-elves on staff, each with their own region and area of expertise. They're properly contracted and fairly compensated—something Granger insisted upon, naturally, and Draco didn't bother arguing. Cippa manages the high-altitude rural zones, including dragon reserves, where most others wouldn't dare set foot. Ninny is unmatched when it comes to urban Floo deliveries. And Wibs, bless her, has the gentlest magical signature Draco's ever measured—ideal for newborn care packages and anything with delicate enchantments.

As for delivery methods, clients can choose a traditional Floo drop if their address is registered, a direct elf pop-in (if they've given permission), or owl-alert pickup—for people with too many wards or trust issues (see: Percy Weasley). Lavender Brown also prefers owls, ever since her wards went wild during a full moon and redirected a delivery into her pond, and, more importantly, because her transformed self once accidentally bit a house-elf who popped in unannounced.

Technically, customers can't contact Draco directly. Most don't even realise it's his business, and he prefers it that way. Still, he keeps a close eye on the backend. He reads every flagged review—"too spicy," "felt oddly comforting," "is someone reading my mind?"—as well as all magical interference reports, where ambient magic in a household alters the order mid-route. Repeat substitutions also draw his attention. Occasionally, a house-elf will scribble something more personal in the log—"Customer did not eat last week's meals. All rotted. Sent extra comfort food." That's usually when Draco steps in and takes over the account himself. It's not scalable. It's wildly inefficient. But he tells himself it's still part of the job.

🛒🍎🥕🍞🍲🧁

Draco always glanced at Pansy Parkinson's orders out of a mild, habitual concern. After all, she never complained, and her notes were terse enough to suggest she didn't fuss over details. It's the kind of order that suggests someone who knows exactly what she wants and isn't interested in fuss. Draco respects that—and sometimes wonders if her steadiness is the anchor that keeps her afloat more than she lets on.

But recently, something caught his attention: subtle changes in her requests. The usual rich cheeses and decadent desserts had been joined by lighter, fresher ingredients—bright tomatoes, basil, and even a sudden surge in sporty, energy-boosting snacks.

Curiosity piqued, Draco began to dig deeper, cross-referencing delivery times, ingredient lists, and occasional coded notes left by house-elves involved in packing. Patterns emerged. The deliveries often coincided with late evening practices, and the meals seemed designed for someone active, someone who needed nourishment after physical exertion.

Piecing together these clues, Draco uncovered the quiet truth: Pansy was dating someone—Ginny Weasley, a professional Quidditch player. The discovery made him pause. He wasn't sure whether to feel intrigued or mildly scandalised by the pairing. Still, one thing was clear: Pansy's orders weren't just about herself anymore. They were about caring for someone else, and Draco found himself watching their quietly evolving relationship through the changes in grocery lists with unexpected interest.

Chapter 3: The House-Elf Intervention

Harry learns about the app: The Mmmh app has both a magical interface—accessible through a small charmed mirror or fireplace glyph—and a Muggle-style phone version, thanks to their half-blood developers. It asks for a magical signature the first time you log in. Then it runs you through the basics:

+ Dietary restrictions?
+ Food allergies?
+ Preferred spice level?
+ How many meals a day do you actually eat vs. wish you ate?

Harry clicks through with the grace of someone filling out Auror paperwork: minimal effort, maximum avoidance. He ticks Low-effort, Minimal prep, and Don't care, just feed me on most options. For his favourite meals, he types 'toast'. Then immediately regrets it but doesn't go back.

He figures the deliveries will be impersonal. Automated. Basic.

He's wrong.

He's used to the groceries arriving without much fuss—boxes and bags left quietly on his doorstep, delivered by one of the six Mmmh house-elves who know their routes like clockwork. He barely notices them, except for the occasional polite nod or quick Good day.

But one afternoon, as he reaches to take a crate from the smallest elf—Wibs, the one with the softest magic touch—he catches her hesitating.

"Master Potter," Wibs says quietly, glancing around as if someone might overhear. "If I may speak plainly, it is... concerning. Your orders. They are not enough. Not for one who carries so much."

Harry blinks. "I'm fine, Wibs. I eat when I can."

She shakes her head, her large eyes serious. "No, sir. We see the boxes returned untouched, the milk sour before opening. You are the Saviour. The elves care for you. But the body must be kept strong, or how can the mind carry the burden?"

Harry feels a pang of guilt but shrugs. "I don't have time. I have other things to worry about."

His mind immediately drifts elsewhere—there are Aurors to manage, Ministry politics to navigate, and staff to keep in line. He ensures that everyone gets their holidays and that no one is pushed too hard. Just last week, he covered for a pregnant colleague who went into early labour; there were papers to sign, shifts to reassign, and temp workers to brief. His days are a constant juggling act, putting out fires and making sure others are cared for. When is there ever time for himself?

He tells himself he's taking care of himself, at least in part, by ordering the food. If he doesn't have time to eat it, that's not his fault. There are only so many hours in a day.

Wibs's ears droop slightly, but she stands firm. "I have sent reports to the management. I trust they will understand the gravity."

🛒🍎🥕🍞🍲🧁

Neville Longbottom's orders are chaotic in intention, meticulous in execution. He starts with an unfiltered scroll of ideas—"Maybe something with nettles?" or "He said he liked the spicy one last week"—and then spends half an hour pruning the list until it reads like a garden in late summer: abundant, deliberate, full of things that shouldn't go together but somehow do. Draco always knows when Neville's had a rough day; the number of jams triples. There's always tea. There's always a side of burn balm or healing salve, quietly reordered each time without being requested. And once a month, there's a note asking for extra protein-heavy snacks—"He forgets to eat when he's focused."

Chapter 4: Care Mode: Activated

Draco Malfoy sits in the quiet control room of Mmmh headquarters, a stack of reports and customer data glowing softly on his screens. Emotional appeals aren't his style, never have been. Yet, as the notes from Wibs filter in—concerned, urgent—and the statistical red flags on Harry Potter's account keep flashing, something tightens in his chest.

The Saviour doesn't take care of himself.

It's not just negligence. It's a quiet self-sacrifice that Draco finds unbearable to witness.

That evening, with a steadying breath, he activates Care Mode on Potter's account.

THE CARE MODE:

Mmmh is built with layers—most users never glimpse the deeper functions. But Draco codes a significant part of the system himself. It isn't part of the plan. He joins as a silent partner, expecting a straightforward investment and a way to keep busy after stepping away from the family fortune.

Then he sees the data. The sad, sparse orders. The empty carts week after week. The notes saying, "No need for this week," repeated three times in a row. His anger grows. And then something shifts. He gets involved.

He creates a hidden feature—Care Mode—buried deep under developer permissions. It allows staff to override customer inputs in a gentle and intelligent manner. Initially intended for elderly witches or distracted new parents, Draco manually switches it on for only one person: Harry James Potter.

He tells himself it's about nutrition. About decency. About proving a point. Then, sometimes, he starts leaving notes.

From that day forward, Potter's deliveries underwent a change. Not drastically at first, but enough to make a difference. The plain oat-bars become crumbly ginger-orange treats. The bland, watery milk transforms into creamy "Wandwhisked Whole." And on one quiet delivery, a carefully folded note appears inside the basket:

"You can't save everyone if you're burning yourself out. Consider this a ceasefire on self-neglect."

🛒🍎🥕🍞🍲🧁

Charlie Weasley's orders look like someone dared a dragon to cook. Smoked meats, fireproof packaging, and spices in illegal quantities. If it comes with a warning label, Charlie wants three. Draco used to think it was overcompensating—typical Weasley bravado—but then he noticed the minor corrections over time. Healthier oils. Cooling herbs tucked in beside the combustibles. Meals made in double portions and labelled "Can be reheated later if he's working late." His lists are short, mostly instinctual, but he never forgets the chamomile. Draco doesn't ask questions. However, he does flag the order every week, just to ensure it's packed with care.

Chapter 5: Who and Why?

Harry doesn't notice the first change.

He'd been running late for a briefing and barely registers his usual plain oat bars have been swapped for something with authentic flavour—ginger and orange zest, crumbly and warm. He eats two and goes on with his day. The second time, the milk is not the watery low-fat kind he always orders, but some creamy glass-bottled nonsense labelled "Wandwhisked Whole." He stares at it for a second, shrugs, and pours it into his tea. It's better. He drinks three cups.

But by the fifth delivery, Harry starts to feel... watched.

It isn't anything overt. The substitutions are always thoughtful, but border on being invasive. His sleep tea has been upgraded to something called "Night Cloak"—soothing, with a silencing charm baked in. The bread is no longer store-brand but fresh, crusty, and spiked with herbs. When he forgets to add vegetables, a full tray of pre-chopped ones appears, labelled: "Just heat. No excuses."

At first, he assumes it's just some Mmmh worker doing their job a little too well. But then the notes start coming.

First:
"Protein, Potter. For Merlin's sake."

Then:
"You forgot sugar. Again. No one survives on toast and shame."

And finally, scrawled on a box of luxury eggs: "These are spelt to stay fresh. No more eating biscuits for dinner."

Harry narrows his eyes. He's seen that handwriting before. It isn't friendly. It isn't neutral. It is pointed. A bit elegant, and deeply judgmental.

He doesn't want to believe it. Why would he be the one behind this?

He digs into his Mmmh account. After three password resets, a minor curse from their anti-hacking protocol, and a very awkward Floo call with Customer Support, he finds it: a line in the account history tagged "Delivery Preferences Managed By: D. Malfoy."

He stares at the screen.

Draco Malfoy.

Of course it is.

Of course, it is him, judging Harry's pantry, redesigning his breakfast, and silently replacing his rubbish instant noodles with something called "Dragonfire Bone Broth" like a passive-aggressive nutritionist with a grudge.

Harry doesn't know whether to laugh or hex something. So he does what he always does when his emotions get too complicated: he goes for a walk.

But not before opening the app.

He scrolls through the settings until he finds the feedback form, the little text box at the bottom that promises Your preferences matter to us!

He types, slowly and deliberately: I do not need curated items. Just stick to what I actually order. Shove off, Malfoy.

He hits send. Then he shoves his phone in his pocket and walks out the door, heart buzzing and stomach a little too empty.

When he gets back, the next box is already there, sitting smugly on his doorstep. Inside: a full prepared meal (some kind of shepherd's pie, bubbling hot), a bottle of butterbeer, and a note.

"You don't take care of yourself. So I'm doing it. Deal with it. —D.M."

There is a P.S. "Also, don't try to block me on the app. I coded around it."

Harry stands there for a long moment, holding the pie in one hand and the note in the other.

Then he carries both inside and invites Hermione and Ron over for dinner.

🛒🍎🥕🍞🍲🧁

Molly Weasley's orders say precisely what you'd expect, and a bit more if you know how to look.

Her cart is a masterclass in efficiency, warmth, and barely restrained chaos. She orders in bulk: flour by the sack, potatoes by the dozen, enough eggs to feed a small army. Her list also includes rotating stocks of pantry staples, magical cleaning supplies, and several jars of homemade preserves that she insists on sending back through the system for proper labelling. There are always family-size meal kits, stews and roasts that stretch over multiple days, and enough tea to fuel every emotional conversation in the country.

But underneath the practicality, there are softer tells.

She always adds a few extras meant for others, treats "for Arthur at the shed," children's biscuits even though all her children are grown, and special headache draughts "in case Percy forgets to order again." There are bath oils, too, and hand creams she pretends not to care about. Every so often, a bundle of brightly coloured yarn shows up on the order, always the softest kind.

Draco thinks of her as the kind of person who feeds others to show her love, but also to prevent saying things she'd regret. Her orders are the written form of fussing: attentive, over-prepared, maybe just a bit too much. But they never stop coming. Not even when no one's home.

Chapter 6: The Szechuan Peppercorns Incident.

A week later, when Potter stops objecting to Draco's add-ons, Draco begins to notice subtle changes in his orders. At first, it is simple meal kits with quick recipes, just enough to make a proper dinner. But something is off. The portions seem too generous, the variety too broad. It feels like Potter has started ordering for two.

Over time, the orders become bolder. Potter begins requesting rare ingredients that are clearly intended for restaurant-quality meals. Draco recognises the pattern. It is almost identical to the way Pansy's orders shifted when she started seeing someone. The changes are subtle at first. Then they become unmistakable.

Potter is entertaining company.

A knot forms in Draco's throat. He always takes quiet satisfaction in noticing when his customers' habits shift, especially when it means they are doing better. But with Potter, it feels different.

Why does he care?

He tells himself it is a matter of professional curiosity. That he simply likes patterns, and Potter's sudden departure from his usual sad bachelor fare has disrupted the data. But that isn't it. Not really. Draco knows the rhythm of Potter's life better than he should have. He's mapped it out through order logs, timestamps, substitutions, and silent returns. And now it is shifting. Someone else has entered the pattern. Someone is being cooked for, sitting across from Potter at dinner, and laughing, probably, over glasses of whatever wine Draco reluctantly curated from the special request list. The thought leaves something cold lodged behind his ribs.

Eventually, Draco hands Potter's account back to Wibs.

There is no point in being invested. No point in getting worked up over spice levels, side dishes, and the question of who else might be eating them. It isn't personal. It can't be personal. Draco has other clients, other responsibilities, and far more pressing matters to attend to than keeping tabs on Harry Potter's tomato selections, like some pathetic, apron-clad stalker.

Wibs accepts the reassignment without comment, though she gives him a look. It isn't pity, exactly. Just knowing. He ignores it.

This is better. Professional. Clean. He tells himself he isn't checking the logs anymore. He tells himself he doesn't notice when Potter's order skips a week, or when Wibs adds an extra dessert without being asked. He tells himself plenty of things.

Harry starts to notice that the Malfoy touch is missing from his orders.

At first, he orders extra ingredients because he's practising cooking for two. He wants to become better, not just at eating well, but at living well. Cooking gives him a sense of control he rarely feels in his day-to-day life. This quiet ritual doesn't involve paperwork, patrols, or putting out other people's fires. On his days off, he pulls out recipes, rolls up his sleeves, and cooks up a storm. He starts small—simple pastas, roasted vegetables, and soups that don't come from a can. Eventually, he begins inviting friends over to taste the results. Ginny and Pansy come by more than once, offering blunt but helpful feedback and sometimes bringing wine that makes everything taste better.

At some point, Harry starts paying attention to what Malfoy likes. Not in an obvious way—just subtle things he picks up from the app, the notes, the ingredient lists that arrive with surprising intuition. He practises those dishes quietly until he can make them perfectly. He tells himself it's for a reason: he wants to cook a thank-you dinner for Malfoy. A proper one. Because it's Malfoy's quiet insistence—his interference, really—that nudges Harry into developing healthier habits, he sleeps better now. Eats better. Takes a bit more care with his days.

It's the least he can do. That's what he tells himself, anyway.

But then the order fills start to feel colder. More mechanical. Somewhere between the missing ginger biscuits and the impersonal substitutions, Harry stops bothering. He quits ordering fancy ingredients, as a test. Stops trying new recipes. The half-planned thank-you dinner never makes it to parchment.

He doesn't expect anyone to notice.

So when Draco Malfoy appears at his front door one evening—visibly annoyed and holding a clipboard of all things—Harry can only blink.

"What," Draco says, voice sharp and unreadable, "exactly happened to the Szechuan peppercorns and the hand-stretched noodles?"

Wibs flags the account again.

Draco is in the middle of reviewing quarterly spell-failure rates when the alert pings—subtle, polite, and downright infuriating. He ignores it at first. Harry Potter is no longer his problem. He handed the account back weeks ago and told himself (with conviction) that he doesn't care what the man does with his spice rack.

But Wibs leaves a note in the internal log: "Customer no longer orders ingredients that previously brought joy. The pattern resembles depressive withdrawal. Please advise."

Draco stares at the line far longer than he should.

It's not just the ingredients, though; the sudden disappearance of Szechuan peppercorns and hand-stretched noodles is a borderline culinary tragedy. It's the whole shift. The lack of adventure. The retreat back to "toast and tea, no prep, no mess." It's not just regression. It's giving up.

Something inside him twists.

He doesn't send a note. He doesn't activate Care Mode. He apparates.

When Potter opens the door, he looks startled. And tired. And like someone who's forgotten what a good meal tastes like.

Draco holds up the clipboard, deadpan.

"What," he says, voice sharp and unreadable, "exactly happened to the Szechuan peppercorns and the hand-stretched noodles?"

"Why did you stretch them yourself?" Potter asks, looking amused.

Draco narrows his eyes. "Because the pre-packaged ones are a disgrace to the entire culinary tradition, and Wibs was busy."

Potter leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, clearly enjoying himself. "You realise that's not a normal answer, right?"

Draco refuses to be baited. "And yet, it's the correct one."

There's a pause. A flicker of something quieter crosses Potter's face—fondness, maybe. Or guilt. Draco doesn't want to look too closely.

"I was going to cook you something," Potter says, softer now. "To say thank you. But you stopped… whatever it was you were doing."

Draco looks down at the clipboard, suddenly feeling absurd. He hasn't planned this conversation. Hasn't planned any of it.

"Well," he says finally, "start again."

Potter turns to him with that maddening half-smile. "Would you like to stay for dinner?"

Draco raises an eyebrow, glancing around as they stand just inside the threshold. The place is quiet, still holding onto the warmth of the day. "You haven't got any ingredients."

Potter's grin deepens, something secret sparking behind his eyes. "I've got a few surprises up my sleeve."

Before Draco can ask what that really means, Potter holds out his hand. There's no demand in the gesture—just an open invitation. And against better judgment, Draco takes it. Potter's hand is warm, his grip steady. Familiar in a way that shouldn't be possible.

They step inside together, and Potter gently shuts the door behind them, the soft click strangely final.

Then, in a voice that barely carries, Potter asks, "Malfoy, can I kiss you on the cheek?"

Draco freezes, uncertain. It's ridiculous, really—he's faced curses and war and loss, but this quiet, gentle question rattles him. Still, he nods, the movement stiff. "All right."

Potter leans in, slow and careful, and presses the briefest kiss to Draco's cheek. It's nothing, and somehow it's everything. Draco doesn't breathe.

"Thank you," Potter murmurs.

Draco blinks, turning to him. "For what?"

Potter's smile returns, softer this time. "Let me show you."

He doesn't release Draco's hand; instead, he gives it a slight tug, leading him toward the kitchen. And Draco lets himself be led, his heart doing something strange and traitorous in his chest.

🛒🍎🥕🍞🍲🧁

Luna Lovegood's grocery order reads more like a riddle than a list.

It changes every week—not in quantity, but in mood. One order will include twelve types of edible flowers, three varieties of seaweed, and "eggs only if they're from happy chickens." The next might be made entirely of things in shades of blue. She regularly adds items that don't exist in the catalogue ("moon-milk, bottled during a waning phase"; "crystallised thoughts, unsweetened") and somehow they still end up in her delivery, thanks to Wibs and her unusually flexible interpretation of "fulfilled order."

She never requests the same bread twice. She includes fruits that are out of season, and somehow they arrive anyway. Her cart is full of teas for every mood—some calming, some energising, some labelled only with single words like truth, dreaming, or arrival. She always orders extra mushrooms and leaves little thank-you charms embedded in her returns, which the elves collect quietly and keep in a special drawer. Draco doesn't interfere with Luna's order. He knows better. But he reads it every week as if it were a poem.

She's the only Customer who once submitted a review in the form of a haiku. It made no sense. It also made perfect sense.

Chapter 7: Handwritten spice notes.

And now Draoc's here, sitting at Harry Potter's kitchen table, watching him serve a meal that smells… comforting. Fragrant and warm, like something that's been simmering all day, even if it hasn't.

"Daal," Harry says, setting down a bowl. "And chapati. I made the mango and lime pickle a few days ago—it keeps well." He looks almost sheepish. "The Patil sisters told me it's a pretty normal dinner for most households in India. So I figured… I'd try it."

Draco watches the steam curl from the lentils, the soft glisten of ghee, the folded stack of chapatis under a tea towel. It's simple. It's humble. And yet it feels richer than anything he's eaten in ages. The mango pickle is sharp and bright against the earthy daal, and the bread is imperfect in shape but warm and full of intention.

He hasn't been invited to dinner in a very long time. Not like this. Not to a table set for two without fuss. Not by someone who learned how to cook this meal because, in a roundabout way, Draco made sure he had the ingredients.

Draco picks up another chapati and tears it gently, letting his fingers brush Harry's when he reaches for the bowl. "This is amazing," he says, meaning it. "You've done something really special."

Harry shrugs, but there's colour in his cheeks. "It's just dinner."

But it's not. It's care. It's history. It's Draco tasting something that's both foreign and familiar, and realising that, somewhere between pantry substitutions and quiet notes tucked into baskets, something in both of them has changed.

He doesn't say anything more. Just eats slowly, gratefully. And when Harry nudges over the last piece of bread, Draco takes it like it's the most natural thing in the world.

Because, now, it is.

They kiss in the kitchen, just once at first—slow, unsure, with flour on Harry's knuckles and mango pickle on Draco's breath. It doesn't need a speech or a declaration. It just happens, as if it were always going to. Afterwards, they sit back down to finish their meal, acting as if nothing's changed, except now Harry can't stop smiling into his daal.

A week later, Harry invites him over again. And again after that. It becomes a quiet routine: Draco appears with wine and half a dozen opinions; Harry rolls his eyes and starts chopping garlic. Somewhere in the middle of it all, a rhythm forms.

Draco, who thinks he's being subtle, begins slipping "suggestions" into Harry's grocery orders. A jar of curry leaves. A spice blend not typically stocked in the pantry. Paneer wrapped in ice charms with a note: "This one's hard to get fresh. Do your best." Harry notices immediately and pretends he doesn't. He just adds it to the meal plan and waits to see Draco's delighted, guarded smile when he finds out.

They try Navratan Korma one weekend and Chicken Marsala the next. Harry's cooking has improved—noticeably—and even the elves at Mmmh have started quietly including little extras when they know it's for "date night." His pantry is full. His fridge is full. His house feels full, too.

Harry looks better. Everyone says so. His hair is still a mess, but he's no longer showing up to the Ministry with half-eaten toast and dark circles under his eyes. His work is steady. His magic feels lighter. Even the temp in Level Seven called him "cheerful," which made Hermione stare at him like he'd sprouted another head.

Ron, for his part, is annoyed that Harry no longer brings leftovers to game night. "I thought we were mates," he grumbles, picking at a sad takeaway carton. "You used to share." Harry shrugs and smiles. "You're not dating the chef."

Hermione, on the other hand, is delighted. She keeps floating the idea of a dinner party. "You, Draco, all of us—it'd be lovely," she says with too much hope in her voice. But Harry isn't ready yet. Not quite. He still likes having Draco to himself in the quiet. Sharing bites of roasted okra straight from the pan. Listening to him talk about the Mmmh delivery algorithm while curled up on the sofa under a shared blanket. Finding lip gloss marks on the edge of Draco's wineglass because apparently that's what he wears when he cooks.

Draco never officially moves in. But he starts leaving a book here, a scarf there. A toothbrush appears one day. And Harry never asks him to take anything back. Some nights, they don't even cook. They just reheat leftovers, light a candle for the sake of pretending, and sit in comfortable silence. It's simple. It's good. It's perfection.

Every week, the order arrives—always packed with care, always with something extra tucked in like affection folded into a brown paper bag. And tucked inside one of Harry's cookbooks now lives Draco's handwriting in the margins, neat and slanted.

Little notes. Quiet evidence. A kind of love, written between recipes.

🛒🍎🥕🍞🍲🧁

According to Draco, Harry's cart stops being sad.

Gone are the default settings and the "just feed me" clicks. Now it's filled with things that take time and ingredients that require marinating, kneading, stirring. Fresh herbs replace powdered spice blends. He starts ordering two of everything, without hesitation. Not because he's unsure, but because Draco is a given now. Someone to cook for. Someone to cook with.

There are kits for Sunday breakfasts that take all morning to prepare and five minutes to eat. There are fancy tinned olives Draco likes to argue about, and dark chocolate Harry pretends not to enjoy, even though he always finishes half the bar. There's wine, but only the dry kind. Draco drinks with a furrowed brow and a muttered opinion.

Sometimes Harry's orders includes handwritten notes in the "special requests" field:

+ He's had a rough week. Add something comforting.

+ Can I get the good cheese again? Not the squeaky one.

+ Whatever you gave us last time—he smiled. More of that.

Wibs reads them all and beams. Draco pretends not to, but the corner of his mouth gives him away.

Harry's pantry is complete now, and so is his life.

art: almost brave (harry/draco)

digthewriter — Tue, 20 Jan 2026 23:41:13 GMT

Title: almost brave
Created by: digthewriter
Fandom/Pairing: harry/draco
Rating: G
Summary: Burnt out and tired of pretending, Harry tries something new—being real, even when it’s hard. He doesn’t know Draco’s doing the same, or that it might lead somewhere neither of them expected.
A/N: Created for hd-hurtcomfort-fest 2025.

FIC: A Solicitor for Viktor

digthewriter — Tue, 20 Jan 2026 23:23:53 GMT

Title: A Solicitor for Viktor
Created by: digthewriter
Fandom/Pairing: HP: Krum/Percy Weasley
Rating: PG-13
Warnings/Content: Alternate Universe
Summary: Clueless about legal matters, Viktor turns to a solicitor for help, and finds Percy Weasley stepping into his life.
A/N: Originally for the HP SOULMATES SECRET SANTA 2025 (Where my recipient didn't even comment. LOL)

It had been five years since Viktor Krum left Quidditch behind.

He had no wish for crowds, or flashing cameras, or gossip. He bought a small cottage in a quiet wizarding village in Dorset, close to the sea, with a big garden and too many birds. The neighbours mostly kept to themselves, which suited him fine. He liked his peace.

Until old Mr Barrow moved next door.

The man hated Viktor's beehives, calling them "unnatural things," and kept complaining that the bees came to his roses. Then one morning, Viktor found the hives knocked over, honey spilling over the grass. He had shouted at Barrow, and Barrow shouted back, saying Viktor's "foreign insects" had attacked him.

And before Viktor could even blink, an owl from the local council came with notice of a magical nuisance complaint.

He hadn't a clue what to do. He could fight a Bludger flying around his head, but legal forms? He didn't have the patience. So he went to the little solicitor's office by the post, hoping for someone who could help.

That was how Percy Weasley walked into his life.

++

Percy had left the Ministry the year before. After too many endless regulations, long days filled with arguing with people who refused to listen, and evenings spent buried in paperwork, he decided he wanted simpler work. Something more grounded, more tangible. He trained as a solicitor and set up a modest office in Dorset, taking on small wizarding cases: land disputes, minor magical creature licences, property claims, that sort of thing. The work was slower, calmer, and allowed him to actually see the results of his efforts.

When Viktor walked in that morning, Percy nearly dropped his quill.

"Good heavens," he said before he could stop himself. "You're Viktor Krum."

Viktor shifted in the chair, uncomfortable and stiff, the wood creaking beneath him. "Yes. But not… not for Quidditch. Only for bees now."

Percy raised his brows and smiled faintly. "Bees, you say?"

"Yes," Viktor said quietly. "It's good for honey. Also… it calms me."

Percy tried to hide a grin. The famous Seeker, soothed by bees. Who would have thought? "And how may I help?"

Viktor handed him the council notice, a folded parchment with neat writing. "My neighbour says bees attack him. I think he attack bees first."

Percy read through the document carefully, his brows lifting. "This is a formal nuisance claim, yes. Easily defended if you've got the right permits."

"I have," Viktor said quickly, almost anxiously. "But he says I keep dark bees. What is even?"

Percy coughed into his hand, fighting a laugh. "Nothing at all. Some people just like to complain. Truly."

Viktor nodded, frowning in that slow, serious way that made him look impossibly tall and serious at once. "Yes. He is… what is word… cranky?"

"Cranky will do," Percy said, smiling again. "Very cranky, by the looks of it."

++

Over the next few weeks, Percy visited Viktor's cottage several times to gather information, check property lines, and speak with the local inspector. Each visit took longer than it should.

At first, they talked about the case. Then they talked about Quidditch, about the Ministry, about the sea, and the weather. Viktor made strong tea that tasted like smoke, and Percy drank it politely, even when it burned his tongue.

One afternoon, Percy stood in the garden while Viktor showed him the hives. The bees drifted lazily around them.

"They're lovely," Percy said honestly.

"They are stubborn," Viktor said. "But they work. Never stop. I like that."

Percy glanced at him. "That sounds a bit like you."

Viktor looked puzzled, then smiled. "You think I am bee?"

Percy chuckled. "Maybe a rather large one."

Viktor laughed and it startled Percy; deep and warm, echoing through the garden. It had been a long time since Percy had laughed with someone like that, not for work, not out of politeness but because it felt easy.

Viktor wrapped his arm around Percy's shoulder and Percy leaned in. Viktor was warm, strong, and the kind of a wall that Percy knew he could rely on. In the end, they separated and Percy took his leave.

++

The case went to a small hearing before the local wizarding council. Percy prepared everything neatly, as he always did. He even wore his best robes, dark blue with crisp silver trim, though he wished he didn't care quite so much what Viktor thought.

Viktor sat beside him, nervous but still. When Mr Barrow tried to complain about "foreign bees," Percy stood and spoke with calm, precise words. He quoted the proper regulation, section, and line. He pointed out the permits, the protections, and the lack of any actual evidence.

In the end, the council dismissed the complaint.

Outside the chamber, Viktor turned to him with a huge grin. "You are very clever, Percy Weasley."

"Just doing my job," Percy said, though the praise warmed him all the same.

"You make words fight," Viktor said proudly. "Better than broom."

Percy flushed. "Well. Thank you."

Then, before he could think twice, Viktor reached out and hugged him, quick but strong. Percy froze for half a heartbeat, then let himself relax against him. It felt… steady.

Viktor’s fingers threaded through the hair at the back of Percy’s head. Percy caught his breath, and Viktor only buried his nose against Percy's neck. They stayed like that for a long while, not moving, but neither wanting to pull away.

++

After that, Percy found excuses to stay in the village. He told himself it was to check that the neighbour didn't cause more trouble, but honestly, he just wanted to see Viktor again.

They began meeting for tea on Sundays. Sometimes they went walking along the cliffs, talking about silly things; the bees, the Ministry gossip, Viktor's dislike for Floo powder. Percy liked how simple it all felt.

One afternoon, as they watched the sunset turn the sea gold, Viktor said, his words slow and tender, "I sometimes forget how stillness can feel good. You help me remember."

Percy looked down at his hands, "I wasn't sure you'd want the company."

Viktor smiled. "You do not talk too much. That helps."

Percy laughed. "High praise indeed."

Viktor reached for Percy’s hand, and they laced their fingers together, a soft promise between them.

Viktor's eyes warmed. "Also, you listen. That is… rare."

The silence that followed was comfortable. The gulls screeched overhead and, somewhere behind them, the bees hummed.

++

A month later, Percy received an offer from a wizarding firm in London to handle regional contracts. It meant travel; part-time in the city, part-time wherever he liked. He sat in his office staring at the letter, thinking of the sea and the small cottage with its messy garden.

That evening, he walked to Viktor's house.

Viktor was in the garden, mending a frame. "You look serious."

Percy took a breath. "I had an offer. A good one, actually."

Viktor nodded, "You will go to London then."

"I don't want to."

Viktor blinked. "No?"

"No," Percy said softly. "I was thinking… Maybe I could stay here. Work from the village. I'll still travel sometimes, but, well, I could keep my office in town. I like it here. I like… you."

Viktor stared at him for a long moment. "You are sure? Small village, not many… important things."

"I've had enough of important things," Percy said with a crooked smile. "I'd rather have quiet ones."

"Then you stay. Plenty of room here, in cottage. With me. Bees like you."

Percy laughed, a little shaky. "That's a relief."

Viktor stepped closer. "And I like you."

For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. The garden was full of the evening light, golden and tranquil. Percy could feel Viktor's breath, smell the faint smoke and honey that clung to his clothes. Something in him gave way; the worry, the long habit of holding everything in.

He reached out and took Viktor's hand. Their fingers fit together, awkward but certain. Percy let out a small laugh and Viktor's smile widened.

They moved closer. The kind of nearness saying everything without needing to say it aloud. Viktor cupped Percy's face and leaned in first. He didn't ask for permission. Percy parted his lips and allowed Viktor's tongue to slide in. The tender kiss became deeper, needier, more precious. Percy wondered why he hadn't allowed Viktor to do that yet. Why they had waited so long? But at the same time, he knew the timing was just right. He wasn't the one to rush into a relationship and with Viktor, he felt as though he had had something so valuable, he didn't want to mess it up.

Viktor pushed him back and Percy's footsteps moved in the direction Viktor wanted him to go. In a moment's notice, they were in Viktor's bedroom, with the door closed, the windows shut, and Viktor rushed to remove his own clothes, but took his time taking Percy's off.

Percy's body was thrumming with desire and finally, when they were in bed, tangled together, breathing each other in, Percy allowed himself not to just give in but also take. There were times when Viktor laughed as if he didn't know Percy could do that. And other times, he moaned in satisfaction and gratitude.

When it was over, they stayed there, sticky and breathless. Eventually Percy cleaned them up with a spell and Viktor wrapped himself around Percy's body. "You are beautiful."

Percy bit his lower lip and closed his eyes, taking the moment in.

++

A few weeks later, Percy moved into the cottage. He set up a small desk by the window overlooking the hives. When he travelled for work, Viktor sent him jars of honey labelled "For clever solicitor" in wobbly handwriting.

When Percy came home, Viktor always had tea ready; strong, smoky, too sweet; and they'd sit outside watching the bees return to their hives. Sometimes they talked about nothing at all.

One evening, as the sun went down, Percy said, "You know, I used to think I'd never manage to balance work and life."

Viktor smiled, brushing his fingers against Percy's. "Now you have bees to keep you straight."

Percy chuckled. "And a very patient man."

Viktor shrugged. "I am learning patience. Is easy when you are here."

And that was it; no grand declarations, no drama. Just quiet days, shared tea, and lovely evenings by the sea.

Percy sometimes went to London, argued in hearing rooms, quoted long paragraphs of wizarding law. But every time he came back, Viktor was there, waiting at the gate, waving like he'd been counting the days.

As soon as the door shut behind them, Viktor would drop to his knees and worship Percy's body before he became demanding, willing Percy to yield to him. Percy had never allowed anyone to treat him so but what they shared inside and outside the cottage was incomparable.

It wasn't the life Percy had planned, but it was the one he wanted.

++

In the end, the famous Quidditch star and the rule-loving solicitor became something of a story in the village; not the dramatic kind, but the sort people mentioned with fond smiles.

Viktor Krum and Percy Weasley: the beekeeper and the lawyer.

A shy pair, living by the sea, keeping to themselves.

And if you ever passed by their cottage at dusk, you might see them sitting side by side with mugs of tea, listening to the delicate hum of bees; the sound of peace, and the small, stubborn sort of love that grows slow but lasts.

[ART] Quiet Night. Pansy/Hermione

digthewriter — Mon, 12 Jan 2026 21:28:13 GMT

Title: Quiet Night
Created by: digthewriter
Fandom/Pairing: PANSY/HERMIONE. HARRY POTTER
Rating: G
A/N: This month's JMDC prompt is: a quiet evening in for enchanted_jae.

[ART] A Kiss in the Cold | HD ERISED

digthewriter — Sun, 11 Jan 2026 23:11:20 GMT

Title: A Kiss in the Cold
Created by: digthewriter
Fandom/Pairing: HARRY/DRACO
Rating: G
Summary: A first kiss in the winter. Now every kiss reminds them of their first winter together.
A/N: H/D Erised 2025

[art] Passion‑Fueled Interaction (harry/draco)

digthewriter — Sat, 03 Jan 2026 23:23:32 GMT

Title: Passion‑Fueled Interaction
Author/Artist: digthewriter
Tags: Art, Tarot inspired, Passion, Fire, Bold, Relationship, Married, Tarot Reading (Divination Cards)
Summary/Alt text: Illustration of two men in medieval-style clothing standing under an archway, holding a staff together. One wears green and the other wears red and gold. The staff is topped with the Deathly Hallows symbol.

FEST: HD TAROT FEST
Card(s): (33) KNIGHT OF WANDS

Knight of Wands.
Upright: courageous, energetic, charming, hero, rebellious, hot tempered, free spirit.
Reversed: arrogant, reckless, impatient, lack of self control, passive, volatile, domineering.

The Calm in a Small World. BONUS: The Life Together

digthewriter — Sun, 28 Dec 2025 02:11:30 GMT

Title: The Calm in a Small World. BONUS: The Life Together
Created by: digthewriter
WORD COUNT: 110
A/N: PROMPT NO. BONUS: FIREWORKS| For slythindor100 TRADITIONAL 25 DAYS FEST.

"Always worth staying up with you," said Harry.

Harry and Draco, now seventy, moved slowly sometimes but were still warm in their bones.

They loved standing too close in crowds.

They reached the river early and leaned on the railing, scarves brushing, hands already joined.

London felt awake and waiting. The Thames caught the lights and scattered them like coins. Draco adjusted Harry's glove, as always, carefully. Harry watched the boats pass and thought about how they had kept stayed so close always. Loved their children together.

Midnight came in sound and colour. Fireworks burst gold and blue, loud enough to chase the cold away. Draco smiled, familiar and kind.