seleste

On day two of our fest we bring you a beautiful fic inspired by a prompt from @fluerir and set in the stunning Scottish highlands. This fic has it all: Delicious baked goods, inspired potions, meaningful floral arrangements and some top level pining.

💚💚💚

Title: Over the Garden Wall

Rating: Mature

Word count: 17,575

Warnings/Tags: No Archive Warnings Apply, Scottish Highlands, Cottagecore, Gardening, Mutual Pining, Original Spells and Potions, Banter, Flirting, Flower Language, Love Confessions, Miscommunication, Implied Sexual Content, Fluff and Angst, Humour, Drinking

Summary:

Draco did not come to the Highlands to fall in love with Harry Potter.

He came for peace, quiet, and a magical garden full of rare potion ingredients. Instead, he gets Harry Potter in the next cottage over: terrible gardener, excellent baker, devastating wearer of rolled-up sleeves, and the single worst person in Britain for Draco to be trapped beside for the summer.

Author’s note:

Well Fed

@microficmay | chapter 1: NOMAD (prompt 3.1) | wc: 100

Harry’s trembling fingers rested on the doorknob.

It wasn’t home—never had been. The closest, maybe, was when Sirius was alive.

For years, Harry had flitted from place to place: Hermione’s sofa; Bill’s old room in the Burrow; Ron and Pansy’s guest room; countless beds, full of naked limbs and one restless night.

Then he’d come back. He could never stay away for long.

He didn’t belong.

The house hated him, but it clutched tightly. It didn’t want him to leave. It wanted him to rot here. Sometimes he wanted that, too.

He lifted his hand. He’d stay. Just tonight.

@microficmay Prompt: Acrid. WC: 182

"I can't do this anymore." The acrid taste of the words still burned on his tongue as the whisky burned down his throat. The drink had long since stopped doing what it was meant to. Oblivion was a pipedream.

Draco spun the empty bottle on the polished wood table, giving his fingers something to do that wasn't reaching for his mobile.

He knew what he'd find. Texts from Harry. Begging him to reconsider. Raging at him for being an uncaring arsehole. Pictures with random men in various states of undress.

"It's a trauma response," Hermione had said. "He doesn't know how to live a normal life."

"You're well rid of him," Pansy had said. "He doesn't deserve you."

"You can't love him enough for the both of you," Neville had said. "He has to love himself as well."

Draco had thought he could, though. He'd believed his love would be enough to save Harry from himself.

In the end, it hadn't been.

(they don't realise that this is a middle school annual tournament for kids and not the NHL playoffs)

Yuna notices something is wrong because of course she does and together with David they herd Shane into some private empty side room hoping it will help him calm down. But it doesn't. He wont stop shaking and his breathing is too fast and he flinches at their voices even tho nobody is speaking loudly. Won't let Yuna come close to hug him or rub his arm.

Maybe Yuna is starting to panic a little herself, her heart aching as she watches Shane wrap his own arms around himself, hates that she cant do anything when her son is so clearly in distress, hates that she can't seem to think of anything that will work-

When suddenly the door bangs open and Ilya Fucking Rozanov??? strides into the room with quick steps, makes a beeline directly for her son, eyes locked on him like he doesnt even register her and David in the room as well and Yuna opens her mouth to cuss him out, tell him to fuck off and not bother Shane right now, she can feel her body moving already to stand in front of Shane protectively when David grabs her arm because-

Because Rozanov is pulling Shane into his arms, one hand on the back of Shane's neck, guiding his head to press into the crook of Rozanov's neck and Shane isn't fighting it, doesn't flinch from his touch. He goes where Rozanov arranges him and let's himself be held and rocked back and forth gently as Rozanov presses his mouth to Shane's ear and starts whispering something so quietly that Yuna can't really make out the words but what she can see is Shane's shaking subsiding, hands fisting tightly into Rozanov's shirt, his breathing going slowly back to normal because - oh. oh - her son is syncing his breaths with Rozanov who, Yuna realises, is taking very exaggerated deep slow breaths of his own so Shane can match them. And then Rozanov turns slightly while still rocking them both back and forth and Yuna sees Shane's face where it's smushed into Rozanov's neck. Sees the look there.

And that's how Yuna realises her son is in love and the man - his years-long rival - he loves must have left in the middle of his award-winning show to come here and pull her son out of a panic attack like there was no place he'd rather be than right here with Yuna's overwhelmed panicked boy in his arms, soothing him until Shane's body relaxes completely into that hold, mumbling that he's fine yet not pulling away and Rozanov makes no move to let go either.

Harry was cooking with Draco, the ancestral Black magic humming around them. Fright was deep in his bones when they bumped elbows, expecting to receive a blow from a bony hand from 'being in the way'.

None came.

He chopped the vegetables and there was no complaint about the uneven squares, just a kiss on his cheek as Draco began to boil the water for their soup.

“Harry, what the actual fuck!” Hermione whisper-shouted at him, dropping a heavy book on the table that smelled fresh out of the print.

Her husband pressed his lips together beside her, shoulders shaking as he hid behind the café’s menu.

“What?” Harry asked, knowing full well why she was pissed.

“You can’t do that!” Hermione forced out through gritted teeth.

“But you told me I can,” Harry said nonchalantly, a grin tugging at his mouth as he glanced down at the menu, torn between the full English and something sweet.

“Are you kidding me?!” She looked beyond exasperated—teetering on furious. Merlin, this shouldn't be so fun.

Harry leaned back and sipped his tea. “You said the winners write the history books. I won.”

“This is not what I meant and you know it!” She threw her arms up, barely missing the waitress approaching their table.

“Love,” Ron began, lowering the menu just enough to peek over it, “you have to admit this is hilarious.”

“Ronald!” Hermione’s head whipped towards him, hair flipping sharply. “Don’t encourage him!”

“Thanks, mate, you get it.” Harry leaned over to bump Ron’s fist.

Hermione looked ready to flip the table. “Harry!” she tried again, her voice painfully neutral this time. “You can’t just tell an actual historian who interviews you that after the war you started dating Malfoy, of all people! You’re not even gay!”

“I’m bi, Hermione,” Harry deadpanned.

Ron’s brows shot up. “Mate?”

Harry simply shrugged. Maybe he should have told them earlier.

“And you can’t spin this—this fantastical romance story about how you went on some cruise to study sea snakes together and fell in love along the way.”

“But I did go to Australia, didn't I?” Harry said, then looked up at the waitress who hovered nearby. “The continental breakfast, please.”

“That is not the same thing!” Hermione objected, “Harry—focus!”

“I am focusing. I'm hungry,” he said in his defence.

Hermione dragged a hand down her face. “And this utter nonsense about getting married by the Loch Ness Monster?”

“Don’t call her a monster, that’s rude,” Harry deadpanned. “Her name is Nessaltheanora.”

Hermione glowered at him, but didn't dare to suggest that Nessie didn't exist.

“She’s an ancient serpent,” Harry added, “Or, more like a nature spirit or God, depending on who you ask. Perfectly valid officiant for wizards in my book. Or yours, now.” He cheekily patted the book Hermione had brought with her, the evidence of his ‘crimes against science’.

“Mate.” Ron held up a hand, speaking slowly. “You didn’t marry Malfoy, did you?”

Harry pursed his lips. “Not legally.”

for @drarrymicrofic prompt history | 200 words

@drarrymicrofic | prompt: history | wc: 50

The weight of it was enough to make him stoop, some days. He tried to stand tall, but pulled on him like a teeming book-bag. He considered giving in: it was so heavy.