as whatever you want, just come back.

McConnell’s already at the floating gazebo of a pulpit, licking through his papers, mouthing his sermon. The freshly-commissioned aesthetic atrocity of the gold-lacquered bust of Potter looms forebodingly behind him. Occasionally, McConnell interrupts his licking to look back at it, smug, satisfied, accomplished.

It’s not— inaccurate. Except they did away with Potter’s glasses. Under His gaze, McConnell said during the unveiling last week, all worshippers are one. Which, Draco wanted to say, is probably true, given Potter’s blind as a bat without the damn glasses. And the hair: flat, neat, wholly unlike the unmitigated wilderness of the thing itself. And the perfect line of nose, which, look, Draco knows it’s wrong because Potter’s real nose, still out there somewhere, bears the distinct breakline of Draco’s boot. And Potter’s ears, too big for his scrawny, underfed face at school, he didn’t quite grow into them after— and yeah, alright, the bust is an abomination in Potter’s name. But the plaque below, in bold, brass lettering declares OUR SAVIOUR, and OUR SAVIOUR is a polished gold example of the masculine ideal— sharp cheekbones, stern mouth, distinctly misogynistic jawline.

where have you reblogged this, i have questions too

2: if your writing process was a spotify playlist, what would it be called?

surgery without anaesthesia — essential & excruciating

3: as a writer, are you an evil dictator, a ship captain, a trauma dumper, a mad scientist, a carefree hedonist, or a vengeful rogue?

ship captain, i think, always steering & willing to sink. occasionally wish to be a vengeful rogue & very glad to no longer be a trauma dumper

4: which fic do you secretly root for to get the most hits/kudos, etc.?

hmm. this isn't something i really think about, but by process of elimination— not the earlier stuff, obviously, i cringe every time they're acknowledged; not particularly attached to dinner & diatribes, the erised or the non-drarry stuff; i think ebyt does fairly well already for the kind of fic it is & when you unfold me is fine but no favourite.

more eyes, maybe, on it's you? not really for its own sake, i just think i could write something really important to me if i eventually expanded that world, the kind of thing i'd want people to read & care about. & people reading & caring about this sliver would propel me into it faster. and my skinny, wide-eyed, quiet child, nothing to declare here, was never going to be the kind of thing that drew attention, but i'm always happy when someone takes a chance on it, even though it doesn't... give very much.

HI DAD

1: describe your writing style as if it were a bottle of wine

i can't say i could describe an actual bottle of wine if it came down to it but... sweet, concentrated, not very balanced, pairs decently with a dark chocolate dessert after dinner

19: assign each of your fics (or a selection) a liquid

when you unfold me: rainwater on the windscreen; the disoriented blur of light & vision, periodic clarity, tension that anticipates a crash & ebbs, finally, with the driveway in sight

it's you: blood from a chapped lip; small cut, sharp sting, the metallic aftertaste of a fragile thing snapping

nothing to declare here: saline; clean, quiet, simple but necessary

dinner & diatribes: cheap champagne; trite, cloying, sits pretty in a suitably photogenic flute but lacks depth

every breath you take: drool; childlike, helpless, pathetic. embarrassingly vulnerable

this was surprisingly difficult & i really wanted at least one to be kerosene

25: there's a contentious debate among scholars analysing your work— what is it?

are the ideas bigger than the story? (yes)