Potter Drabbles

Kinda the prompt, but also kinda not. Hope you enjoy anyway!

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Most of the time, when Lily says James is an idiot, she doesn’t actually mean it. Her boyfriend is, for the most part, an intelligent man, though he sometimes struggles with basic human things such as putting his socks away and throwing the empty toothpaste tube into the bin.

But, at this very moment, Lily is absolutely certain that James is a complete and total git of a man.

“You two are dating?”

The words are strangled when they come out of James’s mouth, and his eyes are so wide that Lily marvels at them not falling out of his head. Normally James is a handsome bloke, but bulging eyes is not a good look on anyone.

“You didn’t know?” Marlene scoffs, rolling her eyes as Remus shyly puts his arm around Sirius’s shoulders.

“No!” James all but yells.

“How did you not know?” Lily sighs, exchanging a knowing look with Sirius, who is uncharacteristically quiet about the whole thing but looks amused nonetheless.

“You knew,” James accuses, a look of thorough betrayal on his face.

“Everyone knew, you moron,” Marlene interrupts.

Before Lily can agree, Peter walks up with a smile on his timid face.

“What’s wrong with James?” he asks, taking a swig from Marlene’s butterbeer when she offers.

“He just found out that Remus and Sirius are dating,” Lily replies.

Hey anon! I hope that this is what you have in mind…if not I can try again! :)

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Sirius flirts with everyone. Everyone. It drives Remus batshit, and he wonders if that’s exactly why Sirius does it.

Marlene thinks it’s hilarious. More than once she’s born witness to Remus nearly pulling out his hair while Sirius was busy chatting it up with everyone in The Leaky Cauldron.

“I cannot believe you don’t see it,” Marlene says one day, shaking her head as Remus’s left eye twitches slightly. A fair-haired bloke sits in Sirius’s lap, one arm draped over his shoulders.

“What don’t I see?” Remus breathes, taking an unhealthy swig of his ale. Normally he doesn’t indulge in drink, but seeing the bloke whispering into Sirius’s ear makes him want to drown in alcohol.

Marlene just shakes her head, downing a shot of harsh, Muggle vodka. “You’ll figure it out.”

And Remus does. The day that Sirius kisses him and then goes down on him.

Afterward, Remus pants like a dog (a morbid fact that’s not lost on him), and when he reaches for Sirius’s trouser zipper, he stops him. Remus almost pulls away, hurt by Sirius’s rejection, but he’s surprised when he feels arms around him.

“It’s not you, Remus,” Sirius says in his ear.

When he turns to look at Sirius, his face says all it needs to because soon Sirius’s head is thrown back in a laugh.

“What?” Remus demands, half-confused and half-irritated.

“I can’t believe you don’t know!” Sirius responds, a huge, annoying smile on his face.

Marlene’s words float through Remus’s head, causing exasperation to flow through him. “What the fuck don’t I know?”

Everyone assumes that Ron will be the one to cry when Rose heads to preschool. He has always been that parent. When she was born, he cried. When she said her first word - which, much to Hermione’s indignation, was dada – he cried. When she accidentally transfigured her baby doll into a spider when she was two-years-old, he cried (though everyone knows that those tears were not entirely out of pride).

So when Hermione sheds a few tears as she watches her daughter toddle off to join her little friends, Ron is entirely out of his element. He had no doubt that his Rose would excel in school; she was entirely her mother when it came to academics, and he assumed that Hermione would concur with his feelings.

Her runny nose and overly-red eyes prove him entirely wrong, and uncharacteristically, she lets him bring her into a fierce hug while the other parents talk among themselves.

He does not say much as they Apparate back to their little home outside of Muggle London. He casts a charm which heats the kettle on the stove as he sits his wife at the kitchen table.

“She grows up too fast, Ron,” Hermione says quietly after he places a cup of tea in her hand. “Before we know it, she will be completing her OWLs at Hogwarts.” Ron sips at his own cuppa, quiet as Hermione continues. “Soon Hugo will be walking and talking. Soon they will both be at Hogwarts and…” She trails off; Ron is still silent, allowing his normally-sharp wife to process her thoughts.

“Soon,” she whispers, “they won’t need me anymore.”

Ron shakes his head then, his eyes as fierce as Hermione has ever seen them. “No, Mione,” he replies, “for once you are wrong. They will always need you.”

Neville never thought he would see the day where a Malfoy and a Potter would get along. He’d watched the feud between Draco and Harry since boyhood, and even through the War - even when Draco switched sides and aided the Order - the glares and fights continued.

But here he sat at the staff table in the Hogwarts dining hall, watching Albus Potter and Scorpius Malfoy sit huddled together. All smiles. All laughs. Both in Slytherin.

Neville shook his head at it, but a smile somehow managed to slip on his face. He had been a professor when Albus’s elder brother, James, had made his appearance at Hogwarts. There had been no surprises with James. He was loud, confident, and clearly and definitely Gryffindor. However, when he had set eyes on little Albus Potter, with his shy smiles and nervous mannerisms, Neville thought of nothing of himself as a boy. Even more surprising was when the Sorting Hat yelled out a firm “SLYTHERIN” when placed upon the young boy’s head.

Though Neville was nothing like a Slytherin, he identified with Albus. And eventually little Scorpius as well. Both boys had been in his herbology class, and Neville found himself making a fast friendship with both boys. They would visit him often, whether it be on the grounds while Neville dug for roots with Hagrid or in his office when he sat at his desk as nothing more than a professor with dirt underneath his fingernails.

The thought made him sigh. The boys hadn’t dropped by in a while, but Neville blamed that on exams, because Scorpius Malfoy looked up and caught Neville’s eye and broke into a giant, toothy smile.

Thank you all for your amazing support! I am so appreciative of you all, and I promise there is more drabbles to come!

Also: Keep the requests coming. If you’ve requested something and I have not posted it, it is probably because it’s buried in my asks, so ask again because I’ll probably end up writing it!

Thanks again, all of you!

Sorry it took me so long, but I hope you enjoy!

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It takes its toll on him in random moments. Sometimes Scorp will be fine, and then the death of his mother will come and hit him in the face like a bludger. Most of the time, it is at night when he goes home to visit his father, and Scorp resigned himself to the fact that he’d never have a mother again.

He sits in the Potter kitchen, poking at a plate of eggs, when he feels the telltale signs of an impending attack. Tears form in his eyes without his consent, and he takes a shaky breath, hoping that he can get it over with before anyone notices.

“Scorpius?” a voice asks suddenly. “Are you all right, darling?”

Mrs. Potter’s tone is soft, quiet, but not pitying, which Scorp is grateful for. If he has inherited anything from his father, it’s his pride.

Initially, he intends to nod his head, that yes, of course, he is all right, but his mind is out of his control and he finds himself shaking his head with a despairing, “No, Mrs. Potter, I’m not. I’m a boy without a mum.”

She says nothing after that, only comes up behind him and rubs his back gently before nudging at his shoulder to get off the stool he sits on. Forgetting his eggs, he follows her silent motions dutifully, and Mrs. Potter envelopes him in a gentle but fierce hug.

It lasts a long time, but Scorp doesn’t mind. He buries his face into her soft stomach and breathes the comforting smell of a mother who cares, a scent he’s not smelled for ages.

Jk lol.

Jesus Christ, anon.

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Everyone hates having the dementors around Hogwarts. They interfere too often in school life, and after that incident with poor Harry Potter, the headmaster is determined to get them off of the school property.

However, the Fat Friar doesn’t mind so much.

One major perk of being a ghost is that dementors cannot make you lonely. Instead, at least in the Friar’s case, they make you horny.

Finding a consenting dementor was not hard. Unsurprisingly, the black, hooded creatures did not get much action, and the Friar is all too willingly to put an end to this particular one’s cold blue balls.

They sneak off to an unused part of the castle, and the dementor is on its knees before the Friar can say a thing.

Warning for hardcore….fluff.

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Astoria is nervous, as she always is when getting together with Draco’s parents. Her hands are clammy, and her knees threaten to shake. Draco squeezes her hand comfortingly, and all she can offer him is a wobbly smile, barely trusting herself to speak.

“Relax, my love,” Draco murmurs, soothingly.

“I will after it is done, Draco,” she replies, a tremor in her voice. “Until then, I shall be properly worried.”

He laughs at that, and Astoria feels the tension ease out of her shoulders slightly. Draco’s laughing, and he’s about to go meet one of the men he despises most. Astoria figures she can let herself relax.

Later, as they sit on a love seat across for Lucius and Narcissa, Astoria allows the words roll out of her mouth. “I’m pregnant.”

Narcissa’s reaction is instantaneous. A quick, excited yowl and then a blistering hug, one of two that Astoria has ever received from the aloof woman. The smile on Narcissa’s face makes Draco grin, and Lucius seems pleased in his own quiet way.

TRIGGER WARNING! PLEASE DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE TRIGGERED BY MISCARRIAGES!

I kept this one short, most because it’s a hard topic.

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She’s pregnant for two months when it happens. The pain is blinding, both in her heart and physically, and Draco is out of his mind.

I knew it, he thinks, I let myself become too happy, too comfortable, and here we are.

He somehow blames himself. Astoria is such a fragile thing, so brittle and beautiful, and he allowed her to get in a position that could harm her. He’s tearing himself inside out when, as he walks into their bedroom, he catches the anguished look on her face and the tears in her eyes.

“Draco,” she wails as soon as she sees him.

Without thinking, he is by her side, one hand in hers and the other cradling the back of her head. She’s curling into him like a wounded animal, making noises that only someone in extreme pain utters.

Suddenly, he thinks he is an idiot for blaming himself, for being too wrapped in what he did. He left his wife to suffer under the weight of a crushing blow, from which she may never recover, and he simply cuddles her close as she sobs wretchedly into his chest.

“It’s my fault!” Her voice is shrilly, and Draco feels a lump rise in his throat.

“No,” he replies calmly, “it is not. You are not at fault.”

CRY PEEPS CRY (hopefully)

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His heart stops beating once he sees her on the floor, eyes lifeless and face slack - the expression of death. His ears ring with possibilities left untried, with words left unsaid, and he looks over to see the child that takes away everything he wants and shows everything he’s ever desired.

How funny it is - to be trapped in the past.

There is no funeral. There is no one to plan a funeral. Sirius Black is captured; Peter Pettigrew is dead; Remus Lupin is lost in his own thoughts. Dumbledore is mysterious absent, and Severus is the one to make sure that the burial is done properly.

Dressed in Muggle clothes, he watches distantly as two graveyard hands lay to rest the woman he loves and the man who she loved. The irony is not lost on Severus, and he ignores the lone tear trailing down his cheek.

The next eleven years are emotionless, filled with torturing students to tears and sneering, something which he’s perfected. When he’s alone, he barely looks in the mirror, unable to see the hopelessness in his eyes without crying.

Bitterly, he thinks that she killed him when she married Potter, but true death came when she literally died, because not even a possibility remains. Hope is gone, a void of black and nothingness, and when he sees the child that looks disgustingly like his childhood tormenter, white-hot rage fills him. It’s only when small, messy-haired Harry Potter looks at him with sad, bright green eyes that Severus understands the pain.

Oh, how he misses those eyes. The eyes that were always cheerful and full of life. Those eyes that, once upon a time, looked upon him - and only him - with favor.

But he looks away. Those eyes belong to someone else, the unworthy child who is a mirror of his father. Severus resigns himself to a life of protecting a being whose half of a man he despises.

Later, as he sits alone in his room, staring into the fire, Severus thinks about his promise. To save and protect the boy. Is it needed? Would he do it? Is it worth it?

The smirk on his face is ruefully, and he simply answers those questions with one simply word.

Albus plans this date without any input from Scorp, who arrives at the Potter house rather nervously. He’s dressed nicely, in a plan black button down and (to Albus’ shock) regular Muggle jeans. Albus has to restrain himself from attacking Scorp with kisses, knowing that his mother would not appreciate the overdone affection.

The two apparate from the Potter house and into a deserted alleyway.

“Muggle London?” Scorp asks, a big smile on his face.

Albus knows how much Scorpius loves the Muggle world, and he’s proud when Scorp’s eyes light up when he replies, “Yep. We are going to a film!”

They go and see the new Star Wars film, and Scorpius can barely contain his shouts of excitement as they exit the cinema.

“That was epic!” Scorp hoots, and Albus simply nods, his hand firmly in Scorpius’. He didn’t pay much attention to the film, eyes to fixed on his boyfriend’s handsome profile to notice the movie.

The two walk around Muggle London, and Scorpius pulls Albus into a bookstore, fascinated by the array of different kinds of books.

“None of these are about magic,” Scorp whispers. “It’s so strange.”

Albus nods. “Because this is Muggle England.”

Sorry for the wait. Sometimes my muse isn’t cooperating, and I try to answer prompts where I feel inspired. I’ve been mulling this one over in my head, so I hope the drabble appeases you! I’ve got about fifty submissions so I have to pick and choose!

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He has her on her stomach, hands braced against the headboard. She cries out with each thrust, and he relishes each and every cry she emits.

Always so responsive, he thinks devilishly. Always mine to twist into what I want.

He thinks that is why she’s so desirable to him - the fact that she is exactly what he wants. A lesser man might consider that manipulation, but he knows exactly what that is. It’s an unspoken agreement between them. In exchange for her undying devotion, he commits himself to her and her alone.

“Please, my lord,” she cries. “Please, please, please.” 

He likes when she begs, likes it when she’s on the edge and cannot filter what she’s thinking. He finds himself surge forward, thrusting unevenly. They both come together, him silently, her wildly.

After, she lies against his pale chest, looking up at him while he looks at the ceiling. He can hear the debate in her head, on whether or not to speak, and at the moment, he does not mind if she wants to start a conversation. This time in bed is particularly good, so he feels generous.

“My lord?” she whispers.

He tilts his head towards her. “Yes, Bella?”

“I’m pregnant.”

The words do not make sense in his head for a moment. Pregnant. He thinks to Rodolphus Lestrange, the man who has claim upon the woman in his ams, his chosen mistress, and irrationally, he feels himself clutch at her, as if that would prevent the child from being that idiot’s.

“Congratulations to you and Rodolphus,” he hisses, unable to keep the venom from his mouth.

She’s silent for a moment, and then she cackles, long and loud. He feels himself grow irate, and he almost summons his wand with wordless magic when she says, “It is not Dolph’s. It is yours.”

He has her on her back before she finishes the sentence, his mouth on hers, and a plan forming in his head.

My child, he thinks. How utterly, absurdly perfect.