Stories by icarus009

When Pansy thinks about it, she can never quite describe it: How they met. Why they met. Why, sometimes, it felt like the only logical conclusion to every thread of her carefully woven future. They met somewhere not quite real—on the outskirts of reality. Just on the edge of it, the future seemed so probable sometimes.

A year after joining the light side, he feels his world turn the wrong side up with a foreboding sense of calm. Thrown off into hunting the cancerous horcruxes with Hermione Granger and losing his mind in the midst of an avalanche, his only constant is this—she is the respite in the godforsaken war, and wherever she goes, he follows.

Love, as nice as it is, shouldn’t be something you can’t control. And anyway, Hermione never much liked things she couldn’t control.

“You weren’t like this when we met, were you?” “What was I like?” “A storm.” “And now?” “Safety.” [Harry doesn’t quite understand how it happens, but through the pain and the burning, bruising inferno in his head, he manages to fall against her door.]

The sun gleams in fresh, golden rays and it reminds her of honey—the way she can’t let go, sweat pools into her armpit, the curve of her neck and chest and Pansy worries about her future, the uncertainty jutting out like a misshapen tooth. And underneath it all, like some great, inimitable spell, was a gumshocking sweetness tracing back to the boy who lived.

Pansy’s life spirals into a mesh of office visits and curating words of other people and running away, desperately, insistently from the words she’s afraid to say. Her days falls into an immaculate routine with dinners and auctions and smiling coyly at her friends and pretending it never grates, never even bothers her. And then he comes into her life again. Of course he does.

For Pansy the fear of falling in love with him—the effervescent, luminous boy of her restless dreams is worse than the grueling nihilism, relentless self-loathing cutting her after the war. She was adamant in her stubbornness to ignore the brightness of his presence, the burn of his touch... until their heartstrings get entangled under the bright yellow light of a jokeshop.

Hermione doesn't know why, but Draco Malfoy’s eyes always reminds her of half-lidded sunsets.

Ginny reconsiders her choices on the eve of Harry’s wedding.

Hermione holds her breath as they reach the precipice of the ever enfolding hill, the bridge burning in hungry, merciless orange flames, the fault lines dwindling between him and her, always rippling, always pulling them apart. His cheeks flood with colour. Suddenly, he looks much younger. OR, Draco realises a gnawing truth about their year long search for the rest of the Horcruxes

On the night of his nineteenth birthday, Draco Malfoy ponders on the history of his eponym and tries to decide if he is doomed like the constellation. If all he’s ever going to be is the grimy mould he finds himself coiled by already. And if it’s true, if all we are is what we’ve been, then Hermione Granger might actually be right on her decision to leave him for good.

In the mindless uncertainty in post-war nothingness, two souls find one another. Sometimes love is just as simple as that. RUSSIAN TRANSLATION: /readfic/12479731 Thank you so much for this nevazhnaya (/u/15514075/)

A loud, boisterous hallway flicked with neon lights. An empty rooftop with ghosts of the past lurking in shadows. Chance meeting, happenstance. And nothing is the same anymore. Modern Dramione and Hansy AU

Walk a mile in my shoes, someone had said. Walk a minute, walk a mile. Then talk, and figure, and judge. Severus couldn’t ever do that. He never had the raw, boisterous empathy, that connection with people around him. Maybe that’s why he works so hard at occlumency. Maybe it never was a weapon of choice, it was a cry for help.

Things hadn’t gone exactly to Draco’s plan. Correction: It was absolutely, empirically, nauseatingly worse. Like, Olympics level of shit, top-tier gold level mess.

Chance meeting, terrace draped in midnight chill, tongue-tied nervousness and a truckload of issues. Things aren’t supposed to work out at all, by Harry’s estimation. Calculation. Prediction. Things are supposed to topple over and disintegrate by logic, but somehow they don’t. They aren’t supposed to fit into each other like some happy accident, and somehow they do.

Draco silently contemplates the irony of destiny, it’s cruel sense of humor as he hears Harry Potter’s awkward cough from the door. He always does that, as if he braces himself for what’s to come. What is to come? They talk and sometimes verbally attack one another and Draco tries very very hard not to stare at his lips.

It starts with trepidation. Foreshadowing, really. The warm jolt in your spine that tells you something is going to come your way. Something precisely not within the realm of your control. Something you haven’t asked for. Draco hadn’t asked for it.

Pansy has trouble with articulating what she feels and Harry makes her feel too much too easy. The complexities of human relationships are really trickled down to her mind for this boy in three simple words. A collection of Hansy short fics :)

Draco Malfoy is not an easy person to care for, but Hermione Granger makes it seem almost effortless.

The seasons change in habitual monotone for the rest of the world, but Draco always associates the transition of weather with his conjunction with Hermione. Fall together and then apart, it’s a whirlwind. A storm. And in the eye of it, standing still, is the boy from the astronomy tower with his heart on his sleeves. Because after all is said and done, he is still in love with her.

Amidst the confusion of post-war bleakness, two desperate people fall together like puzzle pieces, like a needle pricked into the perfect vein. Pansy Parkinson would rather be anywhere than finding comfort in the ticking time bomb Harry Potter. She would like to stop comparing her life and her lies to those in story books - two lovers in fair Verona, two people set into their doom.

It’s their wedding day, and Hermione needs to go back in time to assure a young, war-torn Draco that asking her out will be worth facing his demons.

Hermione Granger offers her hand. Messy and lovely, and so close he can touch the tips of her fingers without even taking a step forward. The light from the window falls on top of her hair, her dark mess of hair almost seems like a halo. These are the small, inconspicuous, devastating moments that make him wonder if god truly exists.