colormeharry

colormeharry @ 2009-07-18T22:45:00

2009-07-19T02:47:21Z

I've had this problem, all my life, where if I have a bit of excess brain-space, I automatically translate whatever is being said to me/I am reading in English to Japanese.

It's pretty fun when I'm doing it to something that was translated from Japanese to English. Like subbed manga, for example (where I can't find the raw, Japanese versions). Back-translating is fun, because you can see why people translate things the way they do, etc...

But lately it's been a problem, because I've been applying it indiscriminately to my life. Daily conversations, well, I'm usually too taken by what is happening presently that I don't dwell, but... fandom-wise...

Let me just say that trying to make Harry and Draco talk in Japanese is just really weird for me.

Stop it, brain. Stop it.

colormeharry @ 2009-04-28T01:59:00

2009-04-28T06:02:13Z

Every once in a while I realize how little JamesScorpius fic there is and it makes me hurt inside.

I mean, I could even handle jock!Albus but... thanks to Albus' almost-crying performance in the epilogue, he's always the sensitive one :(

I love fics like Dating a Straight Boy is Weird and Creepy because Al isn't all sensitive and overtly homosexual. I think I got my fill of mostly-effeminate!Malfoy and sensitive-vulnerable!Potter from H/D.

In summary: I wish there were more JamesScorpius, or jock!AlbusScorpius around.

:(

:c

[Fic: Start with the Sky] HD

2009-04-26T00:51:01Z

Title: Start with the Sky
Author: colormeharry
Rating: PG-13, for now?
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros. Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Warnings: As with everything else I have, and probably will, ever write... there be slash, kids. If mentions of death, homosexual relations, and general post-war angst mixed with post-war optimism bother you--well, this isn't for you :D. Also, this fic is EWE. Please keep this in mind.
Author’s Notes: Because I wanted Harry to recapture a chance to be a stupid kid, and to deal with the consequences like a real person.
Beta: Thank you to franalan for taking a look-see at this! Any remaining errors are mine alone.

This fic will be a multi-chapter work, but this first section can stand alone.

Summary: Harry Potter must find a way to start fighting for his life again. A tale about how Harry re-courts life, and, in the process, Draco Malfoy. [This fic is EWE]

Start with the sky
With it, you will conquer the world

: : :

There is whiskey going around. Beers, cheap champagne, and a few spritzers for good measure as well. The flames leap and dance and they catch on the glass, spike in the amber liquids, and while there are girls dancing and boys screaming, there's something somber to it all.

There is no Fiendfyre here, but there is fire. Piles of torn posters, newspapers, wood-framed rules. There are screaming portraits donated by overly eager children, echoing deaths that have already happened. Here and there, masks that once spelled terror are turning from white to black, the paint cracking to give them grotesque expressions.

With wild yet controlled flames, intoxicated children try to erase a war. Posters that were once plastered over stores at Hogsmeade, newspapers declaring the success of the Minister, of Headmaster Severus Snape, and portraits of those who had fought on the losing side, all turn into cloying smoke and ash.

"I love you, Padm... Parvati? Padma?"

"Jimmy! Jimmy! Has anyone seen Jimmy? I dared him to--"

"--then Neville here just walks up to the f'kin snake--"

"H'nes'ly, 'Mione! Classes don' start till... till..."

"Fukin' Slyther... Slytherins! Can't believe..."

"Remember what the sorting hat said, though--"

"War's over! Fuck house... house unity!"

"He didn't go near the lake, did he? Jimmy--!"

"Wher'd the... the champagne from... the one... Reims?"

"It's as important as ever--Ron! You've had enough!"

"Fuckin' snakes... I hear Malf... Malfoy... Malfoy's comin' back, too--the nerve!"

"An' he jus' chops the fuckin' thing in half! Hissin' an' all!"

A laughing brunette cuts through all the threads of conversation, face flushed, throwing his robe off.

The flames are leaping, and when Harry Potter, laughing still, jumps into the middle of the bonfire, the whispering, muttering, giggling stops, replaced by hush, and then screams.

"It does tickle," he suddenly exclaims, "holy fuck it does. Wendelin the Weird wasn't lying!"

: : :

At Fred's funeral, nobody frowns for long. Ginny sobs, Mrs Weasley's shoulders shake, but there is an unspoken air there that if they frown, somehow, things will be worse. It's the strangest thing, comforting someone that's crying and smiling.

The entire place is decked out in black, and yet George walks in wearing a yellowish orange jumper with a big F embroidered on it, and instead of crying and mourning they laugh and mourn and there's something delicate to the way Bill punches the remaining twin on the shoulder and says: Hey there, Freddie, seen George anywhere?

After the ceremony, the room they filter into has an open bar. It is decorated in the same fashion as Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes and George mans it, laughing about the new line of drinks they'll be putting out. It's utterly inappropriate, and yet somehow appropriate for the occasion and George insists that the minors have at it, too. Our true target consumers, after all, he says, and Mrs Weasley looks like she wants to say Boys! and there's that trembling lip again, puffy eyes, and a chorus of chuckles in place of the usual admonishments.

Night steals in. It is a full moon and suddenly Charlie, who has stuck to firewhiskey in lieu of any 'experimental' drinks looks straight at Bill, who hasn't touched a drop of liquid save water. Bill, who used to take to lager like a fish to water. Bill, whose scarred face means precautions have to be taken with inhibition lowering substances.

Ron is rambling drunkenly about that time when Fred hid dirty zines under Perc's bed, and Charlie, eyes tracing the disfiguring reminder that death has left on his older brother says:

"What doesn't kill us makes us stronger."

It's simple, and Charlie's voice has the careful tones of someone that's had a few too many to be in full control of what they're saying. And yet it means the world.

Behind the counter, George touches where an ear should be.

Harry touches words scrawled on the back of his hand a bit absently.

Stronger, indeed.

: : :

Stronger.

A stronger person? A stronger legacy? A stronger--?

That quaint phrase has somehow become more like a Commandment in his life; one that he examines daily, thinks of, strives to understand and fulfill: It didn't kill me, so I must be stronger.

But what does it mean?

Is it true?

Where he is now--he can hardly evaluate himself as being a 'strong' man. He is more easygoing, but more ambiguous in his morals. He is freer of the childish wish to fit in, and yet less considerate of others because of it.

He can feel a hair of a breeze slipping past a cracked window. Fall, with its crisp undertones, helps to clear the awful, foggy feel in his head. The stale scent of rum on his own breath when he groans, combined with the grogginess, start to fill in the blank preceding hours.

Hung over, unable to remember the previous night, and with the sneaking suspicion that he is going to seriously regret opening his eyes, Harry cannot help but think that the answer is: No.

It is not true.

He is not a stronger person, and he is not a better person.

Most of his evaluations, almost every day, come to this conclusion.

How did he end up here, though? He always wonders next.

: : :

This is what he remembers of the day past:

It had started simply enough. A petite owl slamming into Harry's shoulder as he'd leaned over the balcony, a fag dangling between his fingers. Of course, as cigarettes were wont to do, the impact had sent it plummeting into a well placed pile of leaves without the courtesy to go out. A few Fuck!'s and hurried extinguishing charms later, Harry had turned to deal with the owl.

Instead, he'd found himself confronted with his lover, bare save a white long sleeve, sitting on the edge of their bed with a letter in his hands and an owl perched on his shoulder.

"Mother's visiting," Draco had intoned quite nonchalantly, stroking puffed feathers with an absent hand, "she's back from South America. Three weeks early, but then I hadn't thought she'd make it a day."

Harry had blinked, rather slowly, disused to... anything, really, being handled so indifferently by the blond. Why, just last week, Pansy Parkinson had made an appointment to visit for tea, just tea, and Draco had gone out and purchased an authentic samovar. Pansy's spent the last three years in Russia! Draco had hissed rather hotly. I refuse to have her look down her nose at my tea, Potter, and if you so dare even offer instant coffee... and the rest of the day had been spent with Draco straddling neurosis and conscientiousness like a graceful whale on a high wire.

But Draco had simply re-folded the letter, sent the owl off with a treat, and said matter-of-factly:

"I'm going to take a shower. Try not to spill your instant coffee dust everywhere this time, Potter. If you're going to deprive me an elf for your Muggleborn's sake, I expect you to fill in the work."

Harry should have known, right then, when no explicit threats had been issued, that he would not escape the day unscathed.

: : :

What followed was a quiet breakfast. A bit of a flurry when Ron had owled to ask if Harry wanted to get with the old Gryffindor tower boys and enjoy a few pints at night. A lunch that, Harry would only realize later, was unusually quiet as well. Draco had smiled--indulgently, when Harry had nabbed a corner of melon off his plate. Why hadn't he realized the world had started ending, then?

Harry fancied himself as having a good day. He'd even felt well-humored enough not to complain when Draco had redressed him, come tea time, to suit his mother's tastes.

Draco had pulled the 'good china' out (which, honestly, Harry had never seen before and suspected Draco had owl ordered sometime between his shower and making it to breakfast), and told Harry to put his 'atrocious Muggle artifacts' (the instant coffee, the beaten up foot-ball he kicked around with Teddy when the boy would visit, his collection of bottlecaps, and a few pictures that were so insolent as not to move), and Harry simply rolled his eyes and complied.

Then, when the floo had fired up, the Apocalypse had given up its guise and revealed itself, fiery red hair and all.

"...Ginny?"

Expecting his mother, Draco had gone in for what Harry suspected would have been a filial embrace. Expecting anything but welcome, Ginny had arrived with wand in hand and a blazing look in her eyes.

That was how Narcissa Malfoy floo'd right on top of what was most likely the most awkward moment Harry had ever witnessed.

: : :

Somehow, they'd ended up at the table, charmed china filled with superb tea, the air as thick as a blanket. Ginny, whose aura of determination had been replaced with bewilderment, slowly regaining her gall as she glared at Harry across the table. Mrs Malfoy, who had excused herself to freshen up upon arriving, had returned from the loo looking as if somebody had told her that her favorite designer had met his demise, or that her son had involved himself in scandal. Again.

And then there was Draco, who was making quiet chitchat, glancing at him ever so often as if actually expecting him to contribute.

But instead, Harry had focused on the little charmed roses living and reliving over and over on the porcelain, had nodded yes or no to the light questions Draco would toss his way, and had tried his damnedest not to make a scene, or to embarrass them, or scream what the bleeding fuck are you looking at?! at Ginny, or any number of the multitude of things Draco had asked him not to repeat.

"I didn't think South America would be to your liking, mother... maybe the Mediterranean..." Draco was saying.

"Harry," Ginny cut in, seeming to have decided to throw her anchor in at just that precise moment.

"I hear it's quite lovely this time of year..." Draco insisted.

"We need to talk, Harry... I think maybe we were a bit too hasty," Ginny had continued.

"Now, lamb, you know your father detests Greece. You, though, Draco... it would make a nice honeymoon location, don't you think--Mr Potter?"

Faced with two women giving him two different, but equally terrifying variations of the same expectant expression, Harry had glanced quite helplessly at his unhelpful lover.

And, with a short mental toast to Seamus Finnegan and an inconspicuous wave of a wand under the table, Harry's tea had taken to smelling distinctly like rum.

: : :

And that was why, when he woke in the morning, he didn't remember much past the first four cups of 'tea' he'd downed. Honestly, he was surprised he remembered as much as he did, considering how embarrassingly true Draco's verbal barbs about his (in)ability to hold his liquor were.

Once, while at Italy, he had been introduced to the magic of mojitos and had ended up making quite the arse of himself in front of a full bar before running off to find a beach to romp in. ('m hot, Draco he'd yelled as the man held him back from a watery grave, god I'm hot... you're hot. God, why're you so hot, Malfoy? Why d'you get to be so hot even when your hair's tryin' to go-gone?)

But that--that was neither here nor there, was it?

So instead he tried to remember all he could of last night, even as his temples throbbed and a little demon called a hangover wreaked havoc over his brain. He remembered the clipped, tight-lipped questions Draco's mother had cut in with. He remembered Ginny growing progressively more flustered and visibly angry. He remembered, at one point, insisting rather loudly that, No, Gin, I really do love cock. 's not 'bout hasty... hasty deci... Like... oh, shit Draco, your mum's here--d'y'think she heard that?

A quiet, raspy groan issued from his throat as he remembered how Draco had hurriedly tried to usher his mother and Ginny out of their flat, or at least out of the room, before Harry had explicitly declared his love for Draco's arse with the charming details of a nymphomaniac poet.

Fuck, he thought. No wonder no Hangover Potion was forthcoming. The day's rays were mercilessly assaulting his eyes, and Harry dreaded turning over in fear of finding an empty bed. He hated when Draco was upset with him. He didn't mind the verbal abuse, so much--hell, if he minded that, he wouldn't be able to stand the man... but he hated how Draco would turn away from him. How, instead of raising a brow and giving him that tiny half-smile, he would simply snort when Harry kissed his jaw, or his cheek.

But then, there was the slightest shift on the mattress. Just the slightest hint of a shift of the mattress under him and Harry, hangover be damned, was on his side as quickly as one impaired by sleep and drink could be, unfocused eyes finding--Yes--white blond, strong shoulders, slim waist.

: : :

When he grabbed him--wrapped his arms around the never-slouching back--this is what he expected:

Angry, thin fingers trying to push him aside. A snide, curt, cutting comment about what an oaf, a few measures of you're utterly insufferable, Potter thrown in...

And he would kiss the back of that slim neck, mumble something in an attempt to apologize--fully expecting to be cut off by the blond...

Because this is how things had always played out before. A few hours of inapproachable anger, which he would try to soften with treats and gifts and sweet talk and teasing, and then...

: : :

But this is what really happens:

Draco stills in his arms, not coming at him with claws out like usual, but like a bird with clipped wings; still startled at being caught, and yet--resigned, to being trapped.

And instead of chewing him out, Draco says, like one commenting on the humidity or the rain pitter-pattering outside the window:

"How did we end up like this?"

It is rare to get the Prince of Allusions to tell him anything directly. Especially after navigating a touchy post-war climate, Draco had gotten chronically skilled in the ability to imply, but never address.

(Did he really dislike Jones Arnaby? Well, he had an opinion of him. How did he feel about the Minister's new criminal tracking system? It was a very interesting approach to a problem that required further looking into.) The kind of diplomatic bull that had had Harry scratching his head and, more recently, had led to Draco issuing most of his public statements for him.

So to hear such a relatively direct question--is startling.

And even more startling to Harry is the way his lover's back stiffens after he speaks, as if he were surprised, himself.

"...'ke what?" he probes carefully, not wanting to let Draco wiggle out of this one, but not wanting to jump to conclusions himself.

He fully expects the man to push him away, to carefully extract himself from Harry's arms and walk off without even a sigh of acknowledgment. And yet--

"...how did..."

And yet instead he speaks, sending a chill up Harry's own spine.

"...how did we end up in such a... a rut, Potter?"

It is one of the last things he would have expected to come out of Draco's mouth. Not just for its content, but for the soft, open tone that offers a kind of vulnerability that makes Harry feel ashamed for his bad breath, his half-hazy mind.

"...never mind," Draco continues, his tone clipped again and yet still softer than Harry is accustomed to. And as he tries to grasp what has just happened, Harry finds himself pushed away as Draco carefully extracts himself from his arms.

And as he walks away, Draco, never looking back, sighs in acknowledgment:

"I guess I just never expected we'd get boring."

: : :

How did we end up like this?

He jumps in the shower, hoping a rinse off will rid his skin of the scent of booze. He washes his hair, his body--all the while contemplating how to address what his lover had said.

He dries off, shaves, brushes his teeth--all the while wondering how to approach Draco, once he exits the safety of the bathroom.

He steps out to dress, towel around his waist--all the while thinking about how to approach Draco.

He looks around.

And then he laughs; a short bark of a laugh. It is not out of joy, but the kind of thing that comes from disbelief in oneself; a realization of something so ridiculous that he cannot help but snort.

In the bedroom, where Draco's clothes had eclipsed his in the wardrobe, Harry finds himself facing a mostly empty wardrobe, mostly empty closet, and a sheet-less bed.

Draco Malfoy never did things in halves.

They had grown so far apart, that Harry had nearly forgotten this fact.

Or--no. No, it wasn't that he'd forgotten. It was that he'd expected that Draco would bend the rules, like he always did; that he would stick around, like he always did... that he would make an exception for him, and that they would go on as they always had.

Dealing daily with the same disgruntled ex-girlfriend, the expectant mother-in-law, the quiet annoyance and disappointment in Draco's eyes... just dealing with it, day in and day out.

It was a pattern that he'd come to expect, and as the gaping open shelves stared back at him, bare of their usual cloths, he had the ridiculous urge to say: You're breaking routine! like some petulant brat.

Instead, he says into the empty room:

You always were stronger than me.

Author's Notes: I will understand wholly if you aren't the sort to read end A/N's. I know that I, personally, don't, for fear of being spoiled or otherwise disenchanted. However, for those of you that are curious as to where this is going, I thought it wouldn't hurt to give a few explanations.

This fic is the result of 1.) my rampant hatred of the epilogue, 2.) my curiosity about how a world-saving-hero could come to find 'mundane' problems (such as daily relationship maintenance) to be more troublesome than most, and 3.) my interest in exploring how the H/D dynamic might work out (or not) once the initial passion wears off. This fic will, accordingly, deal with these themes and most likely go at a slower pace due to it. I hope you enjoy the read!

Comments are always appreciated.

colormeharry @ 2009-04-07T12:08:00

2009-04-07T16:12:46Z

As some may have noted by now, I am back :D. However, I am back only in a semi-crawling-around capacity.

Have not touched a spirit in months! Sobriety was brought on more by boredom/hatred of the smell of alcohol, than anything more significant/interesting, but there it is.

Have not eaten in roughly 22 hours :c. Too lazy to go find food. Will study for exam (t minus 5:48 hours) instead, like a good little university child.

Am too sleepy to continue. This may be the end. Tell my boyfriend I ~~lov~~left him some oatmeal raisin cookies in the pantry, 'ma.

colormeharry @ 2009-01-02T22:13:00

2009-01-03T04:06:51Z

I'd never pinned him as the ticklish sort. Exaggerated reactions, sure--maybe yelling, fighting, flushing... or a cold look down his nose at you, if you reached your fingertips to his sides. I'd thought him the kind that, if you ran your nails down his spine while he was chatting on the mobile, he would brush your hand away and walk down the hall, or across the room. Not that he'd touch a mobile, but--I like to imagine that if he'd been born a muggle he'd be the invisible-ear-piece sort, making talking to yourself look professional rather than mad.

Or, I could see him breaking, too. Lurching away if you tried to get him giggling... that sort.

To me, he was like a sleek ally cat that was too dignified to be a stray. He'd steal into my bed some nights and be gone in the morning like I like to imagine cats can still do, despite the tightening pet laws, the overcrowding, the new technologies. Some of my friends, they tell me I spend too much of my time imagining. Too much of my time dreaming about the mundane.

If you're going to dream, they say, why not at least dream big?

...:D

2008-08-26T23:45:05Z

My good friend Jack Daniels, Smirnoff, and Killian Red are having a get together tonight.

Again.

(This time, Bacardi is not invited. Nor is damn Coors or Miller.)

Oh, and if you get me a lighter, Cointreau is definitely invited. Flaming orange-liquor shots, what-what?

One day I'll again be sober enough to function. And possibly write fic.

Tonight, though, ladies and gents?

Tonight, tomorrow night, thursday night, and ESPECIALLY friday night (as well as saturday?)...?

Consider me dead to the world.

Adieu, liver.

P.S. Is there any H/D fic with the boys playing Kings?

Oh no brain!

2008-08-26T08:26:07Z

I fucking hate work.

I never want to hear the words "Bacardi 151" ever again.

I would rather have NO boys than TWO (I'm just not that kinda girl. Especially not emotionally :o Maybe if I thought they'd be cool with sharing rather than hating me for playing both of them I would not feel this way?).

College is not only detrimental to my mental health, but I think that I actually heard my liver, kidney, stomach, brain, and other such organs squeak in agony around the third shot of that 151 proof disgusting liquor.

In conclusion: There is not nearly enough drunk!Draco in this fucking fandom. Or, for that matter, drunk!Harry. I'm not talking DEPRESSED ALCOHOLIC OH BLAH BLAH EMO DRUNK, either. I mean fun drunk. There are may or may not be four fics with fun-drunk H or D. What the fuck, people. What the fuck.

P.S. I am astoundingly lucid when it comes to typing no matter my intoxication-levels. I think this is evidence that I need to stop using computers so much. Hmmmm.

P.P.S. :D OH MAN I LOVE YOU GUYS!!! I was so stoked to see how many responses my quaint lil' fic req got!

P.P.P.S. I love how "drunk" is considered a mood.

Fic: Story Time With Harry Potter (or, Waiting)

2008-08-21T03:08:27Z

Title: Story Time With Harry Potter (or, Waiting)
Author: colormeharry
Rating: R? ish?
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros. Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Warnings: Slash. Implied smut.
Prompt: For awdt prompt: "But it doesn't sound intimate. It sounds...well...brutal."
Author's Notes: It was the first thing I thought of when I read the prompt, and wouldn't leave me alone. Big thanks to aki_hoshi for the beta! :D

Summary: Harry tells the boys a little story over some pints while he waits.

"Sometimes he forgets to breathe," Harry said, rubbing his thumb over the open mouth of his beer. Seamus sat back a bit, then readjusted his stool so he could lean against the wall next to their table.

"Mel does this thing with her tongue if I can convince her..." the Irishman contributed, leering, and Dean, who'd had about five too many, slapped his hand on the table and chortled. Everyone was a bit far gone, and Ron kept jerking his head to the left, towards the door.

"We're sure none o' you told 'Mione, right? We're sure..."

"Get off it, Ron... Won..." Seamus flicked his bottle cap at the redhead, rolling his eyes. Ron glared a beat, then his eyebrows scrunched and he was glancing at the door again.

"Sometimes I like to toy with him until his chest seizes and I just know he's forgotten to breathe on his own." As Harry paused, Dean giggled, resting his head on the table until Seamus kicked him in the shin.

"He hates waiting. Always was an impatient little thing," Harry murmured, and at this Ron raised a brow, distracted momentarily from the terrifying idea of his fiancée catching them sloshed instead of visiting her parents.

"I bought him this little harness... keeps him opened up. I trained him up to expect... the worst. You know, just a smudge of lube... a little prep with my wand, maybe... blindfolds, sensory deprivation... but just when he got used to that..."

"Seriously, mate?" Ron finally said, worrying his lip a moment, "...that's a bit disturbing."

Dean laughed again.

"I think it's kind of hot, actually," Seamus grinned. "A little different, but different is good sometimes, y'know? I mean... take me. My wee accent's gotten me into some sweet moments... you know."

Harry's eyes squinted a little as he switched his thumb for his pointer, tracing the lip of the bottle around, around, around.

"...just when he got used to it, I moved to slow. Sweet. I'd tie him up just like before, but..." Harry licked his lips and, unconsciously, Ron did as well, while Seamus worried his. "...like this morning... he has the sweetest little hole... after a good night of shagging, it's all puffy and dark and it makes him look so used, and I just traced my fingers over it until he woke up. I'd push... you know, just almost dip in, but not quite..."

"Shit, mate," Seamus shifted his hips, and Dean nearly fell off his stool, which sent him into another round of hysterics.

Shhhh, Ron hissed, gaining a look from them all. Ron, after all, had been the least enthusiastic about story-time.

"...and when he woke up I put his legs up in his harness... used that charcoal tie he was wearing yesterday to tie up his cock, you know... right around his balls and base, then a nice little bow under the head..." he could see him in his mind's eye. Tied up, bound up, wrapped up, his eyes fluttering open and shut and his chest seizing under Harry's hands. "I'm pants at tying bows, though, and he made a little quip..." Harry's lips curved up into a smile and Ron cleared his throat. Seamus smirked and leered in the default way that playboys were wont to do when they weren't quite sober enough to be witty.

"So I had to punish him, you know... teach him to appreciate what I do for him."

"I teased him for hours."

"With my fingers..."

"...my mouth..."

"He's so beautiful, you know... tied up, nowhere to go... begging. Begging with everything he's got, to the point that he forgets to breathe."

"But I... I do like to keep him disciplined," the smile on Harry's lips reached his eyes and Ron tipped his head back, finishing off his beer before glancing at the door again, then back at Harry.

"...he needs to learn patience, you know? Needs to learn to appreciate me..." the brunet persisted, his eyes on the wood-grain table, dark.

"...it's been two hours now." He lifted his gaze, smile morphing into a smirk as he eyed the clock on the pub wall, rusty but reliable, "two hours, since I left him tied up... told him I was going to go have a pint... left him with his favorite little toy..." Harry could see him now, could see his lover writhing, trying to dislodge the buzzing, persistent toy buried in him. He'd used straps to keep it plugged in that hungry, tight hole, to make sure that no matter how much he struggled, it would hum happily away inside him, "...do you reckon he's learned his lesson?"

He could see Draco, limbs contorted by the harness, by his toys, by the bindings. He could see his lover's hips trying to pitch forward, eyes rimmed red from desperation, his cock dribbling precome. Harry closed his eyes and imagined that tight little passage, loosened and warmed up by Draco's favorite vibrator... imagined that greedy flesh wrapping around him.

"...well, boys," Harry sat up, pushing his half-empty beer bottle towards the middle of the table, "I'm sorry to cut it short, but I have somewhere to be." When he stood, his posture was noticeably stiff.

"Bring your boyfriend with you next time, yea?" Seamus asked, smirking.

"...yeah," Harry said as he put a few extra galleons on the table, "...next time," he said, eyes smiling as he waved off before disapparating.

In the wake of the brunet's exit, Dean was left staring at the backside of a rather full-figure woman at the bar, while Ron stared down at his lap.

"...well, fuck," he said.

Seamus laughed.

"Yeah. Pretty hot, isn't it? I mean, Harry's 'story-time' is pretty legendary. Can't believe you're his best mate and hadn't ever seen him at it before."

Ron shifted his legs again before rolling his eyes and giving in, letting his hand move to readjust his cock, "I can't believe you guys just sit around listening to him talk in Parseltongue."

Seamus grinned.

"I mean... you don't even know what he might be talking about."

"Can guess, though. I mean... 's got to be sex, mate. Did you see his eyes?"

Ron shifted again, uncomfortably. Cleared his throat.

"But it doesn't sound intimate. It sounds... well... brutal."

Seamus smirked again.

"Don't you remember who his boyfriend is?"

The prompt line was very Ron to me, and I found the idea of Harry as the 'snake charmer' for straight-boy-dick hilarious :D. I was struck with the mental image of a bunch of straight, drunk boys sitting tight for Harry to talk Parseltongue to them, about how he fucks his boyfriend... while Draco is left tied up at home, waiting for Harry to finish his pint.

Hope you enjoyed! Reviews are appreciated :)

On cats.

2008-08-18T02:53:44Z

I know this has absolutely nothing to do with anything, but I just thought I'd say it:

I feel like Harry probably really dislikes cats.

Between Ms Figgs and Umbridge, his association with felines seems negative as a trend. There's Crookshanks, but Crookshanks was kind of a neutral factor, and maybe a bit negative because of his involvement with Sirius/Pettigrew mess. Then there's McGonagall, who's a bit of a neutral as well. And then, of course, Ms Norris wasn't exactly an endearing argument for felines, either.

Boo.

*Cat lover*

Being that I personally think a feline animagus form would be rather fitting for Draco, I think the possibilities for a "What if Harry hated Draco's adorable purring animagus form?" fic wouldn't be too far-fetched.

♥

colormeharry @ 2008-08-15T21:29:00

2008-08-16T01:39:24Z

I just re-read the "pervert" series of Shiitara Anna's H/D doujinshi (basically, fan comic books). This included "Cruel Hero" and "Hentai the Radical" and--

It left me with such a craving for TotalPervert!Harry. I really, really want him. D:

I was going to scan some pages, but unfortunately my scanner isn't working ("No scan options--you need to install service software"? What?) so all I have is the crack!page that I scanned the last time I pulled these beauties out. It's still pretty sweet, and if you have a thing for Pervert!Harry combined with a (wince) Apron!Draco... well, here you go.

That would be Dudley, in the back. There's an entire story that goes with this. In general, Draco is a little too girly, but, damn, I love Shiitara Anna and her Harry ♥

colormeharry @ 2008-08-15T10:58:00

2008-08-15T15:17:59Z

Four out of five physicians agree: A daily dose of Harry will keep your Draco's prostate worry-free!

I was writing fic, accompanied by the sweet crooning of Frank Sinatra, when my iTunes decided to throw Panic!AtTheDisco at me. The mood, er, changed, and I thought: uhhh... *clicks next* and was greeted by Thriller.

Apparently, I thought, the cosmos are trying to tell me to write at a faster pace. Or more porn. Or more werewolves. Or something.

Then, I looked at the time and realized I haven't eaten in 23 hours, and I thought, well, maybe the universe was trying to tell me to take a break.

colormeharry @ 2008-08-13T19:55:00

2008-08-13T23:57:22Z

Today I discovered ~~again~~ that I can't write fluff.

Er. Actually, no, I take it back. I can. I just suck at it.

Which is kind of sad, because I loves' me some fuzzy bear-hug Harry :c.

I'm sorry, Harry.
I'm sorry, Draco.

I didn't mean to. Well. Uhm. I didn't start out meaning to.

colormeharry @ 2008-08-13T13:02:00

2008-08-13T17:06:35Z

At work right now. Am developing unhealthy/unprofessional habit of clicking around online because my supervisor is in Europe... I have nobody to check up on me, which means I'm scouring the world wide web for H/D porn on Uni internet like a shameless hussy.

Nipped from vaysh11.

You Are a Cappuccino

You're fun, outgoing, and you love to try anything new.

However, you tend to have strong opinions on what you like.

You are a total girly girly at heart - and prefer your coffee with good conversation.

You're the type that seems complex to outsiders, but in reality, you are easy to please

What Kind of Coffee Girl Are You?

And another one!

Your result for The Harry Potter Husband Test...

Mrs. Lupin

Your perfect HP man is Remus Lupin.

You like a nice, kind guy with a bit of a fierce streak and you don't mind if he comes damaged. Sure, he may take some convincing since his self-esteem's so low, but once you win him over, you know he's yours for life. Unless of course he has an attack of "I'm not good enough" and runs away, but luckily he's also good at making friends who will push him back into line if necessary.

(Art by Gold-Seven http://gold-seven.deviantart.com/ Used with permission.)

Take The Harry Potter Husband Test at HelloQuizzy

Does this make me Tonks?

Does anyone on my flist have gmail chat? It is the only messenger I can get away with using at work, and oh, dear baby Scorpius' cradle, do I need a distraction from work.

What the hell?

2008-08-11T23:39:51Z

Dear Coworker,

You are an idiot. Please eviscerate yourself to spare the rest of us from your utter ineptitude.

Love,

colormeharry

Fic: The Addict (or, Happily Ever After)

2008-08-10T18:45:31Z

Title: The Addict (or, Happily Ever After)
Author: colormeharry
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros. Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Warnings: Drug use, slash, smut, some swearing, (kind of) exhibitionism and an overall lack of ethics :). Slow paced sex.
Author’s Notes: I feel like this might rate on the ‘weird’ meter. A huge thanks to diorbaby for beta reading this! Comments are appreciated :).

Summary: (Post-War) There is a backdoor potion circulating in the wizarding world. This is a story in which Draco Malfoy is an addict, and Harry Potter is addicted.

When it reared its head, it was quiet enough. Not innocent or celebrated, but quiet enough that it could be ignored. A war had just ended, and there were more important things—political reform, judicial justice, the placement of survivors, trials and retrials and memorials and testimony—to pay mind to than a back-alley brew that didn't kill or maim.

It was a mutt of a drug. A potion that seemed patched together at best. It contained an edge of the Draught of Peace, a corner of the Draught of Living Death, and bits of aphrodisiac potions and even a touch of a Befuddlement Draught, among other things.

It was quiet. It wasn't a cry for help the way most back-alley potions were.

It took away memories. Worries. Tensions. It took away painful thoughts and feelings and restrictions.

It soothed, and there was an entire nation, an entire world that needed to be soothed.

By the time it became an epidemic it had a name.

Happily Ever After, in a bottle.

He has a beautiful buxom wife that may not have inherited any semblance of the ability to cook from her mum, but who can still kick every one of their schoolmate's arses at reunion Quidditch games. She may not be as eager in bed, after three buns in the oven over just five years, but then—

He has three beautiful spitfire kids that may not appreciate the world they live in, but are still more full of life than a cage full of doxies after being watered with Pepper Up Potions.

He has his dream job, and while it hasn't ended up being what he'd dreamed it would, it puts food on the table and the kids out of cupboards.

He has the perfect life, his Happily Ever After as the Boy Who Lived to Become A Man. Sure, it seems a bit more dull than he'd expected, but, but, it's peaceful and stable.

One day, he is going about life as usual, and an owl arrives with a letter.

The next day, in a quiet cafe, the writer of the letter is looking at him over a steaming cup of tea, hands folded neatly in her lap, and the words falling very plainly from her lips.

"I am calling in my life debt," Narcissa Malfoy says, "I am asking you to save him."

He expects to find an impending Dementor's Kiss, a sentence in Azkaban. The trial was years ago, but Harry knows that grudges could last years, outlast marriages, could ignore little boys named Scorpius Hyperion, and that Malfoy has plenty of enemies for something to have been overturned.

He expects some legal nonsense and he is annoyed at the thought of all of the paperwork he will have to fill out, but thinks a few signatures in exchange for a life debt isn't too terrible.

Except, it turns out to be nothing like that.

Hands are shaking everywhere, and that’s what catches his eye. This dusty, dusty room is filled with husky breaths and tremors, and the thing he tries to concentrate on is right next to him but what he sees are hands. Calloused, rough, soft, dark, creamy—all manner of skin and knuckle and tendon, some steady and some trembling like dew in the wind.

He doesn’t really know what he’s doing here. Of course there's the business of the life debt, and he knows why he came here, but he doesn't know what he's doing. He never does. The people around him all seem to be in on a secret program and all he can do is watch, because there isn’t anyone offering him drinks, and small talk isn’t a part of this room.

He deduces that there are two kinds of people here, and that they can be distinguished by how they sit.

Half the room is leaning forward. So far forward that their elbows can’t meet their knees, and their hands are always shaking, always reaching, and their expressions always tense, their eyes glittering. These are the people whose fingertips touch glass, the glass of the coffee table, the glass of vials, the glass of bottles.

The other half leans back. Reclined, their eyelids flutter, their lashes stick, and sometimes their eyes are wistful, but usually they are void, staring upward at the sterile ceiling. These are the people whose mouths hang open just slightly, whose bodies, regardless of bulk, seem to somehow melt into the upholstery and mesh with the couches, the loveseats, the armrests.

He doesn’t really know what he’s doing here, and he always feels like he oughtn’t be. Not for the right reasons (I have a wife. James, Albus, Lily. This is illegal. This could get me sacked. I have a family to support. A reputation. These people are...), but for the absurdly simple fact that he doesn’t sit like the rest of them.

He sits up, a bit forward in his span of furniture, hands clasped together between his knees. He feels like he’ll be swallowed up if he leans back, but if he leans forward there will be questions, and Harry never knows how to answer them. They will offer him uncapped glass vials for a handful of galleons, and Harry has yet to say anything in response that doesn't come out as an insult to them, or himself.

So he tries to keep his eyes on the body next to him, even though he’s continually distracted by hands, busy hands, shaky hands, limp hands—and he tries not to close his eyes, or grit his teeth, or say anything to indicate how terribly he doesn’t want to be here, because if he closes his eyes, the man will see him—always sees him. He’ll see him, and while he doesn’t cluck it, Harry can see the man’s tongue, in his mind’s eye, rubbing against the roof of his mouth in annoyance for that quiet moment before he parts his lips and says something like: Wishing you weren’t here, Potter? or If you’re so tired, why don’t you leave be?

And if he grits his teeth, the man will purse his lips, maybe even cross his legs, or switch legs if they’re already crossed, and give him that look before saying something like: If you’re going to be difficult, you can leave off or I didn’t ask you to come.

If Harry says anything, though, it would be worse.

So he keeps his eyes open and his jaw as loose as he can, without actually opening his mouth, because if he does there will be words expected, and if he’s caught with his lips apart the man will turn, say:

What?

—and Harry has yet to answer that question correctly.

There are no clocks, but the watch on the man’s wrist glints at him. Time passes quietly. Glass clinking, the soft sound of corks being unplugged, and gentle coughing—all of it passes distantly to his ears. If he bides his time without making a hash of things that watch glints and winks as the man’s wrist, his hand, moves to reach out to him.

Those pale, long fingers will find his knee, and that will be Harry’s cue to unclasp his own hands, to touch his fingers to the back of the man’s palm and feel the surprisingly feverish burn of the other’s skin.

Their fingers will twine, and Harry’s eyes are locked on where their flesh is pressed flush. His own hands are memorized, and yet this man’s hands always fascinate him. The delicate blue veins, the light sprinkling of near invisible hairs, and the slightly long fingernails, all held together with spans of skin pale as snow and bones fine as china.

“You’re doing it again,” that voice always cuts in, and Harry’s eyes are drawn up, up along the vein at the man’s wrist, up to the inside of his elbow… up, until his eyes are met by those eyes that are halfway between glittering and becoming void.

“Draco,” he murmurs, like he always does, a seeming non sequitur that falls off his lips like a hello, even though they’ve been sitting together for at least half an hour by the time they get to this point. He pulls the hand closer, up to his chest, then to his lips, not quite kissing those fingers but letting his breaths ghost over them in greeting, in reverence.

“You’re thinking something ridiculous again, aren’t you?” And this is where Harry closes his eyes, drops his lips on the warm skin, “are you likening my skin to cream tonight, Potter? Or is it ivory?” And this is where he lets his eyes close for a second, his own fingers tightening their hold a moment before he looks up, shifts his body towards the blond.

“Snow,” he admits, watching Draco become one of those people that leans back, whose eyes are wistful but painfully close to empty. He shifts, one arm on either side of that white-blond head, their chests close as his hips twist so he can face him without straddling, without leaning back, back.

“Snow,” Draco murmurs back, his nimble mind slowed, and Harry can it in his eyes, can hear it in the absent way he speaks, can taste it on his lips when he leans forward and touches them with his own.

“Let’s...” he starts, but Draco closes his eyes and pulls him close, their tongues touching to swallow the question. It seems that every time a word is lost to the question. Soon, he thinks, he won’t even get the first syllable out before he’s silenced.

Let's get out of here. Just the two of us?

“No... I want to stay here,” Draco whispers against his lips, eyes still closed, and Harry wonders when that stopped bothering him, when he started to take it as an invitation, rather than a rejection.

“Okay,” he hears himself saying as he gets up just a bit, just enough to slip between the man’s legs, his knees digging into the edge of the couch as Draco leans back even further, his eyes sliding open and glittering like opals when Harry leans forward again, kissing slightly-parted lips.

He tastes like hellebore and asphodel and an endless list of bitter things—but under it all he’s sweet. Under it all, Harry imagines, is what Draco really tastes like. He wouldn’t know, because they’ve never met like this outside of these rooms. Sometimes, when he’s feeling particularly fanciful, Harry wonders what Draco tastes like when he isn’t high.

He feels hands at his belt and Harry smiles a bit as his own fingers set to work at the fastening of the man’s slacks, unbuckling, unbuttoning, divesting.

“We’re eager, are we?” He rasps, mouth finding Draco’s pulse fluttering at his neck, hands pushing fabric down and away before they’re kneading gently at the softest skin he’s ever touched. It feels like—

“You’re doing it again. I can practically... can practically feel the wheels turn in your head when you start thinking like a Gryffindor,” Draco says, and Harry leans up to kiss him again, tasting blood when Draco finds his cock and pushes his slacks down his hips, when Draco bares him just enough.

“Lift your hips,” he murmurs, pushing off the couch just enough so he can pluck leather shoes off, yank high priced fabric down taut thighs, ankles, calves, throw them rumpled on the couch so that the blond is left with nothing adorning his legs save knee-socks.

He studies him a moment. He takes in how Draco’s thin lips swell after kisses, the color high on his cheeks that could be from arousal or intoxication; dilated pupils, too. He takes in the silk shirt, which has a damp spot on it where the man’s cock rests, and the length of his legs—stoppered by ridiculously high socks. Harry never divests Draco of them. He wonders if he has some sort of strange sock kink, but refuses to look into it because socks always remind him of house elves, and that, even for him, is too strange.

Draco’s hands are fumbling now, pulling him back in, touching him in a way that makes Harry lick his lips and grunt. Around them, the glass keeps clinking, the corks keep popping, but all Harry cares about right then is Draco’s breath on his skin, Draco’s voice murmuring a spell that makes Harry gasp. In Harry’s pocket, there is a tube of wild berry flavored lube, but Draco has never been so far gone that he forgets the spell and Harry always kisses him for remembering, even though he suspects Draco doesn’t know what the kiss is for.

He always wishes they were on a bed. He wishes for more room, better leverage, but it’s still heaven when he nudges Draco’s knees further apart so his hand can slip between them, when his fingers trace his lover’s entrance, when he closes his eyes as he lets his fingers—two, at first, breach that little pucker. He hears the way Draco’s breath catches and always drops a kiss on the man’s chest in that moment, twisting his fingers to keep that breath bated for just a second longer.

Harry’s lips find their way back to the man’s neck, slide up and down a tendon as he pumps his fingers once, twice. He wonders what kind of picture they paint—Draco’s legs splayed apart, ridiculous knee-high socks and all, Harry’s slacks caught mid-thigh, his pale arse displayed to the world, burying his fingers in the blond’s with the thoughtful carelessness of a lover.

He crooks his fingers, and Draco gives a strangled, choked cry that makes Harry’s eyes snap open, his knees on the couch shifting to force the man’s legs painfully far apart. His eyes flicker up to meet Draco’s, but Draco’s eyelids hide any glimmers, hide any secrets, and Harry growls, irrationally upset. A third finger pushes in as if in punishment, joining the others to pulse against that spot that makes Draco groan, writhe, react.

“Look at me,” he hisses, and he remembers when he used to care about eyes other than the stormy gray ones that are slowly uncovered for him. He remembers how furiously he fought to get Draco to go with him, to leave this room full of strangers with their curious gazes and shaky hands. The first time, he remembers, he got up and left. You’re sick, he’d spat at the blond; blush reaching his ears as he’d buttoned his slacks up.

Now, though, all he cares about are those light hued eyes gazing up at him, pupils gaping, pulling him in.

“Look at me,” he says again, even though Draco is looking straight at him. He spreads his fingers a beat, because for a second he imagines Draco’s eyes darted to the side, tried to dare look at someone else. “Look at me, you fucking slut,” he hisses, low, wondering if his own eyes are dark with arousal or anger or something else altogether as he feels irrational jealousy set in, “don’t you fucking dare look away when I touch you.”

When Draco is still leaning forward, uncapping vials and downing potions, Harry is careful. He does not close his eyes; does not grit his teeth; does not say a word.

But when Draco is pushed back into the couch, broken down under his hands, Harry knows he is in control.

He moulds him, his knees and his fingers spreading the man, his lips getting him to tilt his head back, to reveal the long column of his throat like a lamb for slaughter.

Draco opens for him with little protests in the form of moans, whimpers, his thighs shaking, his fingernails digging in to Harry’s back as he pulls him closer, says Please, Potter. But Harry doesn’t relent until he feels the muscles around his fingers pulling, clenching and unclenching, until Draco says, in a reedy, pitched voice—

“Harry—“

He feels his heart race, pulls his fingers free with a low groan into the crook of Draco’s neck. His cock, which by then had transferred lube to the blond’s thighs, to their clothes, twitches and yet he waits, watches as Draco’s body tightens in the absence of his fingers.

“Look at me,” he says again, eyes flickering up just in time to catch Draco’s eyes opening again, clearly strained, a beautiful mewl of desperation at his brow. But he’s relentless, nudges his arousal against the man’s thigh, growls: “Tell me.”

Draco babbles like a drowning sinner and Harry wants to wrap his arms around the man and hide him from the world, wants to kiss him till he’s suffocated. Draco Malfoy never pleads, never begs, much less to Harry Potter, but Draco pleads and begs with Harry to fuck him, to touch him, to stay, please, stay. His eyes are bright, then, when he asks, and Harry almost closes his own eyes as he arches forward, one hand guiding the head of his cock to that grasping, twitching pucker, a low growl escaping as he feels Draco’s body match the man’s verbal pleas.

He kisses him as he pushes his hips forward, and again, Harry wonders again what Draco tastes like outside of this room, what he tastes like when he isn’t high on potions that slow his mind and rouse his senses. He feels his balls flush with the man’s skin and grunts, because it feels like heaven, even though they’re in a quiet hell of those addicted to the sterile walls and dirty couches and numbing potions.

He pulls back just enough so he can hear Draco beg, deeper—please, please... and so he can feel him pant, too. He matches each demand, as long as Draco keeps his eyes open, deeper, faster, harder, all matched unless those silvery lashes drop too low, forcing Harry to stop, to hiss Look at me until those depthless grays look up at him again. He wonders what Draco’s eyes look like when it’s just ecstasy, when it’s just sex, wonders how much of this is him and how much is that vile liquid Draco pays fifteen galleons a hit for. He wants to ask if Draco gets off on having an audience, or if it’s the potion making him impatient, unwilling to move.

Their hips match pace. Harry wants to close his eyes but he’s terrified that if he does, he’ll lose the man, that Draco’s eyes will be empty when he looks down again, void like the people scattered around them. His hands move to the backs of Draco’s knees, forcing them up and apart so that he can thrust harder, pull himself nearly all the way out before pushing in again.

He shouldn’t, but he loves when Draco winces, when he chokes in a way that says more pain than pleasure—because his eyes spark and come alive. The sight of it makes Harry’s heart surge, and he loses control a bit, his thrusts a bit uneven as his fingers move to wrap around Draco’s arousal. “Look at me,” he pleads, even though Draco is looking at him.

“Look at me,” he whispers, because Draco’s eyes are just slivers as the man’s body tightens down around him. Harry knows it’s cruel, but he squeezes the head of his lover’s cock to stave off the orgasm, needing the man to look, god, no—to see him.

“Please,” he hisses, and Draco echoes him as their bodies meet and meet and meet, slick sounds caught between them as Harry’s hips snap back and forth, Draco’s hips bucking to meet him. He needs these moments when Draco needs him. He needs these short moments when he is in control, when Draco is his to command, his to have, his. Outside this room, they share only nods and owls short as times and initials. Harry wants to make him promise—to make him promise...

But it’s too late. He feels his body drawing up, his own eyes threatening to close, and it’s only a heady desperation that keeps them open just barely, just enough to keep Draco’s gaze. His lover is begging, crying out, promising things that aren’t quite what he wants but are incredible nonetheless, and Harry fucks him into the couch with a need that tries to suffocate him. When he comes, it feels like he’s drowning, and Harry doesn’t care that there are other eyes on them, or that they’re fucking in the illegal VIP room of yet another illegal wizarding club with enough illegal substances around to get him sacked from his job as an Auror a hundred times over, because Draco is coming for him, and Draco is looking at him and because Draco cries out his name just as Harry groans Draco’s name.

He was—he is supposed to save him. He is supposed to save him from the clutches of this potion, to return him to his wife and his son clear eyed and without the tremors of withdrawal. This is supposed to be an intervention, a salvation, and Once Upon a Time he would stride into these rooms with the intent of stopping him, or at least starting to wean the man off of it.

But instead, Harry is biting his tongue for the chance to taste him, the bitter mocking aftertaste of the man's addiction and all. He sits still, his hands making no move to stop Draco from uncapping those vials and downing them, just for the chance to have those hands on him. Harry eyes the medley of hands and figures in the room suspiciously, analyzes their behaviors critically, and yet squelches his disgust and sits firm just for the chance to touch him, to have one more moment, just one more moment.

Look at me.

He has a wife and three children and a heavily warded dream home with a Crup as a pet.

Draco has a wife and a son and a heavily warded ancestral manor with a flock of white peacocks for pets.

All of this, with a life debt thrown in, means Harry should right Draco, should force him to come clean and to return to their respective Happily Ever Afters.

Look at me.

Under him, chest heaving for breath, Draco whispers his name.

And Harry has never, ever been happier.

This fic is a belated birthday gift for our dear Harry. I, er, don't know if he would have liked it, but I hope you did! Comments are appreciated :).

colormeharry @ 2008-08-10T13:49:00

2008-08-10T17:51:42Z

In the northwest suburbs of Chicago, there are two streets within three minutes of each other.

One is called "Potter Street."

The other is called "Radcliffe Street."

When I drove through Chicago this weekend, I am ~~ashamed~~proud to say that I spotted this when nobody else did in the car.

And I may or may not have been really excited about it.