MalumInFic
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Regulus Black has always been the one who stayed.
Now, at the end of everything, memory rises like a tide. Nights spent listening, words swallowed instead of spoken, and a light left burning.
A one-shot about brotherhood and the price of staying behind. Inspired by Noah Kahan's incredible song 'Porch Light'.
The Great Divide Fest Winner of Most Beautiful Writing in a coat of Despair, Most Gut-wrenching, Best Imagery and Most Beautifully Crafted Sentence
He had learned in this life that hesitation behaved like a living thing: if you fed it even a second, it would take more.
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Draco Malfoy comes to Hogwarts reformed, competent, and wearing light blue.
Hermione Granger is furious about all three.
She had not written anything down, had not organised her objections into numbered subsections, and had absolutely not lain awake the previous Tuesday rehearsing the more salient points into the dark of her bedroom ceiling.
She was simply a colleague, raising a collegial concern, in a collegial manner, over tea.
"Professor Granger," he said respectfully. Not a flicker of anything performed.
She was even more suspicious.
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The pen-pal: charming, vulnerable and writes letters that make Hermione's heart race (and her thighs clench)
The colleague: insufferable, reoganises all of Hermiones filing systems and argues about everything
The problem: they're the same person
The solution: three months of letters, one Christmas Eve gala, and a glass or two of champagne
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“I’m not that man yet,” Sirius said. “Right now, I’m just a bloke who’s been told his entire future is tragedy, sitting in a cottage with the most extraordinary witch I’ve ever met, trying to figure out what to do with borrowed time.”
Hermione books a remote cottage in the Cotswolds for a quiet, lonely Christmas. Just her, a rumoured Enchanted Fireplace, and a clock that shouldn’t be able to strike thirteen.
One wish, one night, and magic that has some very particular ideas about what "feeling alive again" looks like.
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Hermione returns to the last place she ever thought she'd willingly step into again: Malfoy Manor. There, in a winter-quiet bedroom, in a house that still remembers her screams, she keeps vigil at Draco Malfoy's bedside.
“You were seventeen,” she said fiercely. “You were a child with that mark burned into your arm, and you chose differently anyway.”
He closed his eyes. “I chose you.”