The Boy Who Lived and Loved 💚❤️, Champion of Gryffindor.
Hogwarts
Joined April 2019
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Pottah 🪄 retweeted
"Draconia Malfoy and the Boy Who Said No", a fanfic by
@nomoontwo_
(wattpad.com/1661370191?utm_s…）
Chapter 2.3, Part VII (Page 24-27)
#Malfoid #HarryPotter #Malfoy
🤖 Made with AI
"Draconia Malfoy and the Boy Who Said No", a fanfic by
@nomoontwo_
(wattpad.com/1661370191?utm_s…）
Chapter 2.3, Part VI (Page 20-23)
#Malfoid #HarryPotter #Malfoy
Pottah 🪄 retweeted
Another Malfoid trend just started ^^
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Pottah 🪄 retweeted
Also on youtube :)
youtube.com/watch?v=CtD28oGf…
Pottah 🪄 retweeted
To every yearner keeping this alive: thank you. The yearning never stops, and neither do you🐍💚
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Pottah 🪄 retweeted
STAY — Episode 5 | This Dance
In full view of the ballroom, Harry uses the mark to interrupt another man’s invitation to dance. Draco agrees to stay—with one condition: her parents and Granger leave first.
He fastens a diamond necklace around her neck. For a moment, the music draws them closer. But tenderness cannot erase humiliation, and a dance is not surrender.
When the music ends, her fingers close around the hidden key. This time, she’s fighting for her own freedom.#Malfoy
Episode 4 | She Was Going Back Anyway
Granger returned with news from Riddle—and an object that had to be kept hidden. A clandestine hand-off in a corridor caused the fragile, newly mended relationship to grow taut once more.
Just as Malfoy prepared to head back, Harry activated the Black Stone. Wands failed, and a volley of defensive spells came hurtling toward them; Granger pulled her away just in time.
“I was going back anyway.”
Faced with this explanation, Harry demanded she surrender her wand. Only as she prepared to leave did he release the Black Stone and utter the words:
“Stay.”
But now that she is finally free to make her own choice, will those words be enough to keep her?#Malfoy
Pottah 🪄 retweeted
#MALFOID DATING SIM 💚 | Potion Accident Teaser 🧪
- HUGE shoutout to @SylvieRuru for voice acting Loli Malfoid
#PurebloodAndPrejudice
Pottah 🪄 retweeted
I don't think people fully understand just how magical the Malfoid Movement really is, especially for those on the right.
Think about it. For the last 10–20 years or so, whenever people tried to argue that the right still had some degree of cultural influence, what examples did they usually bring up?
Almost always The Lord of the Rings, and only in the last decade or so has anime become another common example. And I understand why. A lot of anime still embraces relatively wholesome themes and values that are familiar to Western audiences, such as chivalry, honor, loyalty, sacrifice, and traditional romance.
But that's the problem. It's still Japanese culture at the end of the day.
These works are written by Japanese authors, in Japanese, and primarily for Japanese audiences. Yes, many are inspired by Western culture, and some even borrow heavily from European history, mythology, and literature. But inspiration is not the same as cultural origin. You can certainly appreciate these works for their values, but trying to claim them as achievements of Western culture is rather silly when they were ultimately created within a completely different cultural environment. A Confucian environment =/= a Western environment, despite the similarities.
Unlike anime, the entire foundation of Malfoid is Harry Potter, a work deeply rooted in British and broader European culture. The boarding schools, aristocratic families, castles, folklore, social hierarchies, and even the general atmosphere of the wizarding world are all drawn from that cultural background. And regardless of what J.K. Rowling says or believes today, the fact remains that she is a British author who was born and raised within that Anglo cultural tradition. There is no need to awkwardly attribute Western cultural influences to something that was created outside of it. Those influences are already present in the original work. Just look at the Basilisk, Albus Dumbledore acting as a Merlin figure, the use of Latin, and so on. There's no awkward reinterpretation of these elements as "Kuro Ryuu" or "Kaze Ryuu." They're presented directly as what they are, like the Basilisk itself.
Now, what makes the Malfoid Movement particularly remarkable is that people are taking this existing foundation and actually creating something new from it.
And I think this is something that a lot of people, especially those who spend their time complaining about the decline of Western culture, fail to understand.
There is a fundamental difference between consuming culture and creating culture. For years, people have been pointing toward Tolkien, or more recently anime, as examples of the values and storytelling they wish were more common. But pointing toward an established masterpiece and praising it is not the same as producing and creating something yourself.
With Malfoid, however, we are seeing ordinary people create artwork, fanfiction, character interpretations, and entire romantic narratives within an existing Western literary universe.
There was no political organization behind it, no corporate campaign, and no grand attempt to manufacture some kind of cultural revival. People simply liked the idea and started creating.
And there's another aspect of this movement that I find particularly interesting, Harry Potter was originally written in English.
Seriously, can any of you imagine what would have happened if Harry Potter had originally been a Japanese LN? Before the movement could even gain momentum, we'd probably already be bombarded with localizers and self-appointed "cultural interpreters" arguing about what the author actually meant, whether the fans understood the original text, and why certain interpretations were supposedly wrong.
But Harry Potter is different, since it was written in the modern lingua franca. English-speaking fans can read the original work directly, without having to rely on a translation or somebody else's interpretation of what the author supposedly intended. Of course, people can still argue about the meaning of the story, but at least there is no language barrier separating the audience from the original text.
But going back to my original point, what makes this entire movement so remarkable is that it represents something people have been complaining about for years without necessarily recognizing it when it finally appears.
For the last two decades, we've heard endless arguments about the decline of Western creativity, the disappearance of traditional romance, and the supposed inability of modern audiences to produce anything worthwhile. And yet, here we are, witnessing thousands of people enthusiastically creating new stories and artwork based on a Western literary work. So I seriously doubt that most of the naysayers complaining about Malfoid even understand what the movement represents in the first place. And that's why I keep saying that Malfoid is bigger than all of them.
It's bigger than some niche, snobbish author trying to lecture everyone about what constitutes good literature.
It's bigger than these politically addicted commentators who seemingly cannot look at anything without turning it into another culture-war clickbait.
And it's certainly bigger than the divide between the left and the right.
Because what we're witnessing here, at least to me, is something far more interesting. I would go so far as to argue that the Malfoid Movement is an outward expression of the creative spirit of Western youth. People from different Western countries, different culture backgrounds, and entirely different walks of life are coming together to create something simply because they find it beautiful, romantic, or interesting. They aren't waiting for some established literary authority to tell them whether their ideas are worthwhile. They're simply putting those ideas into the world and allowing others to build upon them.
And isn't that what culture is supposed to be?
Not something permanently confined to a handful of established masterpieces, nor something that belongs exclusively to one political faction, but a living tradition that ordinary people continuously contribute to.
Culture doesn't survive simply because people keep pointing toward the achievements of previous generations. It survives because new generations continue to engage with it, reinterpret it, and eventually contribute something of their own!
The next genuinely great work to emerge from this movement might already be getting written right now. Whether it becomes a classic is something only time can tell, but the creative potential is certainly there.
That's why I find it so embarrassing when people who constantly talk about defending culture turn around and dismiss the very people who are actively participating in it. You cannot spend years complaining that nobody creates anything worthwhile anymore, only to ridicule people the moment they actually start creating.
At some point, you have to ask yourself whether these people genuinely care about culture, or whether they simply enjoy complaining about its decline.
The Malfoid Movement is bigger than any single right-wing movement could ever hope to be.
It's grown so large that it transcends language barriers. I've seen Japanese and Chinese people reading my stuff, liking it, and interacting with it. And that's not even mentioning the unimaginable amount of talent that's been working around the clock for the past few weeks, creating art, music, stories, and everything in between. It's a massive outpouring of creativity on a scale that the right could only dream of achieving.
And to dismiss all of that as just "genderbender Tumblr" stuff is the clearest example of why the right keeps fumbling and losing to the left. You'd think any united right-wing movement, or really any political movement with some common sense, would recognize the potential here and try to steer that cultural momentum in its own direction. Instead, all we get is this endless longhouse-esque nagging.
And honestly, this is one of the reasons I've become so much less attached to the modern right and more interested in traditional values, particularly those associated with the aristocracy. Because I've come to realize that there are genuinely beautiful, timeless values worth preserving in those traditions, while so much of the modern right and its influencers are just charlatans who have nothing meaningful to offer.
Frankly, they're a waste of time.
Pottah 🪄 retweeted
🤖 Made with AI
#Malfoid #HarryPotter #Fanfiction
Year 4
Chapter 9
---
They rose together into the cold air above the Shrieking Shack, the weathered boards shrinking beneath them as the wind caught their brooms and pulled. The late light turned the treetops gold and the distant village a scatter of warm windows. Harry leaned forward on the Firebolt and felt the familiar surge of speed answer him. Lyra matched him for the first long stretch, her Nimbus cutting a clean line beside his, ponytail streaming.
He banked hard left. She followed, tighter than he expected, the edge of her turn shaving past the crooked chimney of the Shack. Harry grinned into the wind and pulled up, then pitched the Firebolt’s nose almost vertical. The broom shuddered. For a heartbeat the air seemed to stall against him the way he had described at the table—speed bleeding away, the world tilting—then he dropped the nose and drove forward again. Lyra shot past him in a rush of red jumper and pale hair, close enough that he felt the slipstream tug at his sleeves.
She did not overshoot for long. A barrel roll carried her up and over him, inverted for a clean second, then righted and diving back onto his tail with a laugh he heard even over the wind. Harry answered with a sharp climb that took them both higher, the Shack and the fence falling away until the village was only a smudge of light below. She stayed with him on the turns, cutting inside his wider arcs, forcing him to bleed speed or risk losing her entirely. The Firebolt was faster on the straight. Her Nimbus answered quicker when the air grew complicated.
They chased each other through the fading light until Harry’s arms ached and Lyra’s laughter came in short, breathless bursts. He pulled another stall-and-drop that left her cursing and grinning in equal measure. She answered by skimming so low over the Shack’s roof that loose shingles rattled, then climbing straight at him until he had to roll clear or collide. Neither of them slowed. The cold bit at their faces. The wind tore at their clothes. For a little while the rest of the day—the shop, the argument, the careful lines they usually kept—fell away beneath them, and there was only the sky, the brooms, and the bright, uncomplicated joy of trying to catch each other.
Lyra dipped low over the Shack again, lower than the last pass. The Nimbus caught the edge of a loose tile. The broom jerked. She spun, the world tilting hard, and Harry was already diving. He came in beside her, one arm locking around her waist, and eased them both down in a controlled arc that ended with their boots on the frost-stiff grass. They were both breathing hard. The Firebolt hovered, steady, under them until he swung off and set it down.
“I… I could have handled that—!”
“You were about to crash.”
“I was not! And if I was, it was because of you!”
He scowled. She scowled back. They were close enough that he felt the warmth of her breath against his mouth, close enough to see the faint freckles across her cheeks and the way a strand of hair had stuck to her lower lip.
“Me? I saved you.”
“Oh, you did not—!”
“Yes, I did. Just like I did on the Quidditch pitch—”
“You didn’t save me!”
“Of course I did, and I saved you right now. You’re just too stubborn and arrogant to admit it.”
“I’m stubborn and arrogant?!”
“You’re the definition of stubborn and arrogant—”
She kissed him.
It was sudden and unpracticed. Her mouth pressed against his, warm and certain, and the heat that went through him felt less like warmth and more like a current. He leaned into it. She did the same. Their teeth knocked once. Neither of them pulled away. It was clumsy and imperfect and, for the length of it, the only thing either of them seemed able to do.
They broke apart still breathing hard, foreheads nearly touching, eyes locked.
“I… I…”
“I…”
Lyra stared at him. Harry licked his lips. Every word he reached for refused to leave his mouth.
“MALFOY!”
Crabbe and Goyle came over the rise at a run, Millicent a few paces behind them, looking resigned.
“I’m sorry, Lyra,” Millicent said. “They broke loose—”
“Get your hands off her!” Goyle shouted. “Her da will have our hides if you—!”
“Both of them!” Crabbe added.
“I said that—!”
“Shut up, Goyle! He’ll kill you first!”
“Not if I sell you out first—!”
“You two stop that at once—!” Lyra snapped.
“I didn’t—!” Harry started.
“HARRYYYY!”
Ron crested the hill at a dead run, eyes wide. “Harry! Hide me! Loan me some money—I gotta get out of here!”
“What?! Why?!”
“Ron Weasley, you get back here and snog me right now!” Daphne’s voice carried, somehow still deadpan even at volume. Hermione appeared behind her, flushed and furious.
“Don’t you dare, Greengrass!”
“He’s mine! Go off and be one of those weird lesbians in London!”
“I am not a lesbian!”
Tracey and Pansy followed, both shouting.
“Daphne! You’re mental for going for a Weasley—!”
“I tried, Lyra! Daphne’s gone mad—!”
“I have found my perfect wizard!”
“He’s not yours!”
“Then claim him yourself, coward!”
Hermione went scarlet. “No!”
Lyra’s eyebrow twitched. She raised her wand and fired a sharp, cracking blast of sound into the air. Everyone flinched. The shouting stopped.
“Look at yourselves,” she said, voice cutting and clear. “We’re supposed to be Hogwarts students and you’re acting like a pack of baby goblins who found a bit of tin. Crabbe. Goyle. I told you, I choose Potter. To go out with. In this instance. Go back to the carriages.”
“B-but Lyra, he told us to—”
“Did either of you slay the Dark Lord? Or a basilisk? Or a hundred Dementors? No? Then I think I’m fine. Go. Millicent, make sure they go.”
Crabbe and Goyle slunk off. Millicent gave Lyra a small, approving smirk and followed. Lyra turned to the remaining Slytherins. Daphne had frozen mid-step toward Ron, who was still half-hidden behind Harry.
“Daphne. Sort out your romantic issues with Weasley at the castle.”
“I suppose I’ll just need to use the Body-Bind. That way he can still talk.”
“You will not—!” Hermione started.
“Sort out your feelings too, Granger!”
Hermione went brighter. “I do not have any feelings—!”
“Hermione,” Harry said, quieter. “Come on. Let’s… let’s not make any more scenes, okay?”
She scowled, but after a moment she nodded. Lyra’s glare moved to Pansy and Tracey.
“We did nothing wrong! Honest!” Tracey said.
“Except spy on you,” Pansy added.
“Spy on us better next time. Honestly. This is pathetic.”
“…True,” Pansy muttered.
They took Daphne by the arms and pulled her away. Daphne smiled, small and unbothered, and winked at Ron as she went.
“Floo me!”
Ron gaped, ears red. Lyra turned to Hermione and Ron.
“Same to you. How do you sneak out of the common room so often?”
“That’s… I mean…” Hermione glanced at Harry, worried.
“…It’s okay, Hermione.” He shrugged, heat still in his face. “It… well…”
Understanding crossed her expression. She nodded, then glared at Lyra. “You try anything—”
“I won’t.”
“…Good. Ron?”
He peered out from behind Harry. “…Do you have romantic feelings for me too, Hermione?”
She went scarlet. “N-no! Not at all! I—I just think you can do better than Greengrass!”
“Well… I mean, I do like playing chess with her, before she went mad—”
“Beat it!”
“Okay, okay! We’re going! We’re going!” Ron shook his head, muttering uncomplimentary things about the fairer sex as he headed for the hill. Hermione followed. She gave Harry a small, careful smile before they disappeared over the rise with everyone else.
The field went quiet. Wind moved through the grass. Harry and Lyra stood where they were, close, neither quite sure how to close the remaining distance or whether they should.
“I… I uh…”
“…Lyra, I… the truth is… this date and all, it…”
“…Yes, Harry?”
He had used her name. She had used his. He liked the way it sounded from her.
Her eyes were wide, open in a way he had not seen before—hopeful, careful, and something warmer underneath.
He licked his lips. “…I… I want to do it again.”
“…M-me too.”
“And… maybe… other things. Besides Hogsmeade.”
Color flooded her face. “H-Harry! I—I can’t—not—I mean, I’ve thought about those things but—but we’re so young—but—I—I mean if you really wanted to—”
“I meant, you know, kissing. Hand-holding. Um. That… sort of thing.” He blinked. “What were you talking about?”
“…The same. Same thing.” She was bright red.
“I’m just… worried about your father.”
“I know. He… might be an issue, but…” A small smile returned. “Dating the Boy Who Lived can’t be a bad thing for my family image, now can it?”
He laughed, short and surprised. “Well. As long as it’s not just for that.”
“No. Not at all.” Harry sighed through his nostrils.
“So… How do we… Do this?”
Lyra flushed.
“I… Don’t know,” she admitted. ‘I like kissing and handholding, so… We can just do that?”
Harry nodded eagerly.
“Y-Yeah… Totally fine with that.”
They stood there, close, unsure how much closer to get, and still together. Harry leaned his head lightly against hers. The cold air moved around them, something warm keeping the chill at bay. They held hands. She smiled at him again and his heart pounded like a drum.
Best prank ever, he thought, and did not examine the thought too closely.
---
The cottage sat at the end of a rutted lane in Yorkshire, half its roof still patched with temporary charms and the rest waiting for Sirius’s next attempt at proper mending. Inside, the single main room smelled of woodsmoke, old paper, and the sharp green scent of the potion ingredients Remus kept drying near the hearth. Sirius had claimed the better chair and was paging through one of Remus’s anonymously published monographs with the expression of a man determined to find something worth arguing about. A wand he had acquired in Brazil rested on the arm of the chair, still faintly warm from the last round of repairs.
“You think you can use a Patronus as a… ‘Punch Ghost’?” Sirius said. Remus, finishing some patching on a window, rolled his eyes.
“A very crude descriptor—”
“But accurate,” Sirius pointed out.
Remus sighed and flicked his wand at a stack of plates, sending them flying back into the cupboards. “It is not a ‘Punch Ghost.’ You can use a sufficiently powerful Patronus to affect physical matter. And anyway, most Patroni don’t have hands, so they can’t punch.”
“Punch Ghost sounds better than Hit Ghost.”
“Don’t use either of them.”
“I’m going to.”
“Of course you are.” Remus set the plates into their correct nooks with more force than necessary. “So. What did you talk to Harry about?”
Sirius snorted.
“Girl troubles. What else?”
“Oh?” Remus’s mouth twitched. “That Malfoy girl?”
“Yes!” Sirius laughed. “God, she’s obsessed with him!
“She absolutely is,” Remus chuckled, “But this is the first year they could do something about it. Though Dumbledore thought they would take until fifth year to figure something out. Minerva thought the same. Pomona thought-”
“Bloody hell,” Sirius chuckled, “is the entire school in on it?”
Remus smiled wanly.
“Heh. Pretty much. I think even Severus had a wager or two.”
Sirius stared. “No kidding. Well… I helped him out.”
“As I told you to,” Remus said with a smile. Sirius grinned.
“Oh trust me… I gave him everything he needed.”
Remus’s expression shifted into the particular blend of exasperation and scolding that Sirius had known since they were eleven. “Padfoot. You didn’t tell him about—”
“Oi, oi! I kept it age appropriate!”
“You tried to sneak into the girls’ Quidditch locker rooms at his age!”
“I was an early bloomer! Clearly Harry’s going to take his time. I was perfectly responsible!”
Remus gave him a flat, unimpressed look.
“I’m his guardian! I need to be responsible!”
The look deepened.
Sirius shifted. “I just imagined things you would yell at me for and didn’t put those in.”
“All right. What about things I would hex you for?”
“None of that either. I promise.”
“Padfoot—”
“What? I did my best. I think it’s all going to work out fine—”
The two-way mirror in his pocket chimed, Harry’s voice cutting through the room. “Sirius!”
Sirius fished it out and tapped the glass twice. Harry’s face appeared, windblown and bright-eyed.
“Harry! How’d it go?”
“G-great! Just great! Um… you know… we uh…” Harry grinned, sudden and unguarded. “We kissed.”
Remus paused with. “Today?”
“Yes!”
Remus grinned.
“Oh, that’s fantastic, Harry!”
“Yeah.” Sirius winked at the glass. “Told you it would work. So… what’s next?”
“Ah… well… I mean… we’re going to the Yule Ball and a second date at Hogsmeade. We’re trying to keep it quiet since her father and all…”
Sirius winced.
“Oh, yeah. That’s a bother.”
Remus’s smile was faint and knowing. “Indeed.”
Harry looked at them, hopeful.
“So… you think you can give me more advice?”
Sirius grinned. “All the advice you want, Harry. Promise.”
Remus’s scowl arrived on schedule. Sirius coughed.
“Tomorrow. You gotta get some sleep, or Moony’ll beat me. Such an abusive spouse. I slave all day in the kitchen for him and this is the thanks I get?”
“I will not beat you, Sirius. I’m in too good a mood. And I was the one slaving all day!” Remus turned back to the mirror, beaming. “Congratulations, Harry.”
“Thank you! Stay safe, please!”
The mirror went dark. Sirius turned it over in his hands and raised an eyebrow at Remus.
“You’re uncharacteristically cheerful, Moony.”
“Why shouldn’t I be happy that Harry had his first kiss?”
“Oh, you are. But you’re happy about something else. Something related to it—”
A Hogwarts owl battered its way through the half-open window, wings laboring under the weight of a very large, clinking bag. It landed on the table with an exhausted thump. Remus fed it, paid it, and watched it groggily launch itself back into the night. Then he opened the bag. Galleons spilled across the scarred wood in a bright, heavy pile.
Sirius stared. “…Moony. By any chance did you place a bet in the pool?”
Remus’s smile was the picture of innocence. “…Maybe.”
“And did you by any chance encourage me to write to Harry to help him with this… just so you could win it?”
An innocent shrug. “Well. I was helping Harry at the same time I was helping you both, so…”
Sirius laughed until he had to brace a hand on the table. “God, Moony. I missed you.”
“Same, Padfoot.” Remus began stacking the coins with quiet satisfaction. “Same.”
“Still, you needed me to actually get it done,” Sirius stated.
Remus sighed in annoyance.
“Yes, I did.”
“And this is why I'm the godfather and you're not!" Sirius crowed.
Remus gave Sirius the least impressed look yet.
"You're the godfather because you rigged the coin toss!"
Sirius just smirked.
"Prove it!"
---
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