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Harry Potter hated quills. He hated quills since Hagrid had taken him to Diagon Alley for the very first time, back when he was eleven years old. (“I’m going to need some pens and pencils,” he had said to Hagrid, the picture of naïveté. Hagrid had stared at him in confusion while he described the writing implements, then he had broken out into a grin and handed him an over large feather. A feather. With a bottle full of ink.)
They were impractical beyond measure. He had snapped no fewer than five quills his first week at Hogwarts. His books simply crushed them when everything was together in his bag. And don’t even get him started on the jars of ink. The very glass, very fragile jars. Full to the brim of ink.
He had lamented about the ridiculousness of quills to anyone who would listen. Ron and Neville had stared at him in confusion as he tried to explain a writing utensil made of plastic. (“Where does the ink come from, then?” Ron had asked no less than four times. “Muggles think of such silly alternatives to magic,” Neville had laughed. Hermione had shaken her head sadly, the only one who could relate to and understand his despair, and told him in no uncertain terms that in the wizarding world, one must abide by wizarding customs. He had refused to speak to her for three days, since she had crushed his last hope of finding someone capable of listening to reason.)
Harry had considered staging a non-violent protest, but seeing as how there was no alternative to the quill available to him, he decided it was futile.
Harry’s second year, he brought three pens, two pencils, and a highlighter he had pilfered from Dudley, since his aunt and uncle refused to spare a penny toward anything that might bring Harry joy. He had hoarded these treasured belongings like a miser with his gold. He wrote essays with renewed vigor, wondering if next he should bring with him a notebook, because parchment was only slightly less ridiculous than the quill. (Measuring essay length in inches of parchment had absolutely baffled him when he first realized what was expected of him. “Was I meant to have brought a ruler?” he had asked. “Dear boy,” Flitwick had responded, looking worried, “What on earth is a roo-ley?” Harry had simply walked away, absolutely despondent.)
His stash of muggle writing supplies lasted him through roughly half of the second year. It was with no small amount of regret that he threw his last eraserless nub of pencil into the rubbish and picked up one of his emergency quills. He snapped the first cursed quill within the hour.
The next year he had been in luck- he had traded Dudley his dinner for a week for an entire box of pens. Aunt Petunia had sobbed tears of joy when her little Dudders had asked for pens “to use for his studies.” Whenever Harry’s stomach growled, he pictured himself writing Transfigurations essays with a flimsy quill, pausing every four words to dip the tip into a precariously perched bottle of ink. When he carefully packed a twelve pack of black pens away in his trunk, he knew it had been worth it.
When he was thirteen, taking notes during a Potions lesson, Draco Malfoy noticed him using a pen for the first time. (“What on earth is that?” Draco had sneered as he pulled an elegant eagle quill from the depths of his bag. Harry was quite used to people asking him about his pen, so he rolled his eyes and explained through gritted teeth that muggles write with them. Snape stalked over, scolded Harry for interrupting his class, and took five points from Gryffindor. Harry seethed, and Draco grinned.)
At fourteen, Harry had little time for schoolwork. How anyone expected him to prepare for death-defying Triwizard tasks as well as keep up with all of his lessons, he didn’t know. He was pouring over a book about water magic, trying to figure out how to breathe underwater for an hour (hadn’t Dumbledore told the school the tasks would be less dangerous this year?) when Draco Malfoy swiped the pen off of his desk. (“My father doesn’t think you’re going to last ten minutes in this tournament, scarhead,” he had said as he inspected the pen, “but if he knew you couldn’t even manage using a proper quill, he would know you’re not likely to last even five.” Harry grit his teeth. “Just give it here and go, Malfoy.” Draco smirked, throwing the pen down. “Don’t worry, I don’t want your trash.”)
When he was fifteen years old, the school was taken over by a tyrant who refused to believe that the Dark Lord had returned, and who also seemed to have a personal vendetta against Harry’s pens. The first time the squat witch had caught him writing with a pen, she had let out a delighted giggle and confiscated it at once. (“Oh no, in my classroom you will write with a proper quill.”) Months later, whenever he held his pen, the thin white scar etched into the back of his hand was on display. (I must not tell lies.) For various mostly-not-quill-related-but-they-certainly-didn’t-help reasons, his fifteenth year was one of the worst of his life, and he was not sad to see it done with.
Though Voldemort was still at large and his godfather was still dead, his sixth year at Hogwarts was the first time he felt like he could breathe in over a year. It was also when he was sixteen that all of his friends accused him of being obsessed with Draco Malfoy. This was completely and categorically untrue. Sure, Draco was no doubt up to something nefarious, and of course Harry was most interested in learning what it was. Yes, he had been tracking him on the Marauders Map at night and sometimes between classes, and okay, once or twice (a week) he donned the invisibility cloak and tailed him to make sure he was safely back in his dormitory at night, but that was far from obsession. He was in the courtyard one sunny day, twirling his pen between his fingers and staring at nothing in particular, contemplating if it was time to take out the Map once more, when Draco found him. He said nothing, just snatched the pen from Harry’s hands. He opened his mouth with an insult no doubt burning the tip of his tongue, when Harry interrupted. “You can keep that, if you want,” he shrugged. “You might find you like it better than writing with those ridiculous eagle quills.” (Draco hadn’t known what to say, looking completely off-kilter from Harry’s kind tone. This had, after all, been Harry’s aim. Harry was most certainly not interested in the faint dusting of pink that climbed up Malfoy’s neck and spread across his cheeks. He didn’t even look when Draco swallowed hard and his Adam’s apple bobbed enticingly. Draco stared down at the pen with an inscrutable look on his pointed features. Finally, Draco sneered and responded, “Malfoys don’t write with these muggle things,” before walking away. Harry saw him slip the pen into his pocket as he left.)
Then, one late night in the Astronomy Tower, he watched as Draco lowered his wand. His shaking hand reached into his pocket, and Harry could have sworn he saw the clicky top of his pen, just before Severus Snape stepped into the room and murdered Albus Dumbledore.
Harry’s seventeenth year, he never once found himself in need of anything to write with. He thought of Draco Malfoy’s pale, petrified face, and wondered if he still had the pen Harry had given him.
In the ruined remains of the castle he had loved as his home for the past eighteen years, Harry found out that Draco had, in fact, kept the pen. (“Did you try writing with it?” Harry asked, fingers carding absently through silky blond strands of hair. Draco scoffed, leaning into the touch. “Malfoys don’t write with muggle inventions.”) Draco kept the pen like a talisman, something to hold onto when smoke seemed to fill his lungs and he couldn’t close his eyes without seeing a green flash of cursed light. Harry didn’t mind seeing him write with the ridiculous eagle quill, even when there was a clearly superior pen only inches away.
The boys were happy, and yes, all was well.