Who's the pathetic one now?
feat. Draco Malfoy x fem!reader
SUMMARY: Draco hating you but is secretly obsessed???
CW: bullying, obsession, they're both kinda freaky idk, no smut but maybe a tiny bit suggestive?, mc and draco are both sick in the head
a/n: My very first fanfiction! Happy Reading!
The halls of Hogwarts always felt colder in the dungeons, but for you, the chill was a comfort. Being a Slytherin meant being ambitious and cunning, but you chose to pair those traits with a kindness that most of your housemates found baffling.
To Draco Malfoy, it was offensive. Or so he claimed.
It was a Tuesday afternoon, and you were walking toward the Great Hall when a sharp shoulder slammed into yours. You stumbled, your books nearly spilling across the stone floor.
"Watch where you’re going, Y/N," Draco sneered, his silver eyes flashing with a familiar, practiced disdain. "You’re far too busy smiling at Hufflepuffs to notice what’s right in front of you. You’re a disgrace to this house. Pathetic, really."
He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper as he noticed the small, expensive box of Honeydukes chocolates sitting on top of your bag— a gift you’d found in your locker that morning.
"And who left you those?" he scoffed, gesturing at the chocolates with a curl of his lip. "Probably a charity case. Some pathetic soul felt sorry for the girl who tries too hard to be nice. No one would actually like you for real, Y/N. It’s a pity gift."
He pushed past you, his hand lingering on your arm just a second too long—a firm, unnecessary grip that sent a jolt through his fingers before he ripped them away. You watched him walk off, his stride confident and arrogant.
What Draco didn't know was that you were much more observant than he gave you credit for. You noticed how he always seemed to "accidentally" be in the North Corridor right when you finished Ancient Runes. You noticed how his eyes tracked you across the Common Room, tracing the line of your jaw with a hunger he couldn't quite mask.
But mostly, you noticed what went missing—and what appeared.
A quill you’d used all week would vanish, only to be replaced the next morning by a rare, enchanted inkwell left anonymously on your desk. A ribbon would go missing from your hair, and a day later, a silver hair pin would be tucked into your textbook.
Later that evening, while Draco was down at Quidditch practice, you slipped into the boys' dormitory. You knew exactly where he kept his secrets. Beneath a loose floorboard under his bed sat a small, velvet-lined box.
You opened it, feeling a smirk tug at your lips. There they were. Every "lost" item of yours from the last three months was neatly organized. On top of the pile was your favorite handkerchief. You picked it up, pressing it to your nose; it smelled faintly of his expensive sandalwood perfume and the peppermint frogs he liked to snack on.
You knew he slept with this. You’d seen the way he tucked his hand into his robe pocket during Charms, his thumb rubbing against the soft fabric just to ground himself.
You stepped out into the common room just as Draco walked in, looking windswept and irritable. When his eyes landed on you, he immediately sneered, his mask snapping back into place.
"Still hanging around where you aren't wanted, Y/N?" he spat, stepping into your personal space to intimidate you. "You look ridiculous. Get out of my way."
You didn't flinch. Instead, you leaned in, catching the scent of the hair tie he had hidden beneath his cuffs—the one he’d just been smelling minutes before. You let your gaze drop to his wrist, then looked back up into his stormy eyes with a soft, knowing smile.
"Of course, Draco," you whispered, your voice sweet as honey. "I'd hate to be a charity case."
As you walked away, you didn't need to look back to know he was frozen in place. You knew he was reaching for his wrist, desperate to touch a piece of you, never realizing that you were the one holding all the cards.
Who's the pathetic one now?
The heavy oak door to the boys' dormitory swung shut behind Draco with a dull thud. He was agitated, his skin still prickling from that encounter in the common room. The way you had whispered “charity case” back to him—with that knowing, serene little smile—had sent a bolt of cold panic through his chest.
He threw his Quidditch robes onto his trunk and ran a hand through his white-blonde hair, pacing the small space between the beds.
He took a sharp breath, his nostrils flaring. The scent hit him like a physical weight. It was subtle, but to him, it was deafening: the light, floral notes of your perfume, mixed with the faint scent of the vanilla lotion you used every morning.
It didn't belong here. This room should smell like broom wax, old parchment, and the damp stone of the dungeons. But right now, it smelled like you.
"No," he whispered to the empty room, his voice cracking slightly.
He spun around, his eyes darting to every corner. He checked behind the velvet curtains of his four-poster bed. He checked the shadows by the wardrobe. Empty.
He walked over to his bed and sat down heavily, his heart hammering against his ribs. He leaned forward, burying his face in his hands, only to realize the scent was strongest right here, on his own pillows.
"I'm losing it," he muttered into his palms. "I've finally gone mad."
He was convinced his obsession had finally fractured his mind. He spent so much time memorizing your schedule— knowing that at 10:15 AM you’d be walking past the library, or that on Friday afternoons you sat in the third window nook of the Slytherin lounge—that his brain was now projecting you into his private sanctuary.
He reached down, his fingers trembling as he pried up the loose floorboard beneath his bed. He pulled out the velvet-lined box, his breath hitching. Everything was there. The quill, the handkerchief, the bookmark.
He pulled your silk hair tie from his wrist—the one he’d been hiding beneath his cuffs—and compared it to the items in the box. His hands were shaking so hard the silk fluttered.
"She wasn't here," he reassured himself, though his voice sounded hollow. "How could she be? The wards… the stairs…"
He pressed his face into your hair tie, inhaling deeply. It was the only thing that calmed the storm in his head, yet today, it only made the paranoia worse. The air in the room was still thick with you. It felt as if you had just been sitting right where he was, watching him, judging him.
He stood up abruptly, shoving the box back into its hiding place and slamming the floorboard down. He needed to leave. He needed air.
As he reached for the door handle, he caught his reflection in the tall silver mirror. He looked haunted. His pale skin was flushed, and his eyes were wide and unfocused.
“Who’s the pathetic one now?” The thought echoed in his head, though he didn't know why. He felt like a predator who had suddenly realized he was being watched through a glass wall.
He stepped back out into the corridor, his eyes scanning the shadows for a flash of your hair or the hem of your robes. He was certain he was being hunted by a ghost of his own making, never realizing that the "nice" girl he bullied had left that scent behind as a breadcrumb, just to watch him crumble.
The following morning in the Potions dungeon, the air was thick with the steam of brewing cauldrons and the sharp scent of crushed herbs. Draco was a mess. There were faint dark circles under his eyes, and his hands were uncharacteristically clumsy as he tried to slice his Valerian roots.
His mind was still trapped in his dorm room, haunted by the phantom scent of your perfume. Every time he closed his eyes, he smelled you. Every time he heard a floorboard creak, he thought it was you.
"Malfoy, if you add that much powdered moonstone, you’ll blow us all to the Astronomy Tower," you said softly, appearing at his elbow.
Draco jumped, his knife clattering onto the table. He whipped around, his face instantly contorting into a mask of cold arrogance to hide his racing heart.
"Mind your own business, Y/N," he snapped, though his voice lacked its usual bite. "I don’t need advice from a girl who spends more time being 'nice' than actually studying. Go back to your own cauldron before you infect mine with your… mediocrity."
But you didn't move. Instead, you leaned over his table, reaching past him to adjust his heat setting. As you did, you deliberately brushed your arm against his—a slow, lingering contact of skin against skin.
Draco stiffened, his breath hitching. He could feel the warmth of you through his sleeve, and for a second, he forgot how to breathe.
"You look tired, Draco," you whispered, your voice barely audible over the bubbling of the cauldrons. You looked up at him, your eyes wide and seemingly full of concern. "You haven't been sleeping well lately, have you? You’ve been so… restless."
Draco’s silver eyes widened. He felt a cold sweat break out on the back of his neck.
"How would you know that?" he hissed, leaning down so his face was inches from yours, his expression menacing. "Been lurking in the shadows, have you? Looking for more people to annoy with your charity work?"
You didn't flinch at his tone. You just tilted your head, a tiny, innocent smile playing on your lips—the kind of smile that didn't reach your eyes, which remained sharp and observant.
"Oh, I just notice things," you said airily. "Like how you always check your cuffs when you think no one is looking. Or how you’ve started pacing your room until two in the morning. It’s quite a loud habit, you know."
Draco felt the world tilt. He thought he was the one doing the watching. He thought he was the one who knew your every move, your every corridor, your every habit. The realization hit him like a physical blow: you hadn't just been a target. You had been a spectator.
"You…" he started, his voice a low growl of pure panic and confusion. "You’ve been watching me?"
"Watching you?" You laughed softly, the sound tinkling through the dungeon. You reached out and straightened his collar, your fingers grazing the skin of his neck just long enough to make his hair stand on end. "Don't be silly, Draco. That would be pathetic, wouldn't it? And you've told me so many times that I'm the pathetic one."
You gave his collar one last pat and stepped back, picking up your ingredients.
"Try to get some rest tonight," you added, casting one more look over your shoulder. "The scent of stress doesn't suit you as well as… other things do."
You walked back to your station, leaving Draco standing frozen over a ruined potion. His heart was hammering against his ribs so hard it hurt. He reached into his wrist and gripped your stolen hair tie, but for the first time, it didn't bring him comfort. It felt like a trap.
He looked across the room at you, and you caught his eye, giving him that same sweet, devastatingly innocent smile.
He had spent months thinking he was the predator. He was starting to realize he was the prey.
The library was a labyrinth of shadows after hours, the scent of old parchment and dust hanging heavy in the air. Draco waited in the Restricted Section, tucked behind a shelf of crumbling herbology texts. He was vibrating with a frantic energy, his fingers obsessively twisting the stolen hair tie hidden on his wrist.
He knew you’d be here. He had your schedule burned into his brain—Tuesday nights, 8:00 PM, the back corner table near the window.
When you finally appeared, walking gracefully through the aisles with a stack of books pressed to your chest, he didn't wait. He stepped out of the darkness, his hand shooting out to grab your wrist, pulling you back into the narrow, lightless gap between the shelves.
"Alright, enough," he hissed, pinning you against the mahogany wood. He was close enough that he could see the reflection of his own panicked face in your calm, dark eyes. "What are you doing, Y/N? The comments in Potions… the 'noticing' things… What do you think you're playing at?"
Even now, trapped against a shelf by the boy who bullied her for years, you didn't look afraid. You looked… bored.
"I'm just returning books, Draco," you said, your voice a cool silk. "Though I'm surprised you're here. I thought you'd be busy in your room… tending to your collection."
Draco’s breath hitched. His grip on your wrist tightened, but his hand was trembling. "My what?"
"The floorboard, Draco," you whispered, leaning forward until your lips were inches from his ear. "Third one from the left under your bed. It’s a bit loose. You really should fix that."
Draco’s face went ghost-white. He let go of your wrist as if you’d suddenly turned into a serpent. He felt exposed, stripped bare in the middle of the library.
"You've been in my room," he choked out, his voice cracking. "You… you're a freak. You're obsessed with me. I knew you were pathetic, but breaking into a boy's dormitory to spy on him? That’s low, even for a 'nice' girl like you."
He tried to summon his usual sneer, his usual Malfoy bravado, but it crumbled when you started to laugh. It wasn't a loud laugh, just a soft, melodic chuckle that felt like a needle to his pride.
"Me? Obsessed?" You stepped toward him, forcing him to back up into the shelves. "Draco, I only went in there to see where all my things were going. Imagine my surprise when I found a little shrine."
You reached out, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw, lingering on his pulse point—which was drumming like a trapped bird.
"I know about the hair tie Draco," you murmured. "I know you smell my handkerchief to fall asleep. I know you memorize my corridors so you can 'accidentally' touch me. I let you do it because I wanted to see how far you'd go. So tell me…"
You grabbed his hand—the one with the silk tie on his wrist and looked at it.
"Who’s the one stalking who? Who’s the one who can’t breathe unless they’ve stolen a piece of me to keep in a box?"
Draco was hyperventilating now, his back pressed hard against the books. The power dynamic hadn't just shifted; it had completely inverted.
"I hate you," he whispered, though his eyes were wide with a terrifying mixture of shame and desperate want.
"No, you don't," you replied, your voice dropping to a dangerous, sweet low. You reached into his robe pocket, your fingers brushing his chest, and pulled out a small silver trinket—a charm he had stolen from you weeks ago. "You’re absolutely terrified of me. Because for all your talk about me being a 'disgrace' to Slytherin, I’m the only one who saw right through you."
You leaned in and pressed a lingering, soft kiss to his cheek—right near the corner of his mouth—leaving him stunned and breathless.
"Keep the hair tie, Draco," you whispered, turning to walk away. "You look like you need it more than I do."
As you disappeared into the shadows of the library, Draco sank to the floor, his mind spinning in circles. He had tried to break you for six years, only to realize you had been holding the leash the entire time.
The day following the library encounter had been agonizing for Draco. He had spent every meal staring at his plate, his skin crawling with the sensation of your eyes on him. He had skipped his last two classes, unable to face the "innocent" smiles you kept sending him from across the rooms.
By the time night fell, he was a wreck. He was back in his dormitory, the heavy silence of the dungeons pressing in on him. He had spent the last hour pacing, his fingers raw from twisting the stolen hair tie. He felt like he was being hunted in his own home.
He finally sat on the edge of his bed, his head in his hands, when he smelled it again. That unmistakable, soft scent of vanilla and floral perfume.
He didn't even look up. He knew.
"You're back," he whispered, his voice thick with a mix of dread and relief.
"I never really left, Draco," you said softly from the shadows of his curtains.
He looked up to find you sitting there, leaning against his pillows as if you owned the room. You were toying with a silver quill—one of yours that he had stolen three weeks ago. You looked down at him with a calm, almost clinical interest.
"I was thinking about what you said in the library," you murmured, sliding at the end of the bed to sit beside him. "About me being 'low.' About me being a 'freak.' Is that still how you feel?"
Draco looked at you, and the last of his resistance simply evaporated. The mask he had worn since he was a child—the Malfoy arrogance, the bullying, the sneers—didn't just slip; it shattered.
He slid off the bed and sank to his knees on the cold stone floor between your feet. He didn't care how it looked. He didn't care about his dignity. He reached out, his hands trembling as he rested them on your waist, and then he leaned his chin onto your knee, looking up at you with wide, desperate eyes.
"No," he choked out, his voice cracking. "I… I’m the freak. I’m the one who can’t stop. Please, Y/N. I’m begging you… just tell me what you want me to be."
You looked down at him, your expression softening into that terrifyingly sweet "nice" girl look. You reached down, your fingers sliding into his soft, white-blonde hair, petting him with slow, deliberate strokes.
"Good boy," you whispered, a small, triumphant smile tugging at your lips. "I want you to be exactly like this. Quiet. Loyal. Mine."
"I'm all yours." he breathed, closing his eyes and leaning into your touch like a starving man.
You leaned down, your hands framing his pale face. "Then show me," you commanded.
Draco didn't hesitate. He pulled your tie towards him, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that was frantic and desperate. It was the culmination of six years of repressed obsession, of every "accidental" bump in the hall and every item stolen in secret. He groaned into the kiss, his fingers digging into the fabric of your tie as he worshipped you.
The dormitory door swung open. Pansy Parkinson stood there, her eyes wide as she clutched a stack of books she was meant to return to him.
She stopped. Her mouth fell open, books slipping from her fingers and hitting the floor with a series of dull thuds.
There was Draco Malfoy. On his knees. His chin was resting submissively on your knee as you pulled back from the kiss, your hand still buried in his hair, petting him like a mooncalf. He didn't even turn around to look at her; he was too busy staring at you with a look of pure, unadulterated adoration.
"Pansy," you said brightly, your voice as sweet as ever, though your eyes were cold and sharp. "You really should learn to knock. Draco and I were just… reaching an understanding."
Pansy didn't say a word. She backed out of the room, her face pale with shock, realizing that the girl she had mocked for being "too nice" had just brought the Prince of Slytherin to his knees.
The following morning, the Great Hall was a sea of murmurs and the clinking of silverware, but the Slytherin table was uncharacteristically quiet.
Pansy Parkinson sat huddled over her black coffee, her hands shaking. Every time she looked at you—sitting there calmly, spreading marmalade on your toast with a serene smile—she felt a chill crawl up her spine. She opened her mouth to lean toward Blaise, to whisper the scandalous truth of what she had seen in the boys' dormitory, but she felt a heavy presence settle beside her.
Draco slid into the seat next to Pansy. He looked better than he had in weeks; the dark circles under his eyes were gone, replaced by a strange, sharp focus. He didn't look at his breakfast. He looked at you.
"Pansy," Draco said, his voice low and dangerously smooth.
Pansy jumped, nearly spilling her drink. "Yes, Draco?"
"You look like you have something on your mind," he murmured, his silver eyes finally cutting toward her. There was no bullying in his gaze, no sneer—only a cold, absolute warning. It was the look of a man who had found his god and would burn anyone who dared to speak light of her. "I’d suggest you keep your thoughts to yourself. Unless you want to find out just how 'nice' Y/N can really be."
Pansy swallowed hard, her jaw tightening as she looked from Draco’s possessive stare back to your innocent face. She stayed silent.
As the weeks passed, the "weirdness" only intensified. To the rest of Hogwarts, nothing had officially changed. You weren't "together." There were no public displays of affection, no hand-holding in the corridors, and certainly no romantic declarations.
In public, Draco still acted the part of the arrogant prince. He would still "accidentally" bump into you in the halls, his shoulder hitting yours with enough force to make you stumble. He would still scoff and call you a "disgrace" when you helped a first-year find their classroom.
But now, when he did it, you would catch the flicker of desperation in his eyes—the way he practically vibrated with the need for your touch. And when he called you "pathetic," you would simply lean in and whisper a single word into his ear:
The word would send a visible shiver through him, his face flushing as he struggled to maintain his mask in front of his peers.
The stealing hadn't stopped, either. If anything, it had become a game. You would leave things for him to find—a ribbon, a ring you "forgot" at the library table, a letter addressed to no one.
In return, your locker was constantly filled with anonymous, extravagant gifts. Emerald necklaces, rare books, and the finest chocolates from Hogsmeade. Draco would stand across the hall, mocking you for being a "charity case" while his own money sat in your pocket.
Every few nights, you would return to his room. You would find him exactly where you expected: sitting on the floor by his bed, waiting for the click of the door. He wouldn't speak. He would just crawl to your feet, resting his head on your lap while you read your textbooks, his fingers ghosting over the hem of your robes.
He was your secret, and you were his obsession. You weren't a couple, and you weren't friends. You were something much more volatile—a predator and her willing captive, hiding in plain sight.
As you walked out of the Great Hall that morning, Draco followed two paces behind you, his eyes fixed on the back of your head. You caught your reflection in a suit of armor and smiled. You didn't need a title or a relationship. You had something much better.
You had the most powerful boy in the school on a leash, and the best part was, he had never been happier to be there.
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