my dumpsterfire

24 she/her just here for self indulgence (: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guapita

[guapitas]

royalty au where the manalorian is your father’s most experienced and respected knight!

he’s the best at what he does, the silent type with time for nothing but business. that’s precisely why he’s often tasked with the overnight guarding of your bedroom door, with nobody to suspect his sneaking in to see you every night… 🛌 </3

[guapitas]

i yearn for no-droids and their mando fic like a widow in denial. if there were any time for a comeback, it'd be now </3

[guapitas]

NOBODY MOVE and consider being on patrol with joel on that morning, but instead of abby, you find a half-dead john marston after his wolf attack.

it would never make sense logistically but if we all suspend our disbelief i can make it happen 💆‍♀️

[guapitas]

Heyyy ik uve been posting other fics, but I just wanted to pop in n say I love ur Draco series n even if u don’t wish on continuing it…I just wanted to say whatever I’ve read of it I’ve loved it…but if u do decide to continue it trust me there’ll be a whole lot of ppl to come n support u…anyways just wanted to appreciate ur work merry Xmas ❤️

I read this ask a couple of weeks ago and I've legit been thinking about it ever since 💔🥹 YOU ARE FAR TOO SWEET AND KIND. To be honest, The Unwinding is sort of my baby, like I've been marinating that fic in my head for soooo long. I have every plot point and almost every scene planned out by now. I just haven't written the rest of it.

But it makes me so happy and grateful to know that at least one person is out there and would tune back in if I picked it back up 🥹 Thank you sm!! My goal is to finally keep writing for that series and to finish it up (': And I hope that when I do, you enjoy it ^-^ thank you!!!! <3🧎

[guapitas]

thinking about my boys while i outline a john marston fic 🚶💔

[guapitas]

so similar yet so different

[guapitas]

BECAUSE IT'S THE CONCEPT OF meeting john marston on mcfarlane ranch when he first finds bill, then ultimately tagging along on his journey through west elizabeth, mexico, and blackwater 🚶 very much ethel cain's thoroughfare

your horses being best friends, alcohol and stargazing, being the soft to his rough, consoling luisa, whooping ass and getting crushed at poker, bargaining with shopowners, doing the hunting while he does the skinning, making him laugh and laughing at the dumb shit he says 💔 EVERYTHING HURTS

[guapitas]

my babies (they are very grown men)

[guapitas]

i’ve been in the john marston trenches for like two months, ever since i played rdr1 🚶🧎 i’m itching to write a fic for him but i have zero ideas 💔

[guapitas]

my heart is itching to write more of my beloved joel miller x reader 🧎💔 i miss him so bad omfg

[guapitas]

Ring of Fire (Joel Miller x Reader)

Rated: Explicit

Word Count: 7.4k

Summary: When Joel Miller finally returns to his typical patrol station, you aren't expecting his absence to have made much of a difference. But something’s definitely changed, and you don’t quite have the strength to deny it before his hands are between your legs.

Warnings: Needles, stitches, background character death, injuries, fingering, inappropriate behavior on patrol, exhibitionism kind of, age gap?

A/N: I just wanted to write about country music and Joel Miller but got carried away </3 also, I was drinking a beer and listening to said country music while writing this, as Joel would've wanted

After knowing a man for damn near two years, chatting with him should not feel like pulling teeth. 

Though in all fairness, he isn’t always like this. Joel Miller has his good days, even with you— though those might be better defined as good moments— and they certainly never happen on early patrol, when you haven’t so much as seen him in the past two months. Prior to his brief disappearance, he’d been your chief patrol partner for six months, tasked to train you on everything there is to know about protecting Jackson. And when you were suddenly thrown under another professional’s wing one muggy morning, you knew that Joel didn’t owe you an explanation, nor should you even dwell on the matters, but the absence of Joel Miller was, unfortunately, one you’d always notice. Which is… so, incredibly stupid, and you’ll continue to ignore the foolishness of it all, alongside the way you can scarcely look into his eyes without holding your breath. Instead, you’d focus on the stretch of his flannel where it hugs his shoulders, snug around his back that’s facing you while the horses trot. 

A couple of months ago, when lady Rita died, she had left her entire music collection to you; then her rollout rugs to her new neighbors down on main street, handmade baby clothes to Tommy and Maria, and thick old school blankets to Joel Miller. 

“The cream of the crop,” Jesse had said when he handed over the crate, even if he himself wasn’t a fan of Rita’s easy listening. And, like usual, he was right, though it had taken a bit of convincing. Rita had albums going back decades before outbreak day, with nearly every old and sad and twangy country song, and the pre-outbreak modern ones, too— still twangy. 

Back in your one-bedroom, and despite spending every free minute with something playing in the background, you haven’t even made a dent in the grand collection since you’d received it. Not a single name you recognized— Alan Jackson, Shania Twain, George Strait, George Jones— but some songs are familiar, probably from bingo nights at Rita’s, or at town center parties where she slipped her music in when nobody was looking. 

Rita at least went civilized. Maybe it was her charm that leaves her country collection so easy to enjoy, against all odds. Maybe that’s why you’re on patrol with Joel Miller– who you last saw at her funeral– riding fucking horseback, and choking on the silence with one of Rita’s songs stuck in your head. 

When he’s a few paces ahead of you, and you can’t stand eyeing up his back any longer, you catch yourself filling the awkward space with some humming. It’s some song about a little girl named Fancy, of all things, and really, he’s the one that catches you. 

“Reba McEntire?” He doesn’t glance back when he says it, just calls out all nonchalant and gravelly. You jolt up so hard, even your sturdy horse tries to shake the tension out. 

“Oh. Yeah, I think so, actually.” 

“Don’t sound surprised. That’s more my music than yours anyway, I’m sure.” Finally coming up in the distance is your post-up building where you’ll sign off on, but you can’t feel the relief because it’s been like forty minutes already and you’ve only just got him talking. If you had known all it took was some off-tuned humming, shit, you would’ve done it sooner. “One of Rita’s, or what?” 

It might just be your imagination, but you swear his horse is slowing down– or yours is getting faster– like they’re syncing up and inadvertently taking some mercy on you. There’s a better view of his profile this way, where he’s still staring straight ahead with a cool expression and the wind is pushing his salt and pepper hair back. His face eclipses perfectly with the supple sunrise in the background. It would leave you breathless, if not for the sheer need to keep the conversation up. “Yeah, Rita’s.” 

And jesus fucking christ, if there were a time for social ineptness to be barred entirely from an interaction, this would be it, but it’s you talking to Joel Miller so of course not. It’s not like you’ve never upheld a conversation with him before, but it’s been a while, and you’ve forgotten how he… looks. How he keeps his hair long so he can push it back and curl the ends under his ears, or how the curve of his nose ends down at his greying moustache, which swirls out into the greying scruff at his jaw and cheeks. And now the bite of wind has his skin pale and the tip of his nose a rudolph red. Lord. 

Back when Tommy and Maria had introduced you to Joel, you knew that he was hot, plain and simple. You knew he sort of had a kid and a killer shot and, if anything else, was utterly unattainable. Thee Joel Miller wouldn’t be caught dead with anyone on his arm— even flirting seemed to be off limits with him. He kept it straight and easy and always seemed entirely more concerned with all else— community, family, work— before any romantic or lustful pursuit. You at least learned that much from the masses with failed attempts, the rest from observation alone. Unattainable. 

It was a crush back then— before you ever really knew him— but now? Well, it’s pathetic, for one, let alone humiliating. Years out of the traditional academic curriculum, your stomach still flips like a schoolgirl crush whenever his name is mentioned. Christ. 

“What else she got in there? Anything good?” Joel asks, unmoving from his gaze that peers around at your surroundings, like he’s half expecting an infected or a straggler to come tumbling out from the woodworks. At least he knows how to carry a conversation better than you can— which is so fucking sad, now that you think about it, considering it’s an on-patrol Joel Miller. 

“Reba’s good,” you say, and you try not to stammer too much while he makes a noise of affirmation. “Garth Brooks has some good ones too, I think, and Dierks Bentley…” 

“No. Absolutely not.” 

The sheer audacity of him has you gaping, jaw slack with no ability to hide the taken abackness, because, sure, he has Texas origins under his belt but come on! He’s not the connoisseur of country music. “Damn. What’s wrong with them?” 

Joel gives a little grunt. “Garth is fine. Bentley, on the other hand… That’s just new age bullshit.” 

“It’s been over twenty-three years since those albums came out. I’d hardly call that new age. And your cultural literacy is blowing my mind.” 

It’s nice, for a moment, to let yourself talk some shit with Joel, like you haven’t gone more than a few days since your last patrol together. Like you might be convincing not only him, but yourself that there’s nothing more than a trainer-trainee dynamic happening here. For him, at least, that should be the case, but it’ll take a little more devastation on your end to give it up entirely. 

“Like I said, it’s more my music than yours.” He shakes his head and frowns all deep, like enjoying anything but his personal music preference is like spitting on his shoes. “What else?” 

“Um.” You really hadn’t gone into this with the expectation of being interrogated. Filing through the back of your memories, sifting through and playing those albums, you suggest, “George Strait?” 

He looks almost satisfied, before it’s gone again with the wind. “They started calling him the king of country. He’s good, but still too new age for all that praise.” 

“Jesus. How is your taste older than old?” 

It’s hard to discern whether he might crack a smile or if he’s only growing more irritated. Either way, he still hasn’t looked in your direction. When your horses pull into the post, sheltered finally by the protection of your destination, Joel is first to climb off the saddle and tie them up. You continue the roll on the conversation as you swing yourself back to the ground. “Surprisingly little of Jackson actually likes this sort of music, you know.” 

“It’s a post-outbreak thing,” he says, eyes at last landing on you while he waits. “Everybody loved country back then.”

“Maybe everybody in Texas…” 

Something like a scowl sours his face. “What d’you know anyway? You weren’t even close to seein’ the normal word.”  

“I’ll have you know, I just barely missed it. My mom used to say she was pregnant when the world hadn’t totally gone to shit yet.” 

“An outbreak baby nonetheless.” He guides the way off into the building, which is a familiar, beaten down warehouse that you’ve both been tasked on plenty of times before. This route is somewhere in the lower-middle ground of difficulties, even though it’s been months since you’ve started, and even though Joel’s skills might be better equipped elsewhere. Regardless, he continues to lead the way past abandoned equipment, ducking and weaving through awkward entrances that keep the place secure. Every groan and sigh with the bends of his wisened body stir something deep inside of you, low and simmering. 

Patrol. You’re on patrol. 

“Whatever,” you say as you dodge a dangling wire. Then, the memory of one goofy little song has you stifling a laugh and you suggest, this time, “Oh! Kenny Chesney? You ever ridden a tractor before?”

He doesn’t even look back. “Alright, that’s enough of you.” 

“There’s no way you know which song I’m talking about!”

“Yeah, I’m really fuckin’ old and really fuckin’ country.” His offhand curses are breaches in his armory, splits in the steel expression that falters every millisecond, until you have to tear your gaze away from him for the sake of your own blood pressure. “He ain’t even good either. If Rita had any taste— which she did— you’ll find some Johnny Cash in there. Maybe a Linda Ronstadt.” 

If you tried very hard, you might pry the image of a Johnny Cash album from the pit of your brain, but the mental exertion is impossible when Joel’s standing right next to you, breathing heavy. “Sure. I’ll keep an eye out next time.”  

The upper level of the building is your real target, where there’s actual chairs and intact tables, a spare set of binoculars on a windowsill, pens with a clipboard that Joel goes to sign. He handles the clerical business this time while you go to peer out the window, getting a good view of Jackson from this angle. The snow is finally starting to melt this time of year, leaving sporadic and slippery puddles on the ground, but at least you won’t go to bed freezing cold anymore. 

From behind, there’s a grunt of something like indignation– not anything unusual from Joel Miller, and certainly not urgent enough for you to spin around, guns blazing, but enough to pique your interest anyway. 

“Where’d y’all go while I was gone?” 

What the hell is he on about? For a moment, you’re more concerned with the fact that he’s even acknowledged his absence at all. You assumed that it was one of those things that would never go discussed, added to the list of other topics you’d steer clear from during patrols, like home lives or histories or feelings. But he’s looking down at the paperwork and you think he must have noticed your name nowhere on it. 

“I got paired up with Mickey while you were gone,” you say, arms crossing over your chest. “We were on the Foster route all two months.” 

And from his towering stance over the table, shoulders curved over so he can get a good look at the sheet, Joel’s eyes are suddenly pinned at you, maybe looking harder than they have since the day you first met. Even the very first patrol you went on together never had this single intensity in an expression. It’s kind of fucking frightening, and if you weren’t so sure that Joel Miller would never hurt you, you might be busting a hole through the window pane right now. 

Finally, he turns away and curses under his breath. “Jackass. Should’ve told him to keep on this one.” 

“What for?” 

His hands are propping his weight up against the wooden surface, palms at the ledge, and he isn’t answering too quickly. Instead, he’s standing around like he’s trying to find the words. “It’s easier. You aren’t ready for Foster.” 

Alright, that sucks– maybe stings a little bit, too, because what have you been doing for the past six months with Joel then? What have you been doing wrong? 

“I handled myself just fine,” you say, trying to suppress the stubborn tone. “Mickey was impressed, actually.” 

“I’m sure he was. How many kills you get, then?” He’s looking at you with those eyes again, and when you can’t even lie to give him a respectable answer, he eases up and lowers the bearing. “That’s alright. I’m sure Mickey did more showing than teaching, anyway. And you’ve never been the fighter.” 

“I can be,” you say, a little too fast, and you might cringe at how defensive you sound if only you weren’t actually so damn…. well, defensive. 

“But you’re not,” he says real slow, rubbing at his chin now, ruffling the hair. “You help out at the theater and… collect eggs from the chicken coops for fun.” 

And, well— okay, sure, making popcorn is fun and searching for the eggs is satisfying, but that doesn’t mean you can’t wield a gun or protect the city when it comes down to it. In fact, it’s about time you’ve tried to make yourself useful beyond the city walls. As young as you are, with no kids or familial prospects, it’s a no-brainer, which is exactly why you even started patrolling in the first place. 

But now Joel fucking Miller is telling you that you aren’t up for the job? Yeah, your mind won’t let you forget this conversation anytime soon. 

“I also kill infected and locate raiders.” 

“You’ve killed maybe two infected since we started training,” he counters with ease, then takes a seat in one of the dusty chairs and fucking sighs, like the subject matter is tiring him out now. Like it’s a burden to break it to you that you’re nothing but a liability. 

“That’s not fair. Shouldn’t you have been better at training me, then? Actually help me improve?” 

His fingers pinch at the bridge of his nose, one elbow leveraged on his knee, and you can’t stop yourself from noticing how much older he appears here. Handsome, too, of course, but mostly frustrating and old and bitter and every other foul thing you can reasonably muster, because he’s looking fed up with you not understanding something that he’s not explaining. 

Eventually, he manages to spit something out. “Don’t you have a… a boyfriend, or something? He don’t want you out here risking your safety anyway, does he?” 

“I… What?” 

Before you can even begin to unpack everything wrong with Joel Miller and his insane thought processes, a sharp crack bellows out from downstairs. Then muffled voices. 

Joel’s up and armed in the same second. He’s swift and quiet and lingering by the ladder with his finger on the trigger, expression going stone. And like he’s drilled into your brain a dozen times before, you’re ready to shoot and always a pace behind him. 

The voices below never become clear and instead fizzle out, like they’re not entirely stupid and put the pieces together that mean horses probably equal people. It’s so silent that you have half a mind to consider whether they might’ve left, or maybe both you and Joel were imagining things– a shared hallucinatory experience isn’t impossible, right? – but the idea is quickly expelled once the first shot goes off. 

It zips right by Joel’s head, narrowly dodging you both and suddenly you can’t hear a single damn thing besides the ring in one ear and your heartbeat in the other. Joel mutters something and you think it might be towards you, but he doesn’t take his eyes off the ground level for even a moment for you to confirm, so you drop down to your tummy because those sound like instructions Joel might give right now. His unfazed stance sort of proves you right, alongside the way his bullets start fucking flying as soon as you hit the floor. 

There’s a deep groan from somewhere you can’t see, behind the stack of piled up furniture on the first level, you think, then a choking sound afterwards. Some man’s voice curses while the other is gurgling. And he yells something that you don’t quite catch, a threat towards you and Joel, but the thumping in your chest is so fucking loud that you can’t even register it until the man’s body is halfway exposed at the far end of your line of sight. You don’t think before you pull the trigger and get him right in the kneecap. 

He fucking slams to the floor, chest first, mouth wide open in a scream that you can’t hear when he starts crawling away, inching across by his forearms until Joel gets him in the head. 

When the coast is clear, Joel climbs back down the ladder and does a scope of the surroundings before he gives you the go ahead to follow in suit. 

“Shit.” Your ears start working up again when the second body is at your feet and you’re careful not to step in the blood splatters. From the back of their heads, the two guys seem young– maybe strays you could’ve taken back to Jackson if they hadn’t made the first shot. 

Dumbasses, you think, though it isn’t entirely their fault. They could’ve lucked out with you on patrol, but they didn’t know they were up against Joel Miller. 

Joel gives a low, long whistle, like he’s just made real lightwork of these two and even checks their pockets for anything else on their bodies. He doesn’t find anything worth noting, but the sight alone reminds you of the stories you’ve heard. Joel Miller traveling across the country with Ellie, Joel Miller with a head-on aim and a ruthlessness when it comes to survival. To protection. 

And jesus fuck, you have to look away because now is definitely not the time to have something burning hot at the center of you. Instead, you offer to go back up and note this on the check-in sheet. 

“Wait,” he says, prompting you to glance back and meet his eyes again, and there’s something clearly on the tip of his tongue that he can’t seem to find the words for. 

How much time does he spend thinking through the lines before he says them? What is happening inside that mind of his?

Before anything else– the end of his sentence, the answers to your questions– you’re surprising the both of you with your own voice. “Joel!” 

Sprinting through the broken remnants of his two predecessors, a third wields nothing but a knife, but it’s enough. It’s enough to get Joel not once, but twice in the back before he’s even fully turned around with a gun up. 

There’s a hiss of pain from Joel as he stumbles, looking more annoyed than shocked at the interference, though the air shifts when you push forward, trying to get through when the man has his arm raised for another strike. It fucking slices you at the hip, the tip of it briefly jagged onto you until there’s another gunshot and he’s deadweight on the floor, bleeding at what should be his cheekbone. 

“Son of a bitch,” you say, or maybe Joel says it too, while you’re both wincing and panting and so fucking confused as to where that guy came from. 

He grabs you by the shoulder, obtaining your attention once more. “You alright?” 

You nod and his hand gives a squeeze, looking real plainly down at your ripped shirt with the blood starting to stain it, but there’s no way either of you can be helped before you’re sure that there’s really no more of them. He instructs you to stay put, to take a seat on the floor if you need to while he does a perimeter check, gun reloaded. The two massive slits go down his back and through his layers of clothes like a claw mark as he walks away.

If you don’t hear a gunshot or a yell, you figure everything must be alright. And by the time Joel comes back, you’re sure you can let down the guard, and even though you’re still bleeding, the cut is more so just an inconvenience to you now. 

He’s wincing a bit on the way back over to you, clear as day from your view on the floor, leaned up against a wall perfectly across from him. The slices on his back might not be as deep as your single one, but he sure seems entirely more worse for wear. 

“You shoot next time,” he says, looking more pissed off than he did when he left. 

“Get the first aid kit.” 

“You shoot. Y’don’t throw yourself in front of a knife like a dumbass. Use your damn gun.” 

“First aid kit. Please.” You don’t give him a chance to help you up either, standing on your own when he’s finally right in front of you, gun back in your holster. He only gives you that stare again, but this time laced with something else. The majority is that same intensity from before, and maybe you should feel a tad intimidated, but all you can focus on is the way blood must be trickling down his back. He finally does as you wish, though very much begrudgingly. 

The first aid kit is a standard box with any random health shit you can think of. They aren’t used often, but they’re handy if needed. When you first began patrols, you were actually stunned to discover that there was nothing of the sort on any route or trail. 

Joel fetches it as fast as he can manage, stifling the grunts along the way there and back. He reaches out for the fraying fabric of your shirt but you stop him before he gets that far. 

“You first,” you say. 

“Absolutely not.” He almost seems offended at the mere suggestion and reaches out again.

But you aren’t suggesting. You’re insisting. “I’m serious, let me see the cuts, Joel. No doubt they’re worse than mine.” 

And you must at least be right about how much they’re bothering him, because he gives in so easily. With a deadpan and exasperation, he shrugs off his outer layers, hanging them on the closest thing he can find, and turns around like this is the most troublesome thing he could be doing right now. When he lifts his shirt up to reveal his back, toned and thick and bloody as all hell, you swear you see stars. 

Oh, he’s hot. He’s so damn hot, but now is still not the time– which it never would be, but still, he’s bloody for god’s sake, and you’re sick for even letting the thought cross your mind. 

You’re fumbling around with the first aid kit, retrieving the rubbing alcohol and gauze and bandages, whatever you can think of. There’s even a little hand sanitizer that you apply before anything else. 

“Do you know what you’re doing?” He asks after a particularly sharp inhale, just when you drizzle the rubbing alcohol over the long stretch of wounds. With another hand, you’re wiping up the blood trails with a little towelette. 

“Not at all. But anything is better than nothing, I think. It’ll just get worse on the ride back if we don’t cover them up now.” 

His skin is burning, radiating with it while your hands move so slowly, uncertain of every next move but still managing to get the job done. The damage isn’t so deep into his flesh, but it’s widespread diagonally across his back, starting at the shoulder and extending down to his hip.

After a long period of silence, while you’re working with the gauze now, he heaves a real deep breath. “There usually aren’t… There’s never any trouble on this route. Not like that.” 

“I know,” you say, because it’s true, there isn’t. You’ve never encountered armed and dangerous raiders like that before, never on or off a patrol trail. In fact, in all of your time being scheduled for the past several months, you’ve really only come across infected or the occasional wanderer. And even then, you were never the one left to deal with them. “Next time, I’ll shoot. I just wasn’t… thinking straight, I guess. Wasn’t prepared.” 

Joel gives a grunt, his head starting to hang with your fingertips, your fingers, your palms working at his body. Your touch is featherlight, but you wonder, really, if he ever has another person’s skin on a part of him so typically covered up. He’s tense against you, each muscle straining with pain and discomfort, you assume, while you gingerly cover up the slits before blood can start oozing again. 

When you’re patching up the last of it, you finally speak up. “Hey, who was the genius who decided to put first aid kits on all the routes?” 

“The smartass, you mean.” With his back towards you, you have no idea what sort of expression he’s making, but you like to imagine that he’s at least a little amused. “Not the worst idea, but the burn cream seems like overkill.” 

You smile, even as your heart is still somewhere between racing and palpitating in your chest. “We use it all the time at the theater. Better safe than sorry.” 

He very carefully tugs his shirt back down, with your feeble help, once you’ve declared it good enough to ride back to Jackson. But then he’s facing you again, his fingers pinching at the torn up spot of your top, and you’re reminded of that aching nuisance– that pain dulling at your side. The stain of deep red has stretched further along the fabric in the time that you spent patching Joel up. 

“I can handle it,” you say before he can lift the shirt to get a proper look at the injury, and even you’re able to hear the indecision in your voice. 

“Let me,” he mutters, like it’d be a bigger inconvenience for you to not cooperate, so you do. Though you’re not quite prepared for the sucker punch of air tickling at the battered up skin, nor for the grit of Joel’s teeth. “Jesus.” 

“It… it didn’t feel that bad before…” You pin your shirt up just enough to give him access to the gash, trying not to writhe against the rough pad of his fingertips framing it. 

He sighs for like the fifteenth time since you’ve started patrolling today. “Should’ve let me help you first. You’ll need stitches, I’m sure.” 

“Shit, alright.” You’re wincing just looking at it, at the mere idea of having to present it to the medical volunteers back in Jackson. “We can just patch it up now and I’ll go straight to the clinic.”

“Not an option,” Joel says, real stern with his gaze fixed pointedly at you. There’s no time for you to react, no room left to argue or object when he’s already reaching for the suturing needle in the kit– which, holy fuck, you never thought you’d regret adding. “Be damned if it gets infected before we even get back.” 

You’re gently ushered up against the wall, flush against it to keep you sturdy, while Joel drops to his knees with a low oof. Level with your hip now, the view from up above is undeniably godlike, but the entire situation is making it rather difficult to enjoy. 

“Really? Right now? With that rusty needle?”   

“It ain’t rusty,” he says, a tick of irritation in his voice, “and you know it. Just stay still for me. I’ll be gentle.” 

“If I get tetanus, Joel, I’m so serious, I’ll be so pissed–” And you’re instantly silenced by the heat of his hand pressing to your side, drawing a thin gasp from you. It’s big and unafraid, calloused skin catching onto your softness and pinning you down to give him a better angle. The warmth spreads across your surface area, dribbling down to a place you try desperately to ignore, and instead you think about how you could use this sort of heating pad whenever you’re cramping. 

It feels like it’s all happening so fast, but really Joel’s going nice and slow, focused solely on his task. He’s applying the lightest pressure to your side just to keep you steady when the needle makes its first thread. 

“Holy shit– “ You’re panting, “slow down–” 

“I really can’t go any slower than this. Quit squirmin’.” 

With nowhere else to turn, your shirt is being absolutely wrung out in your grip, knuckles furiously pale around it. You hear yourself huffing, not entirely there enough to even try and fake bravery in the hands of Joel— he’d be doing the same damn thing if he had a needle and thread going through his fucking skin, you’re sure. 

You try to watch the way he moves, never as shaky as your own hands, and so much larger than the thin curve of metal between his fingers. It works as a distraction, but only for a little while, before you see the string disappearing and reappearing fucking through you, and you have to give that up. 

So you watch him instead. The concentration that pinches his brows, the strain in his jaw. The little curl that’s fallen out of place and hangs over his forehead amidst the mess of things. Yeah, you think that this could be the last thing you see before you die and you’d be pretty happy about it. 

But it’s not enough. It’s not enough to stifle the heaving or the jerks of your body as you will it to freeze between him and the wall. Joel’s hands are slow but now it’s too tantalizing, too tedious, and you try to distract yourself by talking instead. 

“Earlier,” you start without even filtering yourself, “you… you asked me about– about a boyfriend.” When he doesn’t so much as blink, the words keep tumbling out. “Had one. But broke up– with him– few months ago.” 

It’s silent for a moment before he catches the conversation and tosses it back. “Broke up with him, huh?” 

You have no idea if he’s curious or just being kind, trying to encourage the diversion, but you don’t care very much either way. The rambling is better than nothing. 

“Mhm. Just weren’t– shit– weren’t compatible.” 

“Yeah?” He’s splitting the work in two, tying off the first half of the sutures now and sparing you a glance before he moves on over to the other side. 

“Fuck, only halfway done?” You’re practically whining as you tilt your head back against the wall and resign to your fate. “Yeah, just… different beliefs and– stuff–” 

Joel gives a soft curse before you feel it. The needle briefly snags on your skin and you’re seeing straight flashes of white, tumbling you into a descent of humiliation when you’re babbling again. “Incompatible in– in bed, too.” 

He says something— or, you think he does, but it’s getting hard to make things out with the muffled buzz of adrenaline in your ear. So you don’t say anything else, just go rigid and take the stitches while his hand stays tight on your skin, feeling like it’s pushing you even further into the wall, until it finally eases up. It gives you a little tap when he’s done tying off the finish. 

“All good,“ he says, though it sort of comes out like a question. 

You brave a peek at the work, and it’s a fucking mess of red, but the stitches are actually the only thing that look alright. 

“Not bad.” There’s a false confidence instilled into your words now, like you weren’t just withering away a few moments ago. “For someone not wearing their glasses.” 

“Take it easy,” he mutters, glaring between you, up above, and the tummy in front of him. “You should be thanking me for takin’ care of you. And for bein’ a good listener.”

If that’s what he calls good listening, you wonder what his disinterest really sounds like. Regardless, your face goes flushed, because you never meant to overshare— never meant to cross that line you both silently drew half a year ago, even if he was technically the first to bring it up. 

“Fair enough. Please just— forget what I said.”

He blows a little breath that tickles your skin in the crossfire, then digs through the first aid kit again. “Don’t know about that. Information is burned into my brain now.” 

“Please,” you say, laughing a little even as he wipes at the blood with a disinfectant towel. “I’d hardly call him being bad in bed such life-altering information.” 

“Oh? Now that, I really won’t forget.” And it’s his turn to give a little chuckle, though never losing his focus when it comes to cleaning you up. 

“No— shit, I’m sorry… I’ll just shut up now.” 

Then— and you’re pretty sure you must be imagining things— his hand flat against your injured side goes ghost, making its presence known in only the faintest brushes as it moves across your stomach and plants itself on your other hip. To keep you sturdy, you think, to keep you sturdy. 

But Joel looks up at you, with no particular tone or expression that might betray his thoughts, and says, “No, go on.” 

Mother of god. “What?” 

Your hands drop a bit of your shirt and you flinch when it lands against the wound. 

“Hey, now, be careful with that,” he says and all but swats your hand away, pausing the cleaning to nudge the shirt back up with his knuckles until you grab onto it again. And in light of your speechlessness, he continues, “You said he was bad in bed. Tell me about it.”

He focuses back on your cut again while the cogs in your brain are desperately trying to turn. They’re working with new information, new options and possibilities that you’ve only ever considered in the middle of the night, when you’re in bed and all you can think about is how good Joel looked on patrol that morning, or how much you miss seeing his face. How he’s been looking down lately and all you want is to hold his cheek and smooth the frown out. To give him somewhere soft to come back to after a long day, or somewhere soft where he can be as rough as he wants. You’ve thought about it all. 

Every scenario and fantasy you’ve ever had with your hand between your legs flips through your head like a movie, then landing here, with Joel Miller on his knees and his hands halfway up your shirt. 

“He just… he didn’t try at all…”

“He didn’t try at all?” He repeats, and he’s giving you that look again. The one that sends a chill down your sternum and leaves the rest warm. 

“He didn’t know how to… I never— with him— he didn’t care—“

“Never?” You hear the firmness in his voice, see the crease in his brows. His hand on your hip grounds you while the other’s finished up its care for the blood, not that that’s even on your radar anymore. 

Though, is it a bad time now to remember that there’s three dead bodies in the room? That fact somehow makes being the object of Joel’s attention so much more satisfying, albeit reckless. 

The shake of your head tells him every answer he needs to know, you’re sure, but he asks again after an agonizingly long beat. “Not once?” And his hand somehow slides further around your side, getting a better grip on you, bringing you back down to earth. 

“No,” you say, more sheepish than anything else now. “Stayed with him for half a year though. That one’s kind of on me.” 

“Yeah. That is on you.” 

“You’re not supposed to agree with me,” you blurt, exasperated. “You’re supposed to… I don’t know, make me feel better, or something.” 

The faintest… something lifts at the edge of his mouth. “Am I now? You want me to be nice? To make you… feel all better?”

God. Your legs are on the very last brink before they might give out completely. You really don’t think you can take any more, but with a tight throat, you take the leap anyway. 

“Yeah, make me feel better.” 

There’s a sweep of silence before he obliges– before there’s a long exhale hitting the sensitive skin of your torso, and before his fingertips are tracing the button of your jeans. 

Take them off, take them off, take them off– 

And he does, sort of. He pulls every barrier down your thighs and leaves them at the knees, slow but fast– faster than you can even think, too lost in the way his tough hand glides up and down your leg. It slips along the side, then makes its way around the front to the innermost surface. 

“Oh, please–” 

Joel hushes you, meeting your eyes when he wills your thighs apart.

It’d be uncomfortable to contort your hips any further; scary, too, with the scummy surroundings and your wounds in mind. But he does all the work for you. His fingers hold your pussy taut, letting the cool air hit it while he gets a good look, like he’s appreciating a piece of art. And when he licks his thumb and swipes it across your clit, he fucking laughs at the jump of your body. 

“He never found you right here, huh?” His voice is low and nearly silent, warm against your pelvis. “Don’t worry, I’ll be nice.” 

And– oh fuck– 

Your head spins when his fingers drag along your slit, from your clit to the fluttering space that fucking needs him– needs him like a fish needs water, like you need air. 

Torn between taking in the magnificent sight in front of you and shutting your eyes in resignation, you opt for feeling him instead. Your hand goes to his hair, tangling in the styled strands when his fingertip presses up against you, no doubt collecting the wetness of your cunt. 

A gasp inflates your chest as he pushes in, slow at first then all at once. You hear yourself moan with each knuckle that hits your ring, until there’s no more to give. 

“Joel–” 

“Hush,” he murmurs and presses a kiss to your thigh that has them trembling. And his hands are so fucking big, you realize, when he’s knuckle-deep in your pussy and his thumb can play around with the cusp of your nerves. He toys with it a little while his finger starts to pump– wriggling in and out, in and out, in and out– 

You shouldn’t be so loud here, but how can you even worry about that when your voice is accompanied by the slick noise of your own body? 

His free hand keeps you still when he picks up the pace, his stubbly cheek on your leg, and he keeps fucking kissing it. They’re gentle but purposeful plantings of his lips, to distract you, you think, when he’s nudging another finger inside. Two long forces of nature now– middle and ring, if you had to guess it– so deep that your lower belly is giving mini spasms at the stretching intrusion. 

“Oh, shit—” 

When your knees buckle in, he pushes your hips straight back and really does pin you to the wall this time. There’s a sharp, briefly sinking feeling at the inner flesh of your thigh and a delicious pressure inside of your cunt that has your back caving in, gasping for air. 

“There we go, pretty girl,” he practically fucking coos and goes directly at your clit again, giving tight brushes with his thumb. “I know it’s hard, you can do it.” 

“I– we’re– on pa–trol,” you can’t help but remind both him and yourself, though you make no effort to stop the way you grind back down onto his hand and moan out into the open. 

He kisses your skin again, thumb applying more vigor and picking up the pace as it flicks back and forth. “I know,” he says, hot breath fanning your already hot center, and it shocks you when there’s a wet heat that trails up the inside of your thigh, stopping right where it has you pulsing. “Nobody’ll hear us. So you're gonna start worrying or keep taking my fingers?” 

And, fuck, that ultimatum has you gripping his hair to brace yourself while he fucks up into you. 

“Fingers– fingers–” you decide without a second thought, involuntarily tightening down on them while they massage your plush walls, abrasive to the softness with their tough exterior and decades of wear. “Fuck, they’re so– big–” 

He’s too busy suckling in the crevice of your leg and cunt to immediately respond. Instead, he lets you fill the space with humiliating mewls and cries, before you hear him mumble low against you. “You could take it bigger, I bet.” 

“I could, I could– fuck– I could–” 

“Take it easy.” He pushes on a sweet spot inside of you, leaving you delirious, leaving your chest aching and your gut tensing familiarly. “Cum right here, first. Show me how you like it.” 

You really don’t even need to show him, because he’s right fucking there– evident in the way a thick whine rolls from the back of your throat. But you move your hips with his hand anyway, hearing him groan with his teeth sunken into the sensitive part of your thigh as you practically rut against him. 

“Come on, pretty girl, give it to me.” 

Then, chanting his name like it’s the only thing on your mind, your pussy fucking squeezes and you cum– maybe harder than you ever have before. 

Your thighs clamp shut around his hand and you’re doing all but seizing, moaning somewhere in the background of it all while your jaw goes slack. His motions never relent and he’s saying something, lips moving against your skin while he coaxes out every inch of pleasure like he’s drawing it from your clit. 

“Joel, jesus— fuck” you nearly whimper and he’s hushing you again, kissing all over your thigh in the come down when you’re suddenly empty, nothing but your own arousal left between your legs. 

“I’ve got you,” he says, mouth trailing the way back up to your tummy, avoiding the slice. He pulls your bottoms up with him, grunting when he has to get off his knees. 

He looks so kind when he redoes the button of your jeans, like he didn’t just have you crumbling around his fingers. And when he finally meets your eyes again, angled a bit downwards at you now, you have half a mind to ask him when you can try out that… bigger idea of his– shame be damned, you guess. 

But he once again distracts you with his sheer audacity when he licks up the side of his fingers. Not a single word more, just that tongue of his, tasting up the residue of your pussy, which is still throbbing in the aftershocks. 

He’s breathing hard through his nose and that’s when you notice the bulge in his pants– not with your eyes, but through the way Joel presses it hard against your good hip. You gasp and he grunts, and you’re about to take matters into your own hands when he drags a step backwards. 

“I’ll mark the stragglers on the sign-in sheet. We’ll head back to Jackson to get help for the bodies.” There’s a long stare that he gives you, and his cock is clearly still hard, begging for your touch, but he turns around anyway. 

Up against the wall, you’re left to wait and wonder if you might’ve hallucinated the whole thing— or if that seriously fucking happened, and it’s changed everything for the worse. 

But when Joel climbs back down and guides you out of the building with a firm hand on your side— and when his dick doesn’t relent until you’re on the damn horses— you let yourself hope for another patrol like this. Though, maybe without the injuries. 

[guapitas]

The Unwinding (Draco Malfoy x Reader)

Chapter Six: Stepping Stones

Chapters: one, two, three, four, five

Rated: Mature

Word Count: 6.4k

Summary: You give a tour at The Grove, and come across some friends along the way. (See the overarching summary for the future of this fic, here.)

Warnings: Language

A/N: This is probably the most fun I've had writing a chapter so far. I hope you guys enjoy it! :D

Gardening has never quite been your forte, at least not by any green-thumbed or magically attuned standards. You’ve managed thus far, what with working in The Grove, but wherever you fell short, someone else was always able to pick up the slack– whether it be another occult creature that dwells in the secluded woodlands, or a fellow staff member… or another, familiar loiterer. 

Regardless, the sheer self-awareness is what’s gotten you to this point, now tucked into a desk at the very corner of a herbology classroom. When you first registered for classes, all those months ago, this was only an extracurricular course that applied to your graduation requirements. Though, nowadays, you’ve actually not minded the newly accrued background knowledge, nor the friends that came along with it. 

“That’s why Sir WarSnoggle isn’t speaking to Vera anymore,” Luna says from a professor’s assistant seat just beside your desk, and next to Neville. She’s been filling you in on the drama between the portraits in the Northern hall, which mostly serves as entertainment in between the teachings of Professor Clemens. And there’s no doubt that Neville already knows this information, but his attention has yet to waver. 

“I give it a week before he caves again.” Though your ears are attuned to the story, it’s unfortunately not so groundbreaking as to distract your focus from the assignment in front of you. 

In a little green notebook, Clemens had tasked you all to note the physical properties of the plant that hovered in the air, meant to be shared among the entire class for observation. Normally there would be enough for each student, but Clemens found that her personal collection has been dwindling over the past few years, probably ending up somewhere in a realm of forever lost objects. 

“A shame,” Professor Clemens had said, leaning back against the edge of her desk as she spun the floating plant around with a swirl of her finger, “It took many years off my life to build that stock of vulpecura. Should utter cluelessness be the death of me...” 

The vulpecura suspended in the air is small, perhaps the length of your palm from wrist to knuckles with a few round and white petals sprouting from its short stem. The notes you jot down are so simple, identical to the plant, really, though Clemens' lesson intended to teach you better. 

She sashayed down aisles of students as she spoke, “Fret not, my future botanists, for the dangerous qualities in the vulpecura are safely contained by my magic. It’s in the best of hands.”

From somewhere behind you, a voice would call out, “And what if it fell into the wrong hands, Professor?” 

“Rest assured, as the vulpecura is impeccably difficult to obtain under ordinary circumstances,” Clemens began, then frowned, “Though I fear, in capable and wicked enough hands, the vulpecura has the capacity to wreak devastating havoc.” 

That alone brought along silence, though at the clasp of Clemens’ distractingly cheerful hands, you would zero in on the assignment. With so much time given to describe such a plain flower, you had no idea how you were meant to fill it besides with the indulgence of Luna and Neville. 

Neville finally chimes into the story, “Vera’s no good for him, though WarSnoggle can also be a proper sod.” He looks up, thoughtful for a moment before shrugging. “Maybe they deserve each other.” 

“They’re just going in circles,” says Luna, with a little smile, in which one of those are forever infectious to the susceptible likes of you and Neville. 

You etch a little doodle of the vulpecura in the margins of your paper, filling space and minutes, and even considering whether or not you should spill your guts to these friends during the lull of silence. Whatever it be, they’d never tell a soul any private information– what happens in herbology stays in herbology, after all– but where would you start? What do you possibly have to say? What information did you have to bring to the gossip table?

An inkling at the back of your brain contemplates offering some sort of discourse about Rebecca Avery and Henry Selwyn, but there’s nothing new to discuss, and every soul on campus has already grown quite weary of the subject overall. And besides, you’d be lying to yourself if you truly believed that was what lingered on the tip of your tongue. 

No, you were not so altruistic at times like this– when you had other emotions swirling around in the pit of your chest, ones that you couldn’t or even refused to put a name to. The truth is, you want to talk about Draco– at the very least to say his name, to hear his name from someone else’s mouth, to have literally any reason to hold him in your mind. The desire is sick and twisted, truly, and you have no choice but to pin it as an excitement for the most unexpected friendship of the school year… or of your life. 

You go as far as to open your mouth and try to spit a few words out, but clamp it shut again before either of them notice. If you bring him up in a conversation– one where he has genuinely no reason to exist– you’d be giving him a sort of power, and worst of all, Luna or Neville might think you have other motives… other feelings, perhaps. And, Merlin, such an implication has your stomach doing somersaults. It’d be entirely misleading; there are no sort of sentimental feelings at play here. None whatsoever.

Before you give way to let the thought fester, Neville points out how your pen is just about to rip through the paper with its sheer aggression. 

When the class is over, you can’t help relishing in your own scheduling genius. Fresh from a herbology lesson, you make a line straight for The Grove, where your newly accrued botanist wisdom is surely put to good use— at least, that’s what you like to think. Though, frankly, all remnants of expertise are thrown out the window, as usual, when you step foot on the grounds and are met with the most unruly head of ginger hair. He’s watering bushels of flowers with the wave of his hand, like he owns the damn place. 

“George,” you call out, grinning stupid when he straightens up and leaves the perky violets behind. 

With hands in his pockets and adorning maybe the ugliest button-up shirt you’ve ever seen, George strolls up to meet you on the cobblestone path. He instantly matches your pace and spins around to walk alongside you. 

“Long time, no see,” he says, though you’re pretty sure he was here just a few days ago, scarcely missing your shift. Perhaps it really has been a while since you’ve spoken to him last. Before you can get another word in, he pulls a little tin canister from his trousers, holding it out to you like a treasure in his hand. “Care for a mint?” 

And… yeah, no, you turn it down instantly. You learned long ago to never simply accept anything from George Weasley, or any Weasley, for that matter. He nearly laughs and snatches the tin back when you pointedly make no move for it– “Clever girl. I’ll try again later.”

“You’re here to join my tour, or just hang around like a little nuisance?” 

“Actually,” he says in opposition, pausing when you stop to sign into your shift on the timesheet, then carry on, “I’m here on rather important business.”

“Oh, which is…?”

With perfected ease, he dodges every stray branch and ringlet of green downpour as you walk, where tall-climbing flowers and thick trunk arches threaten to knock him in the head. He weaves his neck around them without even looking. “I've the only mind capable enough to tend to the cyclamen sector this time of year, obviously. Can’t have an entire species diminish without my care.”

“Don’t lie now; you just want them for your next invention, I’m sure—”

“Speaking of which, we should really discuss those mints! Fred and I need your taste test again to know if they’re sufficient or not–” He lets you interrupt him with your glare this time, then gives a sly smile. “Alright, fine, later.”

Following you down a turn into an empty wooden table, just off the edge of the main path, George strays by a surrounding wall of plants whilst you set down your bookbag. The tour group won’t be showing up for another half hour or so, giving you ample time to run through it in your head– not that you’ll need much practice, but it’s still nice to reinstate your confidence. And either way, it gives you more room to let George talk your ear off. 

“There are other matters we should discuss, however,” George says, arms crossing now as his gaze wanders around at the glistening trees, the barks that spring up so far into the sky, some might even touch the clouds, before he lands on you again. “The pixies told me you were here with Malfoy the other day.” 

You freeze, fingers tightening around a binder in your bag before you pull it out, slowly as you will your hand to move with grace. There should probably be a few different lines of thought flying through your head right now, but the only one you can give space to is how foolish you’ve been. The fairies have always been snitches among each other, but how could you possibly forget their weird affections for George? Of course they’d have no restraint to go to him with this juicy piece of information… and of course George would never let you live it down. 

Only sparing him a glance through your peripherals, your lips go straight, stiff like you’ve been caught doing something scandalous. “The pixies should stop divulging my entire life to you.” When he offers nothing more than silence, you continue, “But if you must know, we did meet for a class assignment. Nothing crazy.” 

“That’s what they all say,” he faux yawns, instead heaving a great sigh and leaning back against the thick wall of vines only for dramatic effect, because you know he’d fall right through if he actually put his weight into it. 

A raised eyebrow is all it takes for him to falter. “And who are they? All the girls you’ve been taking out downtown?” 

His head whips around so fast, you fear for a moment he’ll lose his balance before you laugh. Almost exasperatedly, George grimaces. “How do you know about that?”

“You’re not the only one paying attention.” Delight overtakes your face with how quickly you’ve managed to spin it back on him. “Any of them sticking around?” 

There’s a pained expression that he wears, eyebrows taut, and it’s his turn to fess up. “There was one,” says George, his head dropping low as he picks himself up off the vines and sits down at your table instead, finally forgoing the dramatic demeanor. His hand rubs at the back of his neck, avoiding your stare. “She was enchanting, yeah, but… you know me.”

You give him the air to elaborate, though understanding well that there’s no need for it. Many months ago, when you tackled the pitiful subject of his romantic pursuits for the first time, you might have aimed to comfort him. Now, however, you only roll your eyes and shake your head, mindlessly flipping through the pages of notes in your binder. “All you seem to do is fumble amazing women. You should consider going pro.” 

George groans, giving you an entirely unamused expression this time. “I resent that.”

“Yeah, yeah, well maybe after the class leaves I can offer my advice.”

He literally fucking shudders at that– so damn theatrical– and runs his fingers through his hair. “Advice? From you? Merlin, don’t kick me while I’m already down.” 

Briefly, you wonder what the consequences might be if you decide to wield your power of employment and force George to vacate the premises. The binder in your hand snaps shut, giving up any hope of preparing in the slightest, and you shove it back into the bag, ignoring George even when he chuckles and reaches out to ease your minor agitation. 

“You’re impossible to help anyway,” you say.

“Even so,” he says, finally grasping your attention again with a shitfaced look, sitting much more casually now, “I’m only kidding, of course. I’m sure you have very wise input these days. Why not share it now?”

“The group will be here soon, and we don’t have the time to unpack the monstrosity that is your love life.” 

The little jab doesn’t falter him whatsoever, and instead there’s actually something that twinkles in his eyes for a second, until he catches a glimpse of something behind you, down the cobblestone path you two just came up from. His expression shifts so drastically that you cannot ignore it and turn your head to follow his train of sight, where the image of the world makes your breaths go uneven. 

Draco Malfoy walks down the aisle without even his bag, only wrapped up in a coal grey coat and a scarf. The chain reflects the random strays of daylight down his thigh where it dangles from his pocket, and he is the utmost alert, like he’s in enemy territory, his gaze never staying in one spot for too long. 

George’s voice spins you back around and unintentionally reminds you to breathe again. “You have the time to unpack this?” And while you’re still trying to register what Draco Malfoy might be doing, wandering into The Grove of his very own volition, George stands up and brushes off his clothes. “I’ll go check on those cyclamen, meet up with you later.” 

He’s gone before you can say goodbye, and how he manages to slip away into the forestry with such seamlessness, despite his curiously long stature, you’ll never know. A hand of yours almost reaches out to grasp his shirt and pull him right back, to will him not to disappear and leave you to face the impending blonde strides all alone, but George is far too quick to catch. 

With a sharp intake of air, you sling your bag over your shoulders and peek out from the sidelines, where the better vision of you immediately takes Draco’s notice. You pin a smile to your face and wave him over, inquisition still written all over you when he ducks past a few crowds and heads straight in your direction. 

“Hello,” he says first, deeming the surroundings safe, then properly addressing you. “What are you doing here?” 

“Really?” Your tone comes off much more deadpan than you intended, though, come on— really? 

His head turns away like something else must be much more appealing than having to face you now. “Right, I suppose you do work here after all… I was around at a shop, thought I would stop by…”

“For the tour?” 

“The tour– that’s today, is it? I’d completely forgotten.” A level of confidence finally rises up to the surface of his expression, his shoulders rolling back and chin pointing outwards. “It hopefully isn’t an issue if I joined in? I’d rather be more familiar with this place, assuming we’ll do more projects here.” 

“Of course not,” you say, a bit too instantaneously, “you’ll fit right in with the group.”

“It’s purely to help with my navigation, you know, considering how dangerous these woods are.” 

You laugh, slowly forgoing the prolonged surprise of Draco’s presence. “I already said it’s fine, but how dare you insinuate that The Grove is anything other than safe under my watch?” 

A frown curls into the corner of his mouth. “I’ve met enough beasts here to draw my own conclusions.”

“Beasts? Who have you met besides Flora?” 

“She alone was one too many,” he says firmly. 

“Careful now, or she might hear you…” 

Draco winces, giving the area another lookaround. A gust of wind tussles a few stray leaflets onto his shoulder, one catching onto the fabric until he flicks it off with a single fingertip. His skin appears entirely cold in this weather, with the chillier seasons pressing onwards, and it leaves the tips of his angled face– nose, chin, ears, lips– stained pink. And it’s nice, you think, to catch the shade of his eyes here and now, in the surrounding green before the year’s snowy downpour. The icy silver of them– and his entire being, really– stand out so brilliantly in The Grove, and you might even feel sorry for your future self, to not have such a visual contrast when he begins to blend in with the snow. 

Momentarily, you allow yourself to think about how odd this is. Multiple years already have passed at the University, and not a single time up until this term have you run into Draco– even despite being in the same Slytherin house– and now he’s suddenly everywhere. Are you delusional enough to call it the universe’s doings? And… would it be even more delusional to wonder if Draco might be seeking you out now? 

No, definitely– you avert your eyes and resist a quiver– that would be too much. 

He shifts around on his feet, rebalancing the weight with a sigh. “Will it be starting soon, that tour of yours?”

You wonder the same thing, momentarily curious as to whether the little time has slipped away from you, when a sudden clamor of voices give you an indication. Perking up, you swiftly gather your bearings and move past Draco, encouraging him to follow along. “Perfect timing!”

Down at the entrance of The Grove are a few older wizards, spread around to divide and conquer the supervision of a small herd of reception class students, none over the age of five. The faintest disgruntled noise comes out from a number of paces behind you, no doubt belonging to Draco at the mere sight. 

Each child has interlocked hands, cornered in by their chaperones whilst they sway around, nudging each other in attempts to break the boundary and roam the magical woodlands they’ve stepped foot into. Their instructor, the sweetest lady whom leads the rowdy group, apologizes for a bit of an early arrival. “The kids were too excited to wait any longer.” 

After reassuring her and giving a little introduction to all of the roused kids, you figure there’s no better time to start than now. So you lead the group forward, deeper into The Grove and down the route you’ve guided many times before, half-turned backwards so as to give your guests as much attention as possible, even now. 

And Draco… oh it takes absolutely everything in you to not bust out laughing. He’s already a bit heavy handed in height, but compared to the kids, he’s a monochromatic cornstalk– and a resigned one, at that. 

At one of the first stops, where a mini field of flowers bloom and wrap their thin stems around ankles and tickle calves, one of the little boys reaches out to snag Draco’s pantleg for support. It nearly knocks Draco off balance, but his foot plants hard onto the floor, and his face moves in waves from shock to mild irritation. Even across the distance of a mass of tiny bodies, his eyes immediately move to catch yours, and you can’t resist the humor in light of his grit teeth, his leg just barely nudging the child who wraps his arms around Draco’s entire knee now. There’s something that Draco mutters to the poor kid, to which the freckled face scrunches up and proceeds to wriggle his own foot free from the spindly stems. Draco’s cool, clear hands brush down to smooth out his own clothes when the boy finally releases him, though he does not step out of reach. 

Down along the route, micro structures like homes, with roofs and walls and window panes the size of your thumb are spread sporadically throughout The Grove, housing birds and fairies alike– though the latter are not very much on display to the public eye. The desire for seclusion is especially so today, when every kid worms between one another in groups of four, each eager to press their faces up against the glass and catch the little rooms and trinkets inside. 

Some time afterwards, they’re skipping stones in a lake. The braver among them hop around on bigger flat rocks in the shallow end for as long as they can before a chaperone intervenes. According to you and the instructor, this is probably the best spot for the class to unpack their lunches and take a break from all of the walking. It’s a good thing, too, to give your voice a rest. You almost relish in it, stepping away from the group only for a second before Draco pulls up next to you. He has three little bags of baby carrots in his hand. 

“I told one that I didn’t find carrots particularly unpleasant.” He hands one out for you. “Hungry?” 

“They’re sweet kids,” you say and gratefully accept. 

“Or they just don’t like carrots.” 

You and Draco find an uninhabited bench near the lake and eat the snack, the group in perfect view. Streaks of sun rays hit their faces when they run by, or their arms and backs where they sit in the grass. Only the ones at the cusp of the water get the full blown light. The commotion of laughter and chatting and overall little yelling voices sort of drowns out the chewing of carrots between you and Draco, who sits to your right. You can’t bring yourself to look directly at him— or anywhere else but straight ahead, really— though you also don’t feel the need to. His presence is enough to idly torment your insides for one reason or another, so you shut up and finish your baggie and try to keep your back straight in line with his. 

It shouldn’t be weird— and it isn’t, really, because you were just hanging out with him yesterday; at El Mago Dulce no less! What could be a more accurate indicator of casual friendship? This is no different. 

…Perhaps it is, though. Yesterday was a stretch of an offer made while you were already together in class, and this… coincidentally in the area or not, Draco chose to join the tour. And for whatever reason, that makes this so entirely different. 

The chirp of birds high up in the trees is a peaceful backdrop to it all, just enough of a distraction for you to finally consider relaxing at Draco’s side, when that freckled face from earlier comes running. He has another two kids trailing behind him. Prepared to answer any questions about the lake or maybe the uniquely colored bugs zipping around the sentient flowers, you gape as they instead corner up on Draco whose mouth is still occupied with a carrot. 

“Hey! Teach us how to skip rocks!” 

Each one of them heaves like they’ve sprinted a mile when they reach him, a little closer to face level now that Draco’s sitting down. They don’t even spare you a glance and you have half a mind to be offended. Were you not the one who introduced them to this place with undivided attention? Who’d been the best tour guide ever, probably? Whatever. You decide to not be sour, because the big-eyed expression that stuns Draco’s face is just too good. 

“I suppose why not,” he says, and stands up whilst the kids cheer and run off back to the lake. He starts to follow, though not before turning back at you with expectation. “Come along, won’t you?” 

And hell, of course you will. Back at Hogwarts, for whatever reason, bunches of Slytherin always found themselves at the Great Lake— often after permitted hours and for rebellious purposes, but the point still stands: you could skip a stone or two. 

So you tag along, pride be damned, and at first only watch as Draco does a few demonstrations, fully bent at the knees. He slows it down to show them how his wrist flicks, how he holds the stone, and in a matter of minutes, a trio of littles turns into an entire flock. The usually undisturbed water now bounces and ripples with sunken and successful attempts, every kid lined up along the border of it to get their tosses in. Even a couple of chaperones give into the game when Draco reaches out to you with a handful of stones. “Give it a go. I’ll show you how.”

“Think I might have it covered,” you say and slip one from his palm, ignoring the smooth of his skin when you fling the rock out onto the lake. It hits one ripple then sinks flat. 

You can fucking hear the stifled laugh coming from behind you, that motherfucker. A string of curses is on the tip of your tongue, practically forcing you to bite down on it and snatch another few stones from a pleased Draco. The next attempt redeems you, sailing out so far you don’t even bother to count the dips and instead savor the triumph. 

He makes another noise now, this time an unsuppressed, cocky set of oohs. “Not too bad. Not as good as I, but there’s no shame in that.” 

Without a second thought, you flash the remaining couple of stones in your hand and propose a challenge, which he readily accepts. And very quickly, you’re crouched down side by side with Draco, dropping rings of circles into the water, one after another. At first you’re keeping track of the skips, though at some point you and Draco draw some attention and the kids do it for you, each score more exciting than the last and therefore each sink more devastating as they replenish the supply of slabs. And while the pressure of being scrutinized by literal humanized balls of energy weighs you down, it only seems to lift Draco up. He basks in it, as subtle as it is, with every fling sending his stones farther than before, until you can’t even make out the sight of them across the vast lake. 

“Son of a bitch,” you say halfheartedly, a sigh and a grin fighting the tension in your eyebrows as you stand defeated. It takes a split second to realize your mistake— and thank Merlin all the kids are distracted by the excitement right now, though Draco’s amusement is proof that you did not go unheard. “You’re actually good at this.” 

“You thought there might be something I’m not exemplary at?” 

“No,” you admit, “you’re all Slytherin. I just thought I’d be better than you but I’m kinda rusty.” 

You step away from the lake now and he follows, leaving the kids to exert the rest of their energy before the last leg of the tour carries on. He says, “Universal prowess is a Malfoy trait,” then shrugs. “Though you could chalk your skill up to Slytherin alone.” 

His jibes and that stupid, smug expression fall to the back of the group once more as everyone is rounded up and accounted for. Upon regathering your senses, you lead the way through the final key points of The Grove and save the best for last, an undefeated fan favorite: the valley of butterflies. 

There isn’t much to say or explain when you turn down that rift in the forest and every child starts to coo. Wings soar from treetop to treetop, many of which swooping down to flap between heads and shoulders, putting on a show for the guests. Intricate colors and designs on their insect bodies move too fast to study, but the wondrousness is undeniable in the thrill that buzzes all around the group. Children splinter off, trying to catch butterflies on their fingertips and failing miserably, until you bring out the sugar water mixture to their aid. 

You find Draco gazing up into the moving sky and go up to him this time. Though as soon as he notices you, a butterfly mindfully flutters down to land on the tip of his nose. For a very hysterical second, his eyes turn into saucers and he gives a short cry, swatting away at the bug even after it's moved on. He swiftly rubs at his nose and glares before you can even breathe a reaction. “Don’t you dare.” 

But how could you not? Giggling, you say, “Draco Malfoy, exemplary at all but with bugs.”

“It only caught me off guard.” He scowls, arms crossed as he sticks his face up into the air, but he soon gives way once assured that you’ll drop the subject. 

“Do you feel safer here now, after the tour?” 

He pulls a face and says, “I have no idea how you navigate this colossal mess of greenery. I think it’d eat me alive if I let down my defenses.” 

“I’ll have to stick by you whenever we’re here, then.” 

Considering this for a few moments, he then curtly nods. “Yes, I suppose that’ll do.” 

The initial trio of stone-skippers demand high-fives from both you and Draco as the group files out to leave, the freckled face giving Draco’s knees a great hug at the end of the line. Their absence leaves you two alone at the barrier between The Grove and the rest of the outside world, where Draco can’t seem to make up his mind as to which side he’ll surrender to. 

After a breeze of silence, he comes to his conclusion. “I’ll get going, then.” 

And it’s sort of weird, the feeling that you get, like you almost hate to see him go– like you might say something stupid to try and convince him to stay for the rest of your shift. But instead, you say, “Thanks for stopping by, I’ll see you in Div.” 

Though he doesn’t immediately turn to leave. Hesitation briefly flushes his face until he wipes it clean, then forces the words out. “About… whatever you lot were trying to do with Selwyn and Avery… I’ll help out.” 

“…What?” Absolutely dumbfounded is what you are. The case hasn’t crossed your mind a single time since Draco showed up, and you have long since accepted that he wanted no part in it. “What changed your mind?” 

Exasperated, he says, “Just accept my help, won’t you?” 

And that, you will. He doesn’t even give you another chance to mull over the situation, and instead offers a parting word, then exits, leaving you unendingly baffled. 

The walk all the way back to the table you initially sat at is tangled up with your thoughts. Your trio had not even begun to discuss or really figure out where you might begin to investigate the matters of Henry and Rebecca. Perhaps in the back of your mind, nothing is entirely too real while Rebecca Avery is still awake, but how long will that last? How much longer will it be before she, too, falls indefinitely comatose? And then there’s Draco, nagging at your brain… What could have possibly convinced him? 

Lurching you free of your mind’s warp, George awaits you. He has a bundle of cyclamen stuffed into and sticking out of the chest pocket of his unsightly shirt, at least now adorning it with some sort of pleasantry. He greets you at first with a cheeky politeness, asking about the tour and, to your relief, acutely avoiding the Malfoy-shaped elephant in the room. 

“I fear we must get down to business, now,” he says and fixes up his posture with a clearing of his throat, then pulls out that tin of mints from his pocket. 

You go utterly blank, because he cannot be serious. “No.” 

“The last time you helped us out, we had one of the biggest hits on our hands! All of Hogsmeade could fly, thanks to you!”

“And the last time I was a test rabbit, I was an entirely different sort of high, thanks to you guys,” you say sternly, though the smile cracks through, entirely against your will. You could never quite say no to George. 

His knowledge of your weakness is made apparent in the way he pushes onwards and opens up the tin. He reveals ordinary mints, but you know that it’s never so simple with him. “So common, they’d fool even me! But just one on the tongue will do the trick; your victim will be spilling their candid guts!”

“Veritaserum? Kind of mundane for your line of work, isn’t it?” 

“We’re expanding our demographic,” he says with nonchalance, “the people yearn for the agelessness of truth-telling charms.” 

There might be a million ways that he’s able to combat your retaliation, and you can sense yourself yielding. “Surely you don’t actually need a tester for something so commonplace?” 

“You should consider yourself a lucky customer with early access to such a commodity!” George slides over the mints and leaves no more room for an argument. “Let me know how instantaneous the effects are– we’re trying to go for a new record.” 

With much open disdain, the pack goes right into your bag as you forcibly move the conversation towards other affairs, like how the shop is doing, or Fred for that matter. George doesn’t have many points to say on either subject, and consequently, you spend the rest of your shift being casually pestered by him in a way that only he can manage. For someone that hangs around so often, he never fails to find new ways to push buttons. 

And once night falls, when you have no further distraction via work or George Weasley, you’re again left to ponder Draco Malfoy and what you might possibly do with him. You wrack your brain back and forth all evening, flooding the whole walk home, from The Grove back to campus, then during a lonely dinner, and even up into your dorm. Unable to shake the thoughts, you’re tucked beneath bedsheets, lying across the room and opposite to Marla for once, with a blurting question pouring out of your mouth before you can think to reconsider asking it in the first place. 

“What d’you think about Draco Malfoy?” When you realize a little too late the absurdity of your non sequitur to an otherwise quiet moment, you spur on, “I mean, besides the whole infirmary thing… What do you think of him nowadays?” 

If this conversation starter has caught Marla by surprise, she doesn’t show any sign of it. Instead, she only hums, eyes never even moving from the text in her hands. “He seems… okay. Kind of a jackass still, though he is a pureblood.” 

Your back, flat against the mattress, nudges itself upwards as your head turns to give her a better look, only she remains unfazed. Her sheets stretch, as if flexing the arches of her feet, whilst her fingers tread along the pages of her novel– something about the techniques and anatomy of ballet. 

“Cedric is a pureblood,” you say. 

This finally forces her attention as she gives a little scoff. “That’s different.” 

“It really isn’t.”–Though it sort of is– “Just say that you’re upset with how Draco’s behaved in the past.” 

“Fine. I’m upset with how he’s behaved in the past.” 

For some reason you huff at this and let your head fall back comfortably again. The pasty white ceiling draws you in, giving you enough plainness to contemplate Marla’s validity and why you might be so eager to jump to Draco’s defense. Perhaps you just want to see the good in newfound friends– after all, he hadn’t behaved like a jackass at any point today. Though, of course, that was only today. Who knows how he might act the next time you see him… he could even outright change his mind about contributing to the cause. 

Oh, the turmoil has your fingers wringing around each other and tugging until they pop at the knuckles. Marla follows in suit, mindlessly mimicking as her ankles roll and crack from beneath the covers, and just a couple of twitches from her neck unleash a string of noise. 

She sighs. “It’s not like he gave me any reason to like him back at Hogwarts.” 

And…yeah, she’s right. The connotation of ‘Draco Malfoy’ alone was enough to throw someone off, especially back then, but to have been in his very Hogwarts house was to be an easier target than most, oddly enough. You didn’t know Marla back in secondary school, though you knew very well that, despite the sorting hat’s decisions, Marla didn’t have the traditional Slytherin requisites. In Salazar’s eyes, Marla was a disgrace. Malfoy, no less, would have loathed her, had he even spared her a glance. Anyone would know this. Merlin, how silly you’ve been to brush past her reasons for distaste. 

“It’s true,” you say. Her eyes scan the pages of her read more indifferently now, like the discussion is becoming more appealing for the time being. “But he also seems different, like everything that happened kinda changed him.” 

“If he’s changed so much, he would help us figure out what’s going on with the other students.”

Finally, a way in. “Speaking of which— he will! He showed up to The Grove today and told me he’d help us do… whatever it is we’re doing.” 

The ballet book flips shut, dropping down to the bed below it as Marla peers over at you. “And what business does he have? Why would he do that?” 

“I… honestly have no idea. He didn’t say.” And, damn, you really aren’t helping his case. Should it even matter that Marla tolerates him? Maybe so, if you hope to come together as a group at any point in the future. 

“He obviously has something to gain from it.” 

“We shouldn’t assume the worst of him. I actually think he’s not too bad of a guy.” 

With a soft grunt, Marla falls back into her bed and tosses her book onto the nightstand. “I think you want him to be good, but we don’t actually know if he is.” 

“Give him some grace,” you say, “for my sake. We’re friends at best, deskmates at the very least.” 

Marla hammers down the conversation right there, making the domineering choice to stay quiet, which you might take for acceptance. Either way, she gives up on her reading and calls it an early night, regardless of what late hour it might be. Sweet goodnights are exchanged and she shuts the light with a motion of her finger, leaving you in the darkness. 

last chapter <-

..taglist? (': @malfoy-mrsdracomalfoy , @strawbsstarz , @unicornqueen05 , @annoyingbean630 <3 (lmk if you would like to be off of it!)

[guapitas]

just realized i forgot to include a scene at the very end of chapter 5 . naw i gotta end it all now 😭💔💔

[guapitas]

The Unwinding (Draco Malfoy x Reader)

Chapter Five: The Alaskan Bull Worm

Chapters: one, two, three, four

Rated: Mature

Word Count: 4.8k

Summary: Navigating tea leaf readings with a mildly upset Draco Malfoy, and attempting to repair that little bridge. (See the overarching summary for the future of this fic, here.)

Warnings: Language probably?

A/N: Writing is just a tad difficult when you're hit with holiday seasons, a crippling fever, then the hell-bent desire to do nothing but read back to back (': thank you for everyone's patience, should you still be interested in this fic (: <3 we push through it!

You haven’t slept in days. 

Which, okay, is a bit of an exaggeration– but it feels true. Like some psychological thriller, you’re constantly rescreening the events of that night in the infirmary, tossing and turning over them in your bed for an entire weekend. 

What if you had said something differently? Used a different approach, or tone, even? Could you have done anything to achieve a more ideal outcome– whatever that would have been? It’s tortuous. You finally think you’ve driven yourself loony when you can’t even bring yourself to leave your room, too busy contemplating the odds of running into Draco. And, Merlin, the thought of Divination class alone is enough to knock your lungs out of rhythm. 

On the bright side, there’s a single piece of good news, and it greets you in the moment that you step foot in the classroom— the widest smile on Cedric’s face. 

“I’m back,” he says, singsongy when you get close, as if you hadn’t just seen him a couple days ago. Regardless, you cheer with him, offering yays towards him and Marla when you reach your chair. The upgrade from bedrest is exciting enough, but the interaction doesn’t give you an adequate amount of time to prep or stall, before you have no choice but to actually look at where you’re sitting– and who you’re sitting next to. 

Draco’s no different than he’s ever been, writing something down on parchment and exhibiting no physical proof that he’s even aware of your presence. A fucking stone could fly through the window and you think he still would not let it disturb him. And, for the sake of social awareness, you have to pry your eyes away before it becomes weird. 

This is perhaps the one instance that you need Professor Thyme to begin the class immediately, and of course, it’s the one time she isn’t. Instead, you’re forced to fumble around with your things and sit real stiff, too self-conscious to even make conversation with your friends. You’d probably nitpick your afterthought words more than Draco would, but you won’t take the chance. 

After about eight good seconds of an attempt to build your mental fortitude and ignore, you just can’t help it– you should say something… shouldn’t you? This is your semester-long partner, someone you’ve actually been establishing solid rapport with…You have to reach out. 

…Oh, but you can’t! Literally, your mouth is not cooperating with your brain and you refuse to even open it, because you fear whichever words might tumble out against your will. Maybe if you could just apologize, or try to explain whatever distress and ultimately heroic attitude you were undergoing that night– maybe then, you wouldn’t spend this entire class period overthinking every damn breath. 

But just when you consider the possibility of glancing at him again– which could eventually lead to the formation of sentences– Thyme’s voice pulls you in. “Evening, everyone, evening!” 

Mini textbooks soar their way over to each table as she throws herself and her students into the lesson, and once they settle, teacups on saucers follow in suit. Tea leaf readings, you presume, before you’re confirmed by the guidebook in front of you. 

“Tasseography!” White chalk spells it out on the board behind her. “For today’s new adventure, you’ll read each other’s fortunes in the cups that sit before you.” 

And— yeah, sure, of course you will. 

She gives you the breakdown, about drinking the tea and setting the leaves at the bottom, documenting your findings— the works. With how thick the guide is, entailing an overwhelming amount of symbols and what they may mean, the assignment should be easy. Unfortunately for you, however, your partner is Draco Malfoy— particularly, a Draco Malfoy that isn’t very pleased with you at the moment. 

Tea has never quite been your favorite. It has its moments,  but there are certainly plenty of ways to make bad tea, and the one in your hand might as well be the worst of all. This isn’t the fault of the tea itself— in actuality, it’s devastatingly average— but you don’t think you’ve consumed anything any slower than this. There can’t be more than a few spoonfuls of liquid alone, but damn it, the lengths you’ll go to prolong the inevitable. 

You’re left to your own advances, and Draco has probably finished his cup, ready to swap, but you don’t know for sure— you still haven’t looked in his direction again. What should take you maybe two minutes flat is instead pushed into five— seven if you’re patient— until there’s nothing left but the mushy leaves. They drain out at the bottom and begin to take shape with each other…Maybe you could pretend to keep drinking? 

Ah, to hell with it. You lock eyes with Thyme and have no choice but to bite the bullet before causing a scene. He’s already looking at you when you finally turn to face him, expression entirely blank. 

“Are you quite done?” His eyes aren’t exactly holding you hostage, but the emotionless phase is. The friendship you had been chipping at wasn’t all in your head, was it? Sure, a couple of conversations and a class-mandated assignment aren’t the most ideal indicators of companionship, but you enjoyed that time together. You had fun. Hadn’t he? 

“With…”

“With the tea.” He nudges the cup with his own grounds over to your side of the table. 

“Right,” you say, and oblige his implications. In the process of an exchange, you brush up against the cool skin of his thumb. The glasses are so small in any average hands such as yours, let alone Draco’s. He can’t even try to fit two fingers into the handle, so he cradles the other side and lets it swirl.  

Unable to resist the nerves in your chest, you blurt, “I wanted to say sorry… for the other night.” 

The contents of your cup have captured his interest far more than your words, it seems. He’s so calm that you think he may have not heard you, but he eventually shrugs a shoulder. “What for? It won’t change anything.” 

“I happen to quite like Div,” you say, simply put, “and I don’t want to hate my partner. Believe it or not, I would prefer being friends.”

And, finally, something other than an unbelievable amount of impartiality graces his face. It takes a moment to decipher, but you settle on bemusement– then the smallest twitch of his mouth. “Friendship is rather optimistic.” Something about the lift of his eyebrows when he darts his gaze sideways has you cracking a smile. “But I can be civil, I suppose.”

“Brilliant.” A weight suddenly lifts itself from your shoulders, unclouding your mind for the first time in what feels like forever. “Now, on with it. What are my leaves telling you?” 

Draco sits up a little straighter than before, adjusting as he raises the cup to his level. The mini inspection is brief, and in time, he notes, “You’ve got a spiral in yours, spinning counterclockwise. It’s… introspection. It’s asking you to slow down and reflect.”

It’s asking you? Oh, he must be taunting– he didn’t even look at the guidebook! And to be so certain… so succinct… 

You peek over to confirm his findings. “And what if it were spinning clockwise instead?” 

“You’re aware, I’m sure, that there are quite a myriad of ways to analyse divination results– where the spiral is, what surrounds it, its size…” he rambles on with a sigh, head gently lulling alongside the dramatics. 

“I’m aware.” 

“So something like a clockwise spiral could otherwise refer to growth, or a journey. Moving forward. It’s subjective, vague enough to be personalized to the individual. But that isn’t the fortune for you today– you’re being guided to look inwards.” 

Is this Thyme, disguised as Draco, giving you a read? The theory is quickly dispelled by the tapping of her boots coming from the back of the classroom. She waves and twirls around the massive, silky drapes that frame the great window. Huh. So your eyes don’t deceive you– this is Draco. 

“You knew all of this? Off the top of your head?” 

He shrugs, and fucking smirks, smug as hell, despite whatever composure he’s been trying to upkeep. “One of us should be knowledgeable on the subject, don’t you agree?” 

“Alright, show-off, don’t get too excited now. It’s my turn, and, honestly, I think you’ve managed to defy all laws of tea leaf readings, because I swear on my life…” You peer down into the teacup of Draco’s fortune, grimacing, then tip it to give him a better view. Even after a pause for any further ideas to reveal themselves, you have no other answer. “This is a worm.” 

He scowls in an instant, managing to tenderly snatch the cup right out of your hand. Whilst he frowns down at the squiggly line of tea leaves, you take a shot at the guidebook– only half seriously– and go right to the back of the alphabetically ordered list… and there’s just no way. On its very own page… The Worm. And, to make matters worse, you don’t think you’ve ever seen the words ‘hidden’ and ‘danger’ written so frequently in a single section before. 

“Good news, there’s a page for the worm symbol! Can you believe it?” Your stare is plastered onto the thick book in your hands as you skim it. “Bad news, though, the fortune itself is terrible.” 

It’s his huff that lures you away from the writing, and only for a second do you lock eyes, before he’s back to scrutinizing the cup. “This is not a worm.”

“What is it, then?”

Before he can respond, your name is being called from the opposite direction. It grabs your attention and, from her table with Cedric, Marla is the source. “Have you gotten anything good?”

“A spiral! It suggests I reflect and look inwards, or something.” You nod solemnly, mentally holding onto the description that Draco gave. “And Draco got a worm.”

Marla’s brow hitches, and behind her, Cedric stifles a laugh. He absentmindedly turns through the guide, only visibly engaging in the conversation when Marla replies, “Cedric got a heart.”

“Yeah,” Cedric chimes in, leaning forward to reach within your earshot, “So don’t be surprised when I find the love of my life this term!” 

Shaking her head, Marla rolls her eyes so hard it appears painful. “Romance is not the only conclusion from a heart, but, sure, why not?” She then lifts her cup from the table and lets you get a glimpse into it. “I have a key in mine. New opportunities, prosperity, adaptability…” A real sweet smile on her face contrasts the faux nonchalant shrug she gives. 

“Oh? That’s so perfect for you!”

“Isn’t it?” Her eyes must twinkle with how great her grin is, the glee blooming off of her as she sets the cup back down. “I’m thinking it refers to that internship I applied for at the Astral Administration.” 

“Mention my name when you’re giving acceptance speeches.”

“I’m sure I’ll give you thanks in at least one of them..” 

You laugh in jest, “Ha-ha,” before Cedric draws her back in with something about an actual Snitch being an official tea leaf symbol. How very topical, in a world such as this. 

When you turn back towards Draco, it’s as if class has just barely begun– his stance is identical to before, with a stone cold face and eyes that could be anywhere else but here. You wonder if the interaction with Marla was enough to upset him, but no… this is different. The disturbance doesn’t seem like it has anything to do with you at all. The cup with his worm has been nudged to the very edge of the table. 

An are you okay? is on the tip of your tongue, when Professor Thyme swoops in from seemingly nowhere, right to Draco’s side. She looms over the two of you, brunette hair dangling at her elbows. “Anything marvelous in your fortune, Mister Malfoy?” 

His eyes snap upwards, and his neck tilts back just the slightest, while every other aspect of him remains idle. “I’ve got a worm,” he says, with no inclination to elaborate. 

Thyme’s appearance contorts with curiosity, and her lip kind of curls like she’s in on some secret– and who wouldn’t be, when so intertwined with the world of divination? Her fingertips sweep across the table as she continues to walk, digits and knuckles thinly veiled by the skin of her hand. Pleased with the participation of her students, she nods, “Excellent,” and moves onwards. 

Has he given into his vermian fate? It’s rather silly, actually, how much you’d pay to know his thoughts. This entire ordeal of friendship would be made far easier by it, no doubt. 

You nearly ask him, again, if he’s feeling alright, when he masterfully drags his fancy quill along his paper, keeping to himself once more. He must need time to think, you figure, with his sinister, wormy fate and whatnot, so you only mimic his behavior. With a pen, you write up something about looking… inwards… towards what? An aim to please? Crippling indecision? Whatever the case, it’s all on the table. 

When Thyme concludes the class, Marla’s soft hand embraces yours, but only for a beat, in farewell, before she’s off to her next lesson. She leaves you to pack up, slipping materials into your bag alongside Draco, and unable to shake the desire to make at least one more attempt for the day. So as he stands up and out of his seat, you almost snap your damn neck to look up at him. 

“Hey,” you say, perhaps beginning to accept your idiotic nature.

He halts any further movement, the strap of his book bag in hand, and meets your eyes. “Hi?”

“Me and Cedric are off to get drinks right now. Would you join us?” He doesn’t appear any more amused than before, so you try a smile. “My treat.”

Eventually, he gives way with a half-roll of his eyes, glaring to the side. “As if I need to be treated.” And you hold your breath for him to continue– to outwardly agree– but the way he slips into his crossbody bag and waits is enough to ensure your victory. 

Meanwhile, since the damn millisecond of the invitation, you’ve been ignoring the fucking sear of Cedric’s eyes in the back of your head. You’ll have to apologize for this later. 

Partly because the walk to El Mago Dulce is… something else. First, the pace is just utterly off. Draco’s at your left, tall and in stride, and Cedric is just a hair slower than usual to your right, not fully back in his best shape. And second, by the time you’re halfway there, you still have not mastered the balance between a dual conversation. Cedric yaps about how kind his professors have been, how he’s managed to stay on top of his workload, and the next time they’ll let him back on the quidditch pitch. Every so often, you attempt to loop Draco in, but he’s as uncooperative as Cedric is— and he doesn’t seem to particularly mind taking the backseat to this entire interaction. 

And in other ways, you’d have to apologize to Draco, because you hadn’t realized that bringing him to El Mago Dulce would be like introducing him to your relatives. When you bring a third— unfamiliar but familiar— face through the door, and that bell rings, you think Panne must’ve been too surprised to even greet you. Instead, she makes a tiny ‘O’ with her mouth and stares from the table that she’s tending to. 

Is she also going to be weird about this? Not that any of it is entirely unwarranted, but you aren’t sure if you can handle another conversation about how careful you should be around Draco Malfoy. The concern sort of slips your mind, though, when you and Cedric pick a booth and sit across from each other, and Draco slides in right next to you, bumping a little into your shoulder— not that he pays any special attention to it. He’s instead distracted by the pretty pink lampshades and the tall, clear pantries lined up along a wall. They’re always stocked with the freshest sweetbread, any kind you can think of. 

“Ay, mijo,” Panne’s voice comes nearer at a record-breaking speed, before any of you can get a word in, until she’s at Cedric’s side of the table. He does his best to stand and meet her, but the tabletop restricts his knees, so he goes in for the hug the very best he can, grinning mad. “How are you? Did you get everything?” 

“Every cookie, bread, drink, I got it all,” says Cedric, pulling his face away from her shoulder and sitting back down, his hand offering a final squeeze. “And I’m practically brand new! Not a scratch on me anymore.” 

Though this isn’t… particularly true. The majority of Cedric’s injuries– scrapes and bruises and all– have gone away with remedies and time, but he’s also shown you and Marla a split on his ribcage that refuses to ease up. It doesn’t even hurt anymore, but it’s thick and scarred and you cringe just thinking about it, hidden beneath Cedric’s layers. 

When they’ve just about finished catching up, a round of butterbeers finds the table, and from behind the counter, Canelo gives a small nod of acknowledgement. You wave in thanks, and Panne clasps her hands together. “Is there anything else I can get for you? Butterbeers are on the house, to celebrate our sweet Cedric’s recovery!” And there’s no protests about that. 

“Have you ever tried champurrado?” You ask Draco, to which his eyebrows pinch together and he shakes his head. “I’m usually not a fan, but Panne’s is a must-try! He’ll have one, please.” 

Panne has been primarily focused on you and Cedric, but now she looks at Draco, and her smile never falters. “Of course, one champurrado for sweet…”

“Draco,” he finishes, “thank you.” 

And then she’s off to assist new guests that walk in, and you kind of can’t resist a breath of relief. She must know the… iconic Draco Malfoy, even by appearance alone– but to ask him his name regardless? The gesture warms your heart, if no one else’s. 

“That was Panne,” you say, mostly to fill the gap of silence, “and her husband, at the bar, is Canelo. Los Dulces.” 

Draco looks all confused again, eyes squinted now like he’s trying to detect something else in your words. He asks, hushedly, “Are those their real names?” 

Well… mostly, you think, so you shrug, even though his sincerity urges you to laugh. A couple of years ago, you asked the same question to Panne herself, long since securing your spot as a regular. Canelo Dulce is and has always been Canelo Dulce, but Panne is a nickname. Patricia Analise Dulce… Panne. “Yeah, pretty much. A cute coincidence?” 

By the time the champurrado arrives, and you’ve already had a few drinks of the butterbeers, you’re fairly certain that Cedric has looked in every fucking direction, at all corners of the café, except for Draco. The worst part is, you can’t really blame him– you did spring this on him, after all, but you didn’t think that his distaste was anything beyond a general distrust, rather than some personal beef. As always, his melodrama has been underestimated. 

“It’s thick,” Draco notes, and drinks again from his new mug. You wait for further analysis, and you catch his eyes when they drag over towards yours, acutely aware of your attention. “Chocolate, cinnamon, and something else…” 

“The masa, probably. That’s what makes it thick.” Your input does noticeably little to serve his curiosity, but he returns to the drink anyway.

At the other end of the table, Cedric cannot be any less engaged. Chin in one hand, butterbeer in the other, and he is fucking glowering at you. It almost makes you laugh again– and you do crack a smile– but you opt to entertain him instead. “Have I told you about my shift tomorrow? And, yes, I’m being forced to work.” 

This finally subdues him, but only slightly, as he releases himself from the laser beam glare and leans back against the plush leather seat, arms crossed. “Merlin forbid you work two shifts a week.”

“Three, actually– sometimes four! Can you believe it?” 

“Absolutely mad. How dare they?” He eases up now, even tossing back the little playful simper     as his shoulders fall. 

“Yeah, well, I’ll forgive them this once. I’m doing another tour tomorrow and it’ll be the last before the snow sets in! Butterflies everywhere, fairies working overtime, and the gardens coming out of transition phase. It’ll be perfect.”

To your side, Draco is slithering around at the mere mention of fairies. That memory of your time together at The Grove rouses you, so before Cedric can respond, you add, “Draco actually met Flora the other day.” 

Cedric stalls in his reply, locked up with your gaze, like he’s wondering if you’re being deadass, if you’re really trying to force him into a conversation about and– oh god, maybe even with Draco Malfoy. It takes everything not to giggle at how quickly the buoyancy is wiped clean off his face, leaving a dry smile in its wake. He yields, though begrudgingly, “Really…”

And… that’s all. You hold out hope for him to say literally anything else– anything that you can use to propel the conversation further– but the makeshift rhetorical question is the last of his contributions. Your attempt is hopeless, however, like your savior, Draco butts in all on his own. 

“That bloody Flora, wouldn’t mind if I never saw her again.” 

This has you jumping to her defense now, testifying on behalf of Flora’s good character, and joyed to have something to work a conversation with. Although the sneer on Draco’s face is relentless, you’ve at least got his ear. “Oh, and just wait ‘til you meet Ivy! She’s much easier to befriend.” 

This route of conversation, though purely accidental, might be your saving grace of the evening, if only Cedric would give in. You watch each other for a few hardened seconds, before he shifts his attention over to Draco, utterly defeated. He fishes something from the logs of his memories in an attempt of affability, on your behalf. “When I first met Flora, she managed to sic a colony of fire ants on me. One crawled right up my leg and burrowed itself, until I was a case even Madame Amani had never seen before. So… you’re not quite alone.” 

His voice is so calm, entirely opposed to his live reaction that day, maybe two years ago now, and it has you laughing, even if neither of your companions are up for that sort of mood at the moment— the absurdity of the memory still drags it out of you. And the masked terror on Draco’s face does nothing to quell your hilarity. Through your fist, you physically attempt to reign yourself in and intervene once more, “To be fair, that was mainly George’s doing. It was all in good fun.” 

“And you made no effort to talk sense into either of them! Quite the friend you are, I should’ve cut you off right then.” 

“Yeah, you should’ve.” 

Draco and his everlasting posture endures in the spot next to you, but he leans into the seat a little further now, perhaps, like Cedric, accepting the circumstances. It had earlier crossed your mind that you may have to cut this coffee date short, make something up about schoolwork or preparations for tomorrow’s tour, only for the sake of mimicking a natural end to an awkward event. Though by the time your butterbeer dwindles down to nothing at the bottom of the glass, and Draco offers up the rest of his own–  “The champurrado is superior anyway.” – you find those efforts unnecessary. 

When you’ve managed about half of the second mug, giving up on the rest, Panne interrupts a conversation about quidditch cups. It’s nice, for a moment, to experience the conversation rather than lead it. In one hand, she has another rolled up bag with what must be sweetbread, and with the other, she palms it flat against the plane of her chest, right over her heart. 

“Those poor kids,” she says, sullen, and meets the confusion on your face. You weren’t quite aware that the news had made it so far out of campus, though word spreads fast, and perhaps news outlets even faster. “Canelo checks the papers every day, and nothing! Zilch, nada. No updates on them.” 

“It’s the same for us at school,” says Cedric, in a softer voice now that the bell is ringing at the entrance, bringing in more guests and bigger crowds. “Nurses won’t tell us a thing.” 

Panne curses to herself and leaves the bag at the center of the table, rolled up nice and neat. “You three be careful. I don’t think our old hearts could take it if you were hurt.” She directs her attention between you and Cedric then adds, “Make sure you tell Marla this, too.” 

If Panne had wielded the same information about the potential cause of this tragedy— or that you dared to press the matters and get involved— would she be upset? Try to convince you to leave the situation alone, to let the professionals deal with it? Maybe, and perhaps she’d be right to do so. The clutter escapes your mind as you bid farewells and head back to campus, Cedric wasting no time to unravel the bag. 

“There’s an extra vanilla!” He looks across from you, finding Draco on the other side, and holds out the offering. “Must be for you.” 

Once distributed, and the lone strawberry is wrapped up to be saved, Draco finally speaks up again, mostly to himself, and just before biting into the treat, “How could they possibly know vanilla is my favorite?” 

Cedric is the first to split off once you hit the edge of campus, leaving you and Draco to lead once more to the Slytherin dormitories. The sweetest nap in the school’s most comfortable bed awaits you, now that you can bear to sleep again. In this spirit, there aren’t many words to be said as you walk, instead embracing the breeze and dusting sugar powder off your fingertips. This was a success, you think, and you wonder if Draco might be inclined to join again on one of your butterbeer outings. 

Down the last turn to the dorms, a voice calls out, “Mister Malfoy!” 

Your head whips around in every direction, but not a single person in sight appears to be the source. Had Draco not followed the sound, you might’ve thought yourself to have imagined it. He even replies to someone you still cannot pinpoint, “Good to see you sir.” A little bow of his head steers you straight to the wall, where a portrait of a man waving a few fingers greets you in passing. 

“You‘re friends with the portraits?” Mentally add it to the list of fun Draco facts that have surprised you thus far; though, upon consideration, it sort of suits him. 

“They’re good company.” He speaks so casually, and glances into your gaping eyes when he doesn’t get a response. “Rather wise, too.” 

It’s a jovial stroll to the common room, where Draco mutters something about alchemy coursework and scurries off up his set of stairs, too fast for you to even slip in a meaningful goodbye– or to segue into a debrief of the afternoon. It’s too bad, but you figure that you’ll catch up with him again during the next class. 

Nothing insane has changed by the end of the day, really. Your relationship with Draco has been remedied, and he and Cedric may be able to do more than simply scowl at each other now, but the world still spins, and much business has yet to be tended to. Best save it for another time, you agree upon yourself when you’ve curled up in bed at the end of it all. 

As for now, the weight of Draco Malfoy on your mind, particularly for the nth night in a row, is becoming too much to bear. Though, for once, you’re at ease, because at the rate things are going, with the amends and truces of the day, all should be settling back to what it once was– or even to a new and improved version, you dare to hope. This will be the last night Draco Malfoy consumes your consciousness. And in the back of your brain, swinging between sleep and wakefulness, Henry Selwyn and Rebecca Avery. Finally, anxiety has no grip on your heart, and surely the nurses will find a way to cure whatever curse or illness has fallen upon them. You’re certain of it.

last chapter <- -> next chapter

..taglist? (': @malfoy-mrsdracomalfoy <3

[guapitas]

i’m feeling so damn ill today, but it’s my man’s birthday 🎉🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️😛😁

i’m still trying to hone in on my next unwinding chapter, BUT A CONNOR MURPHY X READER WHEN?? that’s my man y’all 😭🫶

[guapitas]

writing for the first time in a couple weeks and why is it all so trash omfg 😭 it’s ok tho we ball 🏀

[guapitas]

The Unwinding (Draco Malfoy x Reader)

Chapter Four: Duality of Man

Chapters: one, two, three

Rated: Mature

Word Count: 5k

Summary: In the time that Cedric has to stay in the infirmary, the dire situation only escalates further. In light of a frightening realization, and with nowhere else to turn, you eventually find yourself at the foot of your only option, Draco Malfoy. (See the overarching summary for the future of this fic, here.)

Warnings: Language, I went a little heavy on the f-bombs in this one

Henry Selwyn fell asleep seven days ago. In a week’s time, you’ve become pretty certain about three things:

First, he doesn’t have a lot of friends— or very good ones, at least. His visitors have been mostly among Slytherin sorts, and many from the quidditch team. And after the first couple of nights, there were no recurring faces— or any faces at all, really. If his parents ever showed up, you never saw them. You think that perhaps you don’t know Henry as well as you had previously figured, and you can’t recall the last time you even spoke to him. 

Second, the nurses are utter gossips– and oblivious ones, at that. You turn down corners to grab lunch for Cedric, or to find the bathroom, and they’re hidden in the shadows. They whisper comatose and about Madame Amani’s various “failed attempts”, until they drop to a halt when you pass by. They refuse to reveal any information to the general public. 

And thus, third– Henry Selwyn may not be waking up anytime soon. 

By the time the weekend rolls back around, you and Marla know every nurse by name. You learned them all before she did; though the competition isn’t entirely fair, with how much spare time you have in comparison. Regardless, you’re just happy to keep Cedric company— even if it comes with the burden of his impossible essay. And at this fruitless rate, you sometimes fear that Cedric may go as mad as Henry did. 

“I don’t understand,” says Cedric, holding a large book open just inches above his face whilst he lies back on the bed, “How can there be literally nothing else? Nothing at all!” 

“Maybe we just imagined that first passage. Homework delirium, and whatnot.” You shrug from a visitation chair, your entire body sprawled out on its limbs and headrest. 

Wedged up next to a vase of tulips at his side table is the original text Cedric had read in the library, many moons ago now. It’s been opened and opened and opened, and now you can almost recite the key points by heart. 

“It can’t be…” In despair, Cedric exchanges his current read for the original book and lays it heavy on his forehead. He closes his eyes beneath it. Before you can ask what he’s possibly doing, he answers— “Literary photosynthesis.” 

You’re quite sure that he means osmosis, but, hell, why not? You aren’t sure how long he stays that way, but you’re confident that he’s managed to fall asleep by the time you pull out some readings for Herbology. The upside to all of this is having a consistent place to get schoolwork done— library be damned. You’ve never been so caught up on assignments before. So, with no particular desire to parade the infirmary halls, and while there are no meals left in the day to fetch, you study. 

The session, of course, is not destined to last any longer than fifteen minutes. You only manage to pick up on the first three points of a chapter about the ethics of magical plant production and use, before Marla is at the door and slipping through it. A black duffel bag hangs at her side, and her hair is wet— weighing it down to the longest you’ll ever see it, but only until the air dries it up again. The opening of her Slytherin robe reveals the black loungewear beneath, a typical comfort for post-dance class. 

And as if his name were called— and as if he had never been asleep at all— Cedric shoots up in his bed. He catches the book when it falls into his lap. “Tell me you have good news! I’ll take any news at all!” 

Marla props the door open with her bag– an attempt to bring the outside world to Cedric, she claims– and frowns, taking a stride or two over towards the bed until she can sit on the very edge of it. “They do love you, Cedric.” 

There’s a brief pause until a hard sigh hits his chest and his entire upper body deflates. “Oh, please, I won’t be injured forever! I could grab a broomstick right now and show them what I can do.” 

“You know they need more than that,” says Marla. 

The school books get tossed onto the floor below you as you chime in, “There are other games! Two more left in this term alone.”

“And how about the past decade I’ve been playing?” Cedric’s head tips back to thump against the wall, half-defeated. “Does that count for anything?”

Marla’s eyes meet yours for just a sliver of a second and you can sense the hesitation before she speaks. “You’ve had some… severe injuries in that time. This and, well, that break you took back at Hogwarts. They might be wary, that’s all.” 

The break, right. You didn’t need to know Cedric back in grade school in order to spot exactly what Marla is referencing. In the years you’ve known him now, he’s only discussed it once before– mostly clarifying details and going into depth about an event you had already heard every rendition of. The Triwizard Tournament. Just scarcely escaping the absentminded wrath of Voldemort. 

His eyes go up towards the ceiling as he nudges his jaw to the side, and before neither you nor Marla dare to continue, Cedric sweeps himself up and onto his feet. There’s a small wince in the twitch of his brow as he hauls his body over to the cabinet for his day clothes— not that he particularly needs them during his stay. Thus far, grey joggers and jumpers have suited him just fine. 

“What are you doing?” Marla sighs, sitting back as Cedric wills his body to move with minimal visible strain— in which he fails miserably, by the way. The doses of his medication and severity of his treatments go down with time— he’s getting better— but even a wizard’s anatomy doesn’t appreciate getting their ass beat mid-air. Whenever he’s on two feet, Marla always seems to be waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

“I’m gonna show them,” he says, digging and tossing through the pile of clothes, “I’ll show them that I can play— that I’m more than some freak accident survivor. Or whatever it is they think of me.” 

You finally swing your legs around and pull yourself forward on the surprisingly plush chair. “Now? You can hardly walk straight down the hall, let alone fly.” 

When he doesn’t respond or even move an inch away from his spot, pulling out a fresh set of clothes instead, Marla insists, “Sit back down, Cedric. Don’t be irrational; think about your injuries—“

“To hell with the injuries!” He shoves whatever fabric he has in his fist back down into the pile, still facing the wall. And then he stills, everything stuck beside the heave of his shoulders. “With my body, my health— quidditch is what matters the most. I need to do this.” 

And even from the angle, you can tell Marla’s rolling her eyes– concerned, but entirely done with his theatrics. “Right, well, regardless, they aren’t going to see you now. Give it time, rest up, and play at your best during the next Hufflepuff match.” 

The reassurance consoles him, even if just for the moment. He pulls away from the cabinet and finally turns around, now with a face of defeat, and goes to say something– but he’s abruptly interrupted by a commotion of noise coming from the hallway. 

All three of your heads whip around to get a view through the open door as the sounds draw nearer. A collection of snarls and… growls, like a wild beast, become clear, accompanied by the general ruckus of voices. Everyone is frozen, silent in the face of intrusion, until half of what you hear is the thump of your own heartbeat. The other half is a girl’s clamor, and her ferocious shrieks; shoe soles screeching against the floor. And in another few seconds, they’re walking past the room– a herd of infirmary nurses and security, and in their restraints, a young girl– perhaps a first year– thrashing about. A pool of bubbles and spit collects at the corner of her mouth and, despite her shorter size, the hands on her biceps struggle to hold her in place. 

In the split second you see them pass by, her neck is thrown back, then to the left, then the right, and you think the security may have lifted her feet off the ground for an easier walk, but that only gives her more freedom to strike their legs. The red striped tie around her collar is half-way undone. Their appearance is brief, but nobody moves a muscle until the noise fades down to the end of the hall, and finally disappears behind the slam of a shut door. And once you can breathe again, you meet the eyes of Marla and Cedric. 

“What the hell?” says Marla, finally, and hushed, “Was that not Selwyn to a tee?” 

Cedric hobbles his way back to the bed and takes a seat, one hand up in his hair. Back at the game… yeah, she was definitely a spitting image of that Henry. It wouldn’t have been your first thought exactly, but there’s no denying it. The physical mannerisms, the entire disregard for anyone’s safety– even their own– and, in fact, it’s like they want to cause harm. You keep an ear out, listening for any other noise– particularly for a set of wheels rolling down the corridor. In any case, you hope that this girl was nowhere near as successful as Henry Selwyn was. 

When she doesn’t get a response, Marla continues, her eyes lingering towards the hallway now, “That was… boorish… She was like an animal.” 

You pin your gaze to the floor, letting Marla’s thoughts loiter around yours and– holy shit– surely not? There’s no fucking way. A sick lurch swirls down in your stomach and almost up your throat, and your heartbeat is picking up when you tear your attention over to that damn textbook. You’re almost too afraid to speak, or to do anything, concerned with looking foolish and, well, perhaps a part of you wants to be foolish. You want this to be an outlandish, coincidental connection. Fuck, you’re gonna be ill. 

With a lack of words, you throw yourself off the chair and snatch the book from Cedric’s bed. Your hands find the exact page and paragraph without even having to think about it, and yeah, there it is. You don’t even need to read the passage to know it, and the confirmation does nothing to quell the dread that’s slowly overtaking your body. 

Animalistic behavior, a perpetual state of sleep– god, it’s so fucking plain and right in your face that you almost refuse to entertain it at all. You have half a mind to shut the book and forget about it completely, when you remember that there are two pairs of curious eyes following you. 

“What’s up?” Cedric asks, head tilted back to watch. You look over at him from the book, and there must be something on your face, or in your stare, because it’s only just a second until he catches on. The book is resigned over to his hands in the moment that he reaches for it. 

“Tell me I’m crazy,” you say, the words clawing themselves out of your mouth. 

From the other end of the bed, Marla doesn’t have the quote ingrained into the crevices of her brain like you and Cedric do. She’s been spared. “You’re crazy. What’s going on?” 

“Oh, this fucking essay… there’s no shot,” Cedric moans, and you can’t decipher if what you see on him is distress or– excitement? He pulls the book into his chest and gapes hard over at you and Marla, giving a solemn nod. “This may be terrible for us… but this is a huge win for my thesis.”

While you resist the urge the physically fucking facepalm, Marla takes her turn with the text. She rips it from Cedric’s grip and lets him advise her, “Second to last paragraph on the left.” 

You can’t figure out which words would help to explain this situation– hell, you don’t even know what the situation is. There are two students seemingly undergoing this cryptic and disgustingly vague description, and you have no idea why or how. And, for some fucking reason, Cedric doesn’t look as sick as you feel. 

“Oh,” says Marla. Fucking oh. Are you the one overreacting here? Or, ideally, maybe you are crazy, and this correlation is actually irrational. Yes, yes, that must be it! And thank god, because you’d really much rather be a fool in this situation— and fuck, Marla and her calm voice— “This is happening. Now.” 

“It’s too perfect! I put a spin on this paragraph and write about how we’re literally seeing it taking place today, in this school. Oh, thank Merlin…” Cedric clasps his hands together and gives them a couple of shakes over each of his shoulders. 

Scratch that— they must be the insane ones. “Hello? Why are we not quivering in fear? Getting to the bottom of it all… or figuring out how to stop this before another student gets hurt?” 

Marla’s perfect posture slumps a little as she meets your eyes. For the first time maybe ever, she’s at a loss. “What do you suggest? Who do we talk to, what do we possibly do with this information?”

And it’s true, you have not a single answer for her. Nobody visits Henry anymore, and every nurse clams up at just the implication of discussing his condition– not to mention that this sort of murky relation might only be distinguishable by someone whose brain has been entirely atrophied by something like Cedric’s command to read.. All rationale left the building approximately three days ago, and everything else has gone downhill since then. Nobody would understand… and besides, what are the odds that this isn’t a coincidence? Maybe there’s nothing to report after all! 

God, you can’t tell if you’re gaslighting yourself into submission and, if you are, you clearly need to work on it. You must be making a face again, because when you stay quiet in response to Marla, the joy drops from Cedric’s expression. He sighs instead.

“Selwyn does get one visitor these days. Maybe we could exhaust that last resource.” 

“Oh? Who is it?” Marla asks.

Cedric frowns, as if this isn’t some of the most unexpected news of the night– definitely in the top three, if you’re ranking. It’s been days since you’ve seen anyone even linger around Henry’s door, nurses included. Finally, he admits, “Draco Malfoy.”

And– yep, yeah, of course it is. Why the fuck is this guy everywhere? After years of never catching a glimpse of him, now you can’t seem to escape. 

“When?” Your voice comes off more accusatory than inquisitive. Honestly, you don’t know why this is irking you so much– he’s done nothing wrong to you, and, actually, you’ve never even had a particularly unpleasant interaction with him thus far. Whatever the case, you push the train of thought outwards, because the longer you think about him or the little time you’ve spent together, the more your tummy hurts. On another day, you’ll really need to have a talk with yourself about getting in over your head with these sorts of things. 

“Every night, so far. I see him through the peephole.”

“You nosy ass,” says Marla as she falls back onto the mattress and crumpled up blankets, until she can peer directly up at you. Her hair is dry now, and she looks like an angel with the ringlets haloing around her head. “So? Are we doing this?”

Doing what? You’re still trying to wrap your mind around what the hell is happening– or if anything is happening at all. Half of you can’t believe that any of you are entertaining this idea. “We’ll come back tonight and talk to him.” You dart your eyes over to Cedric again. “Is he sneaking in?”

“Must be.” He piles all of his surrounding books onto each other and leaves the stack on his bedside stand. They clink against the glass vase. “He’s also rich and powerful, or whatever, so that’s worth something.”

Marla nearly laughs. “Sure, but that’s all he has going for him these days.” She rocks herself back up. “And he’s okay on the quidditch field.”

Alright, you’ve had enough of this particular route of conversation, and the deal is done regardless, so for now– “We should have our story straight when we fucking bombard him like this.”

“Yeah, our story, which is…?” Cedric crosses his arms. “There hasn’t been anything like this since grade school.”

In hindsight, that era of Hogwarts doesn’t feel so distant from now. And even though the subject at hand is grave enough, this certainly isn’t helping. Time is so fuzzy when you spend forty percent of it in the same room– you aren’t sure at which point in the past couple of weeks that your biggest troubles shifted from enrollment, to this. 

“Could someone be behind it all? An evil mastermind?” Marla suggests as she crosses her right leg over her left and cups her chin. 

“Maybe, perhaps a copycat?” You begin to pace around the tiny room, ignoring how dark it’s become outside, and hoping that the physical movement will encourage the cerebral. “Like, a bootleg Voldemort?” 

And it’s as if your body knows before your brain does, because you glance at Cedric as soon as the words leave you. He’s entirely unfocused– slipping away for a moment– and you’re about to apologize for even saying the name, but he’s back down to Earth before you get the chance. Surprisingly, he breaks into a smile, “A bootleg?”

Merlin, he can be such a simple man, and thankfully, both you and Marla adore him for it. You try to explain yourself through a fit of snickers, but the difficulty is only egged on by the eruption of theirs. Nothing is even funny enough to warrant this, but the scene is nice. It’s a delight to laugh under the weirdest of circumstances, and you’re grateful to be figuring this out with them, of all people. 

By the time you all manage to shut up, Cedric is practically shoving the two of you out the door. The stress of the day has exhausted him, but he promises that he’ll be awake later in the night, when you and Marla return. Funnily enough, the odds of that may be even lower than what it might take to bust this case open. All you can really do now is hope that you find what you’re looking for tonight– whatever the hell that may be.

---

If Draco Malfoy isn’t here, you’re going to kick his ass– royally so. Cedric claimed that he had been visiting every night since Henry fell asleep, always in the most ungodly of hours, and it would be just your luck for him to finally call it quits on the one instance that you’re here to meet him. 

And now, sneaking into the infirmary isn’t the hard part– it’s actually disappointingly easy to alohomora your way inside, and the single night guard is nowhere to be found anyway. In another life, you might raise awareness for the safety of overnight patients and staff, but there’s no place for that tonight. Instead, the difficulty reveals itself not only when you find Cedric knocked out cold in his bed, but also when you discover that you cannot open Henry Selwyn’s door at all. The knob twists but it doesn’t budge like Cedric’s does, and no amount of spells are cutting it this time. 

It becomes pretty clear that you are not getting into this room when even Marla’s efforts are futile. She curses under her breath after the fifth failed attempt, and your neck aches from all of the whipping it does as you keep a lookout. 

“What the hell is up with this doorknob…” You say to mostly yourself, as if the culprit could be anything other than a good charm, and you even kneel down to get a better look at it. It’s just a regular old handle– nothing visibly out of the ordinary– but you’re desperate, and that guard who slipped up earlier could be coming back any minute to strike. Marla takes a step back to relent, but even her focus remains on the door, like she’s pissed off at its defiance.

And that’s when footsteps creep up behind the both of you.

“Having much trouble?” 

You spring up faster than your knees would usually tolerate, turning to meet that confident, nonchalant voice– really, you shouldn't have had to look to know. With hands in his pockets, and that chain that drops from the left side, you can’t believe you didn’t hear him walking down the hall. 

“Hey,” you say, breathless, and hold back from cringing in on yourself– are you suddenly stupid every time he gets near? Who the fuck says hey? 

Meanwhile, Marla’s got one hand on her wand. “What are you doing out here?”

“Excuse me?” His chin dips, and he looks utterly incredulous, taken aback by the sheer audacity. He glances at you– “Hi–” then back to Marla. “I should be asking you both the same question.” 

His calm stance but firm voice does nothing to curb Marla’s defensiveness, so you intervene. “We wanted to talk to you, but…” You try the dumb doorknob again, to no avail. “We couldn’t get in.” 

And then he does something so fucking slick that it whirls your insides. He’s so sly with it, and if you blinked at the wrong time, you would’ve missed it entirely. His hand makes an appearance as he pulls it from his pocket and gives it a turn in the door’s direction, just a little jolt of his fingers, and then– click. 

If it were possible to make the facial expression equivalent to a question mark, you’d be doing it. Magic without a verbal spell is not unheard of by any means– in fact, there are many general requirement classes for that sort of magic in particular, and you’ve already taken two of them– but… damn. You can’t even say anything as he comes closer to lean in– a breath away from you– and twists the knob, pushing the door open ever so slightly, and then closing it again. “Better?”

You almost want to clap your hands at his finesse– do it again, do it again!– but the smoke steaming out from Marla’s ears reigns you in. Her cheeks have gone crimson and she presses onward, “What do you know about Henry Selwyn?”

“What? I don’t know anything.” For a second, the cockiness in his voice is replaced by contempt, until he meets your eyes again. “We should at least get out of the hallway before the interrogation.”

Even Marla can’t argue that. She opens the door and goes into the room first, and everything is normal, but when you follow her, the stiffness– the cold is overbearing. It’s as if the room exists simply to provoke you, to keep you out of it, and every step forward feels like two positive ends of a magnet getting closer. You think you can handle it, and that maybe a nurse left a drafty window open or something– but then you see him. Henry Selwyn.

His eyes are shut at least, and the covers go up to his collarbones… but his skin is so fucking pale, and his cheeks are hollowed out, and you don’t think you’ve ever seen lips so colorless before. Marla goes further into the room– identical but parallel to Cedric’s– as you stop dead in your tracks. An exhale that hits the back of your head doesn’t even phase you because you can’t focus on how close Draco is— all you can think about is getting your fucking feet to move. Just go. 

And, to be fair, you do try. But nope– nope, nope, nope. There’s no fucking way that you can stand in a room with him, with his fucking corpse. He’s alive, sure, but you can’t look at him for too long before the back of your hand meets your mouth, and averting your eyes doesn’t do any help. It’s still so weird— you know he’s there. 

Is this a taste of what insanity feels like? Maybe it’s the circumstances and the late hour– and Henry fucking Selwyn– but you must be losing your mind, because you really don’t mean to be so dramatic. And to make matters worse, the blood rushing to your head must be causing physical hallucinations now. Your altered state of mind could swear that there’s a gentle press on your lower back, but it’s gone before you even register its presence. 

“I’d much rather do this outside, actually.” Draco’s voice comes out from over your shoulder, and when you reluctantly go to look back at him, you’re instantly met with his gaze. From across the room, you can just about hear Marla’s scowl, but you nod graciously and follow his lead back out the door. 

The walk down the hall and right through the infirmary’s entrance is almost shameful– like a failed mission– but Draco is still here, one way or another. And although it’s an entirely different issue of freezing compared to Henry’s room, you endure it for the occasion. 

“Why are you here?” He’s the first to speak up once you find a nice, tall streetlamp to stand beneath, right outside of the building. The warm yellow shine isn’t very bright, but it hits him just enough to make him out. 

You fold your arms across your chest to block out the cold. “We needed to talk to you.” 

“And what? A Divination classroom couldn’t suffice?” 

“It’s about Selwyn,” says Marla, sharp. She has a proper coat with her now, prepared for the weather, but you think that she would thrive under any conditions, regardless of wardrobe. 

When Draco doesn’t verbally respond, you start from the beginning. In a roundabout way of things, you open with Cedric’s essay, and that afternoon in the library— the frustratingly brief phenomenon. Henry Selwyn, and then when that girl came into the infirmary… What was her name again? 

“Rebecca Avery,” he says, interjecting to fill in your gaps. 

Marla squints and takes her opportunity to pry. “You know her?” 

“Of her. She’s a pureblood.” When this gets no satisfying reaction from neither you nor Marla, he sighs. “I was raised to know these sorts of families, you know… the right sort, the wrong.” And then he shrugs, like his upbringing was even remotely normal in comparison to anyone else’s– let alone to anyone else in this conversation alone. 

The tangent throws you off track, but you eventually find your way back to the story. You explain the connections, the overlaps in behavior, the fucking perpetual state of sleep— you’re anxious all over again. And when you give a great sigh, vocal chords exhausted from a loaded ramble, Draco just… fucking blinks at you. His face is no different than when you began, and sure, you don’t know what kind of response you expected— or even wanted— but, for Merlin’s sake, anything would be better than his grand ordeal of nothingness. 

“Why are you telling me this?” 

Okay, well, that’s a… good question– a great one, actually. Why are you telling him this? Because there’s no one else to tell? Or because there’s a chance that he might have some brilliant, key piece of information that could explain everything? You don’t really know. 

Your mouth opens, and absolutely no words come out. For a moment, you’re stunlocked by the hold of Draco’s cool eyes, until Marla comes up with an answer for you– succinct and good enough. “We think this may be serious.” 

“What an astute observation you’ve made.” His voice is suddenly coated with sarcasm, and his frustration is reverberating back onto you. “Shall we go to the headmaster about it? I’m sure even the Daily Prophet would love to hear all about this one. Might throw you lot a ceremony for your wits, bet Diggory can be the mascot–”

“Alright,” you say, entirely fed up, and just before Marla can stick her wand right down his esophagus. The breeze is really starting to chip at your skin, and Draco’s shitheadedness at your mediating resolve. “My fault for thinking that you might actually be interested in this, or in figuring out what the hell is going on.” 

You’ve known this guy for less than a month now, but in an instant, he’s unleashing a whole new layer of attitudes. For example– this is the first time he’s properly glared at you. “Yeah, your fault it is, then.” 

This time you’re the one halfway to your wand when Marla juts in. She’s sharp, eyeing him up and down like a bug beneath her boot. “I’m surprised you’re not jumping at this opportunity, Malfoy, to make up for daddy’s war crimes.” …And now it’s Marla’s turn to get side-eyed by you, because you had no intention of aiming so low– bringing his family into this? His past? It’s increasingly clear that Draco hadn’t been expecting this attack either, because he isn’t quippy enough to beat her to the next line. Instead, Marla continues with another punch that makes you wince. “You want to move on so badly– to pretend that you’re this new, changed man, but you’re the same coward you’ve always been. It’s pathetic.”

“Hold your tongue when you don’t know a damn thing about me.” He shoots his look back over to you, stone-faced and glowering. “And count me out of your juvenile schemes. I want no part in any of it.”Then, before you can say anything, he’s gone. He storms off, down the side of the infirmary wall and out of sight when he makes a left turn. And now you can’t even bring yourself to face Marla again, teeth grit to keep from chattering and wondering how a simple conversation could possibly escalate this far. Whatever direction this night was supposed to go in, you’re sure this is the exact opposite.

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