Word count: 2.8k
Pairing: Draco x Non-Slytherin!Reader
A/N: Reader was given a last name as voted in a previous post. Thanks for interacting guys!
Draco Malfoy was never good with emotions.
He had learnt at a young age that showing any kind of weakness would only leave him open to ridicule and scrutiny. A show of weakness is a Muggle trait, his father would say, Malfoys do not dabble in such foolishness. But Draco felt more of a fool than a Malfoy.
His words stammered at your gaze and his pulse pounded like a nauseating drum. Wherever you walked, the flora seemed to come to life. Vines twined about your ankles, and the blooms, soft as petals to roses, blossomed beneath your feet. There must’ve been something in the water you drank to make him feel this way. Ambrosia, he assumed, the drink of the gods. There was no other explanation.
You glowed like the brightest of suns, illuminating your way around the castle as a goddess would in a garden. He supposed that is why everyone was enthralled by you. You had the power to make even the wildest vines submit to your will— or as he would say, Gryffindors. Amortentia couldn’t charm the people like you did. It was simply impossible.
The way you had everyone bowing to your feet as if you were royalty was more than just a drop of Amortentia. No, you were entirely enchanting with your words. A kind heart: one he wished to pursue. But those words would never slip from his lips. They were too weak.
Even after you had your share of lollies together on the heights of the Astronomy tower, sharing memories of your fruitless banter to the stars. When you mocked him—and he had joined you—of his unpleasant words thrown at you like a streak of lightning in a dim sky. He claimed that he would never be weak enough to admit how he felt. You would never see that side of him.
So, he called that night what he called most beautiful moments, a mere fleeting instant of time. The sight of your eyes squinted with laughter in the shape of a crescent moon, no matter how beautiful, would always be just that. And if it were more, he was afraid he’d never hear the end of it from his father. Fraternising with a half-blood, how pathetic.
So, he let that moment past, as if it meant nothing to him. Your share of stories and laughter would sit in the back of his mind like an old book, to grow dusty and forgotten. The tale of your rivalry only a fable for the poets to sing. Eventually, everyone would forget about your enmity. Or he wished it was that easy.
The worst part is, Draco was never a good liar either. His attempts at feigning his composure, despite his best efforts, was always noticeable.
He and his friends were sat in the Great Hall, a little bit after dinner to chat, when Theodore Nott broke Draco’s hard focus.
“What’s wrong, Malfoy?” He spoke. “You’ve been staring at that wall like a lost pup ever since we arrived. Something got your wand in a knot?” Theodore looked up from the crevices of the Slytherin table to cast his curious gaze onto the Malfoy heir.
“Nothing’s wrong.” Draco defended. He looked away from the wall to land his stare on his curly-haired friend and raised an inquisitive brow. “Why?”
“Don’t be like that, Draco.” Pansy intercepted. She could tell from his expression that he was annoyed, and the visible flush of heat rising his cheeks proved it. She narrowed her eyes and shook her head with a disapproved look. “There’s obviously something wrong. You’ve been acting pissy all month.”
They’d all noticed Draco’s inability to focus on class, and it was obvious that something had been bugging him— his short temper proved it. He’d snap at them whenever they asked a simple question or glare whenever someone looked at him for too long. He was like a dementor, sucking the happiness out of all of them, and frankly, it was draining. Pansy had enough but so did Draco.
He hated feeling vulnerable. When they’d stare at him all concerned, wondering why he had been on edge all month, he hated every second of it. He was doing just fine trying to ignore his feelings.
“Shut it, Pansy.” He tried to warn, but it was obvious that he felt a little more sad than annoyed. Blaise sighed from beside him and tapped his back gently.
Draco’s eyes wavered. The feeling of their eyes on him felt consuming, and he feared there was nothing he could do to stop it besides caving in. He hesitated with a shaky breath before he gave a curt nod forward.
“That Blackwell git is obviously desperate for attention. Look at him.” He told them. The group followed his gaze to where Hermes Blackwell stood. The Gryffindor boy stood across from where you sat, his hand leant on the wooden table in an obvious display to charm you. The way you laughed at his jokes made Draco even more infuriated.
Blaise chuckled lightly at the sight and shifted in his seat to get a better view of the two of you. “Mate, he’s only talking. Poor git can’t make a move without you tensing up.” The dark-skinned boy turned to his pale friend, his laughter halting when a realisation struck him. He voiced with a solicitous tone, “unless… don’t tell me you’ve caught feelings for Rosewood?”
Draco scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“No, he’s right, Draco. You’ve been off since that race. Fancy her, do you?” Pansy agreed, her mouth parted in slight disbelief.
“I said, ‘shut it,’ Pansy.”
“Don’t tussle with her because you don’t want to admit it. She’s telling the truth.” Blaise defended. Pansy nodded him with a thanks.
“What in Merlin’s name are you blabbering about?” Draco’s lips raised into his characteristic irritation, and his ears perked up at the sound of Theodore’s reply.
“Didn’t Rosewood take you to Hogsmeade the other week because Blaise was with Evangeline?” Theodore enquired with an intrigued smirk.
“I heard that Weasley girl caught you two on the Astronomy tower that night.” Mattheo Riddle added, playfully bumping the Nott boy with a wink.
Draco leant back. “So what?” He looked between his friends. There was no way they were assuming he was infatuated with a half-blood.
Pansy crossed her arms, her voice filled with an obvious jealousy when she spoke. “So, you do fancy her, don’t you? Why else would you let a half-blood accompany you to the village?”
Draco sniffed with a displeased raised chin. “You’re blabbering nonsense.”
“If she’s blabbering nonsense then I’m dead,” Theodore laughed, and the others joined along. “Why don’t you just ask her out?”
The group of Slytherins nodded. “And why would I do that?” Draco huffed.
Mattheo chimed in again and his smirk widened with tease. “What about a bet?” He looked between his friends; his eyebrows raised as he waited for them to back him up. Only Theodore offered a shrug.
“Enough of that.” Draco said with an annoyance. This conversation was going nowhere.
“C’mon, Malfoy.” Theodore encouraged. “You haven’t joined the bets since the race. What, spent all your galleons on her already?” He leant back slightly and poked his tongue into his cheek.
Draco turned away. “Why would I spend galleons on that half-blood?”
Nott raised a confident brow. “The half-blood that you fancy, you mean?”
“I don’t fancy her.”
“He’s in denial…” Mattheo sang, which earned a chorus of agreements. “I’ve seen you look at her in class!”
Draco narrowed his eyes onto Mattheo’s dark curls. “What, can't look at someone now? You lot are being ridiculous! Anyway, when was the last time you washed your hair, Riddle? Getting a little oily, isn’t it?”
The group mentally deadpanned. It was obvious Draco wanted out of the conversation. “Weren’t you two eating lollies on the tower? I seem to recall Rosewood being rather… destitute.” Mattheo gasped in fright when Tom Riddle spoke. The tall boy had apparently been sitting at the end of the table unnoticed for a while.
Draco’s stomach dropped; there was no hiding it now. “Fine,” he puffed in defeat, blinking irately at the older Riddle. “I spent a couple galleons on her. So what? I’m rich, it doesn’t bother me.”
“Clearly, he’s in denial." Theodore leant forward, and with a teasing smile, he pointed a knowing finger at his friend. "A couple of galleons is the first step, ragazzo.” He leant back again with a playful tongue in his cheek.
Mattheo nodded theatrically from beside him. “Poor Draco, in denial and going broke. How will he afford his next Butterbeer?” He sighed with dramatics, leaning into Theodore’s side.
“I’m not going broke. Don’t be a dunderhead, Riddle.”
Matheo straightened. “Seriously, Draco. What have you got to lose?” He shrugged and gestured to nothing in particular. “She’s quite the charmer, isn’t she? Besides, you are the Slytherin prince. There’s no way she could reject you.”
Draco turned away. He just wanted this conversation to end already. “Someone else can have her.”
“Yeah, and I think Blackwell will soon if you don’t man up!” Mattheo pointed to the scene behind himself. And there you were, the Gryffindor boy beside you now, his arm so close to yours and his fingers stretched out as if he was ready to hold your hand.
Draco stiffened at the sight. It wasn’t possible you would entertain someone so… odd. Hermes Blackwell was known for his temper. He’d made multiple girls cry after they’d crossed him. He was like the Furies, the Greek goddesses of vengeance, except ugly and smelly—but all Gryffindors were smelly—to Draco, at least. He clenched his jaw.
“I knew it.” Mattheo resolved with a clap. “You do like her.” It was obvious in the way he stared at Blackwell right now, with a jealousy in his eyes so intense it could burn wax. It should be him next to you, not some irrelevant student in red.
Draco had to tear his eyes away. “So what? It’s not like I can date her.” He huffed.
“Who gives a rats tail what your father thinks?”
“She doesn’t fancy me.”
Mattheo laughed at his assumption. “How do you know that? You haven’t even asked her!"
“She has the whole school at her feet. Why would she choose me?”
Pansy spoke with a slumped tilt of her head. “Feeling insecure, really? You’re a Malfoy.”
Mattheo raised his hand to interject and spoke with an amused frown, “don’t forget he bullied her.”
“I didn’t bully her.”
“Sure,” the young Riddle replied. “And Blaise didn’t make out with Evangeline in the hallway this morning.” Mouthes dropped at the new information, but no one could offer a reply when Draco spoke again.
“Fine. But why does it matter? We’ve moved past it.” The group gave him a knowing look, and he sighed. “Why are you lot so insistent?”
“Does it bother you that we want to see you happy?” Blaise suggested.
“Am I not happy right now?”
“No, you’re aggravated.”
Draco huffed. “Well, perhaps if you weren’t bothering me, I’d be feeling otherwise.”
Mattheo leant back with a smirk. “Invite her to a study then. I’ll ask her right now.” He said as he stood up.
Draco leant forward with panic, and he gripped the wooden table beneath his fingers. “Riddle, don’t you dare.”
Mattheo looked around the group to avoid Draco’s gaze. “Galleons on her rejecting him?” He wiggled his eyebrows at his friends. “You lot owe me ten galleons each if she says ‘yes’.”
With that, the youngest Riddle boy made his way to your table. His steps dragged behind him slowly, making sure the Malfoy boy drowned in the tension. He could feel the blond staring daggers into his spine, and it made the whole ordeal even more exciting.
But as Mattheo stepped closer, it was growing more obvious of your distaste in your current conversation. You shifted uncomfortably in your seat, your laugh an awkward melody as Blackwell told you a story.
Mattheo spoke over the Gryffindor, sparing him no thought. “Rosewood, how would you feel studying with Draco Malfoy?”
You looked up at the Slytherin boy. You'd never spoken to him before, but there he was, standing loud and proud like this was an everyday occurrence.
“I’m sorry, what?” You asked, confused but glad your previous conversation was cut short. “Are you asking me to go on a study date with Malfoy, or are you asking me to go on a study date with Malfoy... for him?"
"Yes."
You softly chuckled and paused to think. You wouldn’t mind studying with Draco, but you thought he had been ignoring you since the night on the Astronomy tower. It was out of the blue, but anything to get you away from Blackwell was good.
“Sure, I’ll do it. When?”
Mattheo raised his eyebrows in shock. “Really?” He gapped and turned quickly to give his blond friend a wink, to which he received a glare. He turned back to you again. “What about later, in about an hour?”
You pulled your lip beneath your teeth. Sooner was better than later. “How skilled are you in Legilimens, Riddle?”
Random question, he thought. “Pretty good, why?” He narrowed his gaze on you.
“Read my mind.” And he did. He manoeuvred his way through the crevices in your head to find what you wanted him to know. And what he found was a desperate plea.
“Get me out of here." It was clear the message would've been through gritted teeth if spoken out loud. Mattheo couldn't help but chuckle.
“On second thought. You remember Blaise, yeah? He wanted to have a chat about that Potions project. He told me you were the best.” Mattheo didn’t offer a second of attention to Blackwell before he dragged you up with him.
Once you were both an earshot away from the Gryffindor boy, you sighed. “Thanks, Riddle. Although, I’m probably the worst at Potions.” You admitted. “He couldn’t stop talking about himself. It was a little draining to be honest, so thank you.”
He laughed lightly. “Yeah? And we’re friends now, so call me Mattheo.”
You raised a brow. “Friends? If I recall correctly, this is our first ever proper conversation.”
“Well, Draco’s future girlfriend has to get along with me, doesn’t she?”
“And what makes you think I’ll be his future girlfriend?”
“Just a guess.” He shrugged, an obvious glint of amusement in his eyes. You furrowed your eyebrows at him. “Fine,” he caved with a cheeky smile, “don’t tell him I told you, but he might have gone soft on you since your Hogsmeade trip—maybe even before that.”
Your face drew with slight confusion. “Why...” You began. He did seem a little quiet these days, but that wasn't how you would treat someone you fancy, right?
"I doubt he has," you shrugged. "But he's quite distant now. I just thought he didn't want to spend anymore galleons on me after our little hang out."
You turned to Mattheo, who's smile grew even wider. He raised an eyebrow. “Upset you can't get anymore candy?"
A pink rose to your cheeks. “I didn’t say that. Maybe he's gone broke or he was embarrassed we shared a drink." You shrugged again. "Anyways, if what you're saying is true and he has caught feelings, and I somehow develop feelings—which will never happen—you will be the first to know.”
“Sounds like you're denying it. Are you sure you haven't already caught feelings?” He suggested with a smirk. You shook your head, but if he had been paying close attention, he would see the uncertainty in your eyes.
“I’m sure.”
“So, you’ll tell me first, is that a deal?”
You laughed. “You and your deals.” You acted out a look of disapproval, but your smile widened. “Yes, deal.”
Draco was watching the two of you interact as you drew in closer, his heart pounding faster with every step you took. You were only a foot away when he heard Mattheo seal a deal with you.
“Making deals with Rosewood already, Mattheo?” He had to clear his throat before he spoke. "What's the deal?"
Mattheo shrugged and sent a cheeky nudge to your side. "Nothing... You'll just have to find out. For now, you guys have a study date to attend to."
Draco huffed. "It's not a date!" He almost stammered on his words. "I just—I need help with one of the assignments!"
Draco never hesitated on his words, but it looked like he was failing to come up with a lie. It was amusing.
"It's still called a study 'date', Draco, romantic or not. You don't need to panic, it's just platonic this time around," you explained, and a teasing thought crossed your mind. "Unless you would prefer romantic?"
Draco's cheeks warmed at the idea. "Yeah, whatever Rosewood." He stood and made his way to the doors, his head hung low and fists tight to his sides. A flustered Draco would become one of your favourite sights.
Perhaps Mattheo was right, Draco has gone soft for you.
A/N: This is Minho x OC -- something I wrote a while back. It was supposed to be the prologue to a TMR fanfic I was writing back in 2021 but forgot about. I have also lost the storyline document I had for it, enjoy!
Under the dark of the night, the crickets sung their lullaby to the stars; the cold wind blew harshly at the ocean and the moon pulled the tide to the sand. The crackle of the bonfire belt into the ears of those who sat around the flame.
In desperate attempts to keep themselves warm, the surviving Gladers and the members of the Right Arm huddled together near the heat. Their stories were told to the evening air. The cold wind blew at their words and brushed against their cheeks. Their muscles numbed – their warm blood turned ice. But the piercing chill was halcyon.
The stories told and emotions shared created an atmosphere similar to the Glade, and Minho was finally at peace. A light-hearted feeling hit his chest and an overwhelming warmth flooded his senses. It had been a while since he'd felt that way.
He had been staring at the golden sand when Harriet nudged his shoulder. Her smile was wide and dried tears soaked her cheeks. Her dark hair was neatly plaited back into two. With lips folded into a purse, she asked, "what was your favourite memory in the Glade?"
For a moment, Minho paused. His eyes gazed at the bright glow of the fire. The Gladers watched him with unsettling eyes. His favourite memory in the Glade...
"Have you ever been in love before?" He blinked slowly, trying to ignore the growing pain in his heart.
No one spoke, but in the corner of his eye, they shook their heads. A small chuckle fell from his lips, and he sighed. Then, Minho expressed a feeling he hadn't spoken of before:
"I fell in love – back in the Glade." He shared a hesitant glance with Gally, who just nodded for him to continue.
He cleared his throat. "If I had to describe it: it was beautiful," he softly smiled. The thought of his lover brought a pink tint to his cheeks. "But, it was self-destructing.
"It was like opening my heart and not knowing whether a beetle blade or a speck of Frypan's cooking would get inside. Shuck, I'm glad it was the latter."
The group shared a chuckle.
"But, after all my paranoia and overthinking, she was my hope. She helped me through my bad days and kept me sane. But no matter how much hope I held, I knew she was going to leave in the end. I just didn't know how.
"But it doesn't matter how it ended. Because she told me, 'When it's over, it's the happy memories that hurt. So don't be sad it ended, be happy because it happened.'"
The thought of her smile melted his chest.
"Going through the Maze trials was probably the hardest thing I had to endure. But if reanalysing the Maze and enduring the spikes of fear I felt meant seeing her again, I'd do it again in a heartbeat.
"Because even if I had suffered, she was my favourite memory."
A silence fell upon them again; only the crash of the cold ocean against the rocks soaked the air. It filled the atmosphere until they all drowned in the thick stillness of the moment. The fire blared upon them, but even then, the ambience had turned a mountain of glacier.
Summary: Competition is a double-edged sword — it can carry you to great heights, but also result in a fiery fall. Like the wings of Icarus, Draco Malfoy fell, but not in the way he expected.
Words: 4.4k
Pairing: Draco x Non-Slytherin!Reader
A/N: this was meant to go on for much longer, but i might put my other ideas into a separate fic. will proofread tomorrow (maybe) thanks for reading!
The philosopher Aristotle wrote about the importance of art and beauty in human life. He said that beauty has the power to change human behaviour — that it isn’t just something to be admired, but by surrounding ourselves with beautiful things, we can become better people.
Draco Malfoy never thought much about beauty. It was not a concept that concerned him. He had his gold and jewels, the power and the prestige, and the attention and validation that came with them. Beauty in even the smallest things like the sun setting over the horizon never faltered his idea of it being nothing more than just a mirage.
It was merely a fleeting moment of pleasure that faded as quick as it came. He’d never been moved by beauty in the same way that others were. The things he had were valued above all else, and his desire to place value on the things he possessed overshadowed the importance of all things else.
His arrogance rose tension like thorns between the pair of you. You were merely a half-blood to him—a filthy one at that, and one with barely any wealth—and he convinced himself that his thoughts would never sway. Never mind the beauty you held that enthralled people to your feet, he would never bow even if you asked politely; you were beneath him.
"You're nothing special, really. In fact, I fail to see why anyone would give you a second thought." He told you.
You liked to think it was only a way to conceal his insecurities, so you never put too much thought into it. Draco was hardly special under the roof of the castle even with his status. He barely had anyone, but he never really valued the beauty in friendship regardless, and still, his lack of companionship only fuelled his frustration. How could a half-blood be more liked than him?
Then, he saw you had surpassed his grade in potions, and your battle of ego and wits grew into an academic rivalry. The two of you were like magnets pulled together by an invisible force, both drawn to the challenge of besting each other.
“An ‘E’?” Draco yelled, his voice a discordant tune. His fingers gripped tightly around his parchment paper, knuckles red with anger.
The paper within your grasp was as smooth as a silk chiton. The bold and elegant "O" adorned on its front, like a crown to your victory, brought a smirk to your lips. You had him beat and there was nothing he could do about it.
“Upset, Malfoy?” You disputed, a note in your voice like a lyre. Your smile remained soft and yet, he thought of cursing you with his bitter tongue.
“Upset?” His mouth formed a thin, cruel line. "Hardly." he scoffed. His tone dripped with derision. To be beaten by a witch, raised as a Muggle was unfathomable, and his ego was wounded by a cut that ran deeper than the River Styx.
“A slip of paper does not define my intelligence, or my abilities as a wizard. I am above something as trivial as a ‘paper’.” His words sought to mask his envy, but his jealousy was palpable as it hung in the air like a noxious cloud.
“Sure, Malfoy.”
After that, Draco dreaded the moment you would mention this defeat again, but you never did—seeing him seethe in his seat was enough and that infuriated him. He had always been better than you academically, but this time he fell short, and he concluded your silence was to ridicule him.
He sought you out one day, finding you before you made a turn to the library. With his lips raised in their familiar scowl, he approached you with long strides. “Think you’re better than me, eh?” Draco tucked his hands into the pockets of his robe, his gaze grey and uninviting.
A look of confusion drew onto your face. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Don’t be ridiculous! You know what I’m talking about.” He huffed. He pulled his hands from his pockets. “You get an ‘outstanding’ and you don’t taunt me about it like I do you.”
Your brows weaved together like a basket of wool on a spindle. “I suppose you wouldn’t want me to...?” He took a second too long to reply. “Did you want me to?”
The question hung in the air like a golden apple poised to be picked and he turned to the wall beside you, as if he expected to find his answer there. “Of course not, that’s ridiculous.” He scoffed, his words sharp like the blades of a scythe.
“You think everything is ridiculous.” You retorted. “Besides, I don’t understand. You’re confronting me because I’m not mocking you?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he looked away again, his mind knotty with labyrinthine thoughts. His mouth moved to speak but your words slipped before his could. “I have to get to the library.”
Behind him, more students began to file into the room, their steps light but hurried like the gentle whisper of the wind. You clasped your books tighter to your chest. “Would you like to join?”
He heard you shift your feet and thought you were reconsidering your question when he turned to you again. You still held that gentle glow in your eyes and he hated that he nearly lost himself in them—an absurd moment of weakness. You thought you saw a warmth in his own, like a hint of willingness, or maybe a spark of wonder, but it was gone as quickly as it came.
“No.” He rounded you, his lips raised in disgust.
Studying with a half-blood would be a mind-numbing exercise, like another torturous case like the Cruciatus Curse. He hated that you had even considered it. He would never waste his time with someone below him, even the thought sparked an uncomfortable shiver down his spine. Your sick proposal jabbed into his brain whenever he saw you, and he thought that was bad enough, until you joined a Quidditch team.
There’s never been a more pathetic sight than when you walked on the field, your gaze to the cloudless sky. He wanted to laugh—you, playing Quidditch? You were clumsy enough on the ground.
He dropped his feet to the ground, his broom still between his legs. “Joining the team, eh?” His lips raised into his characteristic sneer. “I don’t see how you could possibly beat me.”
You turned your head with his words, your eyebrows raised in merriment. “I don’t need to beat you; this is just for fun.” You can’t recall a time when Draco didn’t want to challenge you.
His mouth curled into an entertained frown. “Is that a Nimbus 2000?” He gestured to the broomstick in your hand.
“It is.” You twirled it. “Pretty, isn’t it? I might consider painting it as well. Maybe a green?” You smiled with a joking sweetness. “For when Slytherin loses, don’t want to hurt their ego too much, do we?”
He was a little taken aback by your remark, but he couldn’t deny that he found your challenge humorous. “Slytherin, losing?” He laughed with a tilt of his head.
“How about a race then? You and I, for the Golden Snitch.” His grey eyes were firm, and his lips upturned into a daring smirk. “The one who catches it first wins. What do you say?”
“What’s in it for me?”
His eyes sparkled with mischief. “We’ll see if you win.”
“And what about for you, what would you want?”
“For you to admit that I’m superior.”
Students gathered to the field, all adorn in their respective uniform and magical badges on their hearts. Draco’s name sparkled more often on their chests than yours, and he smirked with a haughty tilt of his chin. He was confident it would prick your nerves, so the Slytherin flew over, his hair flowing with the wind like the silver feathers of a Pegasus.
“See, I am superior to you.” He sniggered.
Your head shook. “I doubt it, they don’t know what I’m capable of just yet.” Your tone dripped sweetly with poison, like the honeyed words of the serpent Python. No one hated you; they were just a little less expectant of your skills in Quidditch, you were sure of it.
Draco pulled his lips together in an amused frown. “Right, let’s see what you’ve got.”
The Snitch was raised by Marcus Flint, the golden sphere in his fingers like a prize for superiority. The wings unravelled from their place to flail in the air, and it shone intimidatingly between yourself and your rival.
Marcus, on the edge of his broom, flashed his vile teeth. “Close your eyes,” he commanded. The both of you did, letting the Golden Snitch tour its way around the huge field. “Now, open! Start!” He flew away from the scene just as you and Draco opened your eyes.
Your heads twisted and turned in search for the golden bug, eyes narrowed between the crowd, below your feet, and above your heads. Until there it was, flying freely near the Gryffindors. You sped first, your head tilted to fight the air resistance. Draco was on your tail a second after, his hands tight around his broom as he fought to speed passed you.
“Don’t think you have the upper hand.” He laughed, his voice loud against the strong wind. He flew by quickly, his platinum hair flowing freely behind him.
The two of you raced, neck and neck, towards the Snitch. Draco kept his lips between his teeth as he glided, his broom making sharp turns and sudden spirals towards the bug, as it flew erratically like a crazed Phoenix.
The competition was intense, the rush from the chase filling your lungs with an excitement that gave a natural high. The crowd cheered as you dashed through the air, surprised at your pace against an experienced seeker. They jumped and joyously screamed as the two of you flew to the golden ball.
The Snitch seemed to flicker in the sun, tempting you and Draco to close the gap and claim the win. The platinum blond was focused, his gaze narrowed like lasers and movements precise as he grew closer.
You neared each other, arms out and the tension high. The crowd held their collective breath, waiting to catch the win. With every turn and twist of your broom, Draco matched your speed. Despite his closing pale body, your determined eyes remained on the ball.
With a burst of speed, you brushed against him and shoved his body aside. You soared through the air, fingers out to the ball. Only a little closer…
Your fingers barely grazed it, until finally, you clenched it in your grasp. You held the Snitch and its golden glow shimmered in the sun. The entire crowd erupted in a chorus of cheers as they threw their Draco badges to the floor. You had won.
A sigh of disbelief left your throat as you turned to your opponent. Draco had no words to express his loss, nor could he find his speech when you playful winked at him. His cheeks flushed with a faint pink.
He felt silly blushing at something he’d already seen. You’d winked at him before, but this time, it made him feel vulnerable. And as you turned to the crowd, your eyes gentle and smile wide, the feeling began to consume him. It was almost compelling, the sight of you proud without any irritation on your features. He wanted to hate it— ‘that’s a bloody half-blood you’re looking at’ he wanted to say.
But the wind ruffled your hair, the warm sun kissed against your skin, and you had won. He was meant scoff and roll his eyes, but instead, he felt a strange sort of admiration.
And now, as he watched the light dance in your eyes, he felt a stirring in his chest that he couldn’t explain. He wanted to look away—to find a reason to, but he couldn’t. There was something addictive with the way your hair billowed in the wind, and he was sure that even if he was to swim in the banks of the river Lethe, your smile wouldn’t erase from his memory.
Then, following that—and he wished he never would have to admit—he began to notice things that he hadn’t before. He memorised the way your lips would part, and you would facepalm whenever you’d say the wrong answer in class. He noticed how you would fiddle with your fingers—though he wasn’t sure if it was from nerves or just a bored habit.
He admired your different hairstyles from a distance. You’d change it every day, but he found it the prettiest whenever you would braid it. He loved the way the strands would interweave like wool on a spindle, and the way it would reflect the light whenever the sun grazed you.
His words began to trip at the sight of you. So even when you had surpassed his grade in Charms, he kept his lips sealed. It was embarrassing enough to admit to himself that he found you somewhat pretty and it would be even more so if he was to stutter in your face. So slowly, his banter towards you died.
“Malfoy?”
You approached him one day, on a weekend when everyone would be heading off to Hogsmeade. He was sitting on a bench by the fountain outside, his legs relaxed and eyes focused on nothing in particular.
“You coming to Hogsmeade as well?” Your voice was gentle as ever, although it was never really harsh even when you threw playful insults at him.
He raised his gaze. There was something unfamiliar with the way he looked at you now, but you supposed it was the way the sun hit his grey irises.
“Yes.” It’s all he says, like the time you had asked if he wanted to join you in the library.
“I heard Blaise is there already, why aren’t you with him now?”
He blinked. He wanted to hate the way your voice played gracefully like a lyre. “He’s with a girl.”
His responses were short—something you wished you could understand. Nothing was the same after the race, and you weren’t sure it was because you had won.
“Are you alright? Did I do something wrong?”
There it was again, that gentleness in your voice that would make him weak in the knees these days. He was grateful he was sitting then because otherwise his legs would buckle beneath him.
“No.”
You looked aside briefly, trying to find the words that might comfort him. There were butterflies where you gazed, and they fluttered their wings around gracefully like a dance against the wind. You remembered when Professor Lupin had said they were a symbol of new beginnings, and that memory brought an idea to your mind.
“I’m asking you to join me to Hogsmeade.” You told him. “Please come with me.” You wanted it to sound like a kind command, to which he had no choice but to accept.
He raised a brow at your proposal, hesitant. “Draco?”
You’d never said his name so gently before. It was always filled with a hint of tease, or a slight annoyance, but as you stood in front of him in the daring sun, your voice played like a plead.
He considered it. The two of you had never exchanged a proper conversation before; maybe you would embarrass yourself and his weird feelings would wash away. You were pretty, that’s all, and maybe after this, he would think otherwise. His dumb feelings would disappear and everything would be back to normal.
The corners of his mouth raised slightly. “Okay.”
The two of you walked together, soundlessly awkward smiles on your lips and minds whirled with sweet joy. You both tried to hide your enjoyments, looking away from each other as you made your way into The Three Broomsticks.
“Is it good?” You sat across from him, at a wooden booth inside of the store.
His forehead creased with slight disappointment as he licked foam from his lips. “I should’ve asked for less cider.” He tightened his fingers around his Butterbeer.
“Try mine, I asked for less sugar.” You pushed your drink forwards, offering a gentle smile.
He had never shared a food or drink with anyone—it wasn’t something he was accustomed to. His mother had always told him the proper etiquette to decline, but as you offered him your drink, he couldn’t deny.
He brought the cup to his lips and took a small sip. It was better than his, less sweet like he prefers most things. He gave a nod.
“This one’s better. Mine tastes like Honeydukes melted as one and put into a cup.” He pulled his lips up into his familiar scowl, but there was a playful charm in it now.
You grabbed his cup and pushed yours closer to him. “Take mine, I’ll drink yours.” He didn’t reply to your offering before you pulled his cup to your lips.
He chuckled lightly when you pulled it away and a white foam formed around your mouth like a moustache. “You remind me of that Muggle.” He said, his teeth peering from behind his lips.
Your eyebrows knitted together. “What?”
“That Muggle. The one with the white moustache and beard?”
“There are a lot of those — are you referring to Santa Claus?” There’s a chuckle of disbelief that followed your words. “Don’t tell me you didn’t know his name?”
He parted his lips about to defend himself, when a figure crossed behind you, and a scowl fell onto Draco’s features. His grey eyes rose and fell with disdain.
“Potter.” He spat with a roll of his eyes. “Let’s get out of here.” He stood from the wooden seat, his eyes still following Harry behind you with irritation.
You wiped your lips with the back of your sleeve. “But we haven’t finished our Butterbeer.”
Draco gripped your arm as he slipped by you, pulling you with him as he exited the bar. You followed him with hurried steps as you tried to match his longer strides.
“You know, it’s not every day that I can have a butterbeer, Malfoy. I had to save those galleons to earn such a prize.” You spoke.
He continued to walk until he could barely see The Three Broomsticks behind him. “I’ll buy you a Butterbeer next time. I’ll even buy you two if it means I never have to see Potter again.” He released his grip from your arm. You smiled at the thought of hanging out again. Draco enjoyed your company?
“What do hate about him so much?”
“He’s irritating.”
You decided not to argue with him. “Fair.”
Not long after, the pair of you set foot into Honeydukes, the coolness of the air brushing against your cheeks as you entered. It smelt of vanilla and chocolate with a hint of baking pastries.
Draco followed closely behind as you ventured the store, his eyes scanning the shelves along with you. He didn’t enjoy sweets as much, but he couldn’t deny that he found your company nice. So, he only watched as you admired the colours and wacky flavours displayed.
He picked up a string of liquorice. “You enjoy this stuff?” He asked with a slight distaste in his tone. “This is all just sugar.”
He dropped the lolly as you shrugged. “I haven’t tried any of these. Well, besides that disgusting liquorice that Blaise offered me.” Your fingers curled around the pentagonal box of a Chocolate Frog packet.
“Blaise talks to you?”
You turned your head slightly with a furrow of your eyebrows. “Of course Blaise talks to me. Why shouldn’t he?”
His grey eyes sank into yours. “It’s not like we’re rivals.” You continued, dropping the packet back onto the shelf as you turned your body towards him.
“I’m not implying that you and I are,” you added for clarification. “I’m just asking, is it that difficult to understand that I can be friends with your friends as well?”
Draco’s lips raised with a slight amusement. “Your choice of words insinuates that we’re rivals.” He plays with the end of his sleeve. “Besides, Blaise never talked about you, so I never assumed you two got along. Don’t get offended.”
Your mouth dropped a little with embarrassment. “I’m not offended.” Your toned raised. “I’m just clarifying, that’s all.”
“Then don’t.”
You pursed your lips. “Okay then.”
He looked down at you with a glint in his eyes, a dumbfounded expression plastered on his face. Your hair fell against your cheeks when you lowered your gaze, and his lips curled upwards slightly. For a moment, you wondered if he was going to speak, but he only looked away with a faint blush.
You turned away as well, finding your focus on the colours of the sweets again. He watched from a distance, trying to keep his gaze calculated so he didn’t look at you for too long. But whenever you lingered over a treat for a beat too long, he found it impossible not to catch a glimpse of you. His lips would always tug into a small smile, almost as if you were a secret between the two of you.
His grey eyes caught you again when you spoke. “They have lollipops?” You scooped into the colourful mix of lollies. “I haven’t had a lollipop in years!”
Draco considered a thought. “Do you want one?” He moved closer and grazed his fingers against the glass bowl of sweets.
“Yes I’d love one, but maybe next time.” You smiled at him, your eyes shining delicately below the lanterns of the store. “I spent too much already on that Butterbeer—that I didn’t get to finish by the way.” Your smile widened with your words, a joking tone playing on your tongue.
Draco bit his lip to stop a grin, but there was an obvious rise in his cheeks. He doesn't understand how he brought himself to be so rude to you, you were so endearing. You moved around him to reach a case of chocolates, when he picked the glass bowl of lollipops from its stand.
“Draco, what are you doing?” He ignored you as he pulled the crystal casing closer to his chest, a sense of determination on his face.
He dropped the bowl onto the front counter. “These.” The cashier looked at him with a face of distress before she began to count the lollipops.
“You’re going to eat all of that?” You asked once you stood beside him. You were in disbelief as he continued to snatch chocolates and other sweets from below the counter and the shelves behind him.
“No, you will.” He said nonchalantly. He picked a chocolate from another shelf. “Did you want these as well?” He barely let you reply before he stacked the packets and dropped it onto the counter.
Your mouth parted. “You’re absurd, put it back. I can’t eat all of that.” You reached over, in an attempt to move the lollies away, when he stopped you.
His fingers wrapped around your forearm. “You can. It’s my treat for the butterbeer you didn’t finish.”
“This is worth way more than just a Butterbeer, Draco.”
A smile slipped onto his cheeks when you said his name. “It’s my treat then.” He pulled his hand away. “For being such an ass to you.”
You dragged your lip beneath your teeth to contain a grin as Draco scanned the woman behind the counter. “My father will pay for this, I’m sure you know who that is.” She nodded in return, pushing the lollies into a bag before handing it to him.
Draco grabbed the plastic and turned to the door with a smirk. He looked at you from his side. “Let’s try the lollipops you wanted so bad.” He took a few steps in front as you stalled.
“I didn’t want them ‘so bad’!”
“Yeah, whatever.” You laughed as you ran towards him, mouth wide with joy, and eyes shaped like crescent moons.
“You still owe me something for winning the race, though. This doesn’t count!”
“Yeah, alright.” He turned to you with a soft gaze, his face adorned by a delicate smile. You couldn’t recall a time when he'd smiled so gently.
“Want to race to the castle?” You asked, pulling your lip beneath your teeth. The sight made his heart stutter, and the playful tone of your voice made him weaker still. He nodded, and without warning, you took off—your hair flowing freely behind you.
He followed right after, the bag still in his hands as he approached from behind. The sun cast a soft, golden glow around you like an eclipse, highlighting your form in a warm, comforting light. The sun setting over the horizon was breathtaking, but your silhouette in front of it made it all the more captivating, and Draco knew then that beauty was much more than just his jewels.
He had always thought of beauty in abstract terms. It was something for the muggles to fawn over, not something that a pure-blood like him needed to concern himself with. He was accustomed to things being a certain way, and he knew it was foolish, to suddenly find the appeal in something so absurd; to fall for someone who was deemed lower than him. But he couldn’t help it, he was drawn to you, like a moth to a flame.
"Beauty is symmetry," Aristotle had said. But for Draco, beauty was more. It was a feeling, a sensation that he couldn't quite explain. It was the way the sun caught your hair at just the right angle, the way you laughed.
Suddenly, beauty was the sound of parchment, the smell of butterbeer and Honeydukes, and the scene of the sun setting over the horizon. You were like a breath of fresh air, like the sunlight after a storm. Suddenly, he understood why everyone fell to your feet.
For the first time in his life, Draco realised that beauty wasn't only a fleeting moment of time, nor was it something that could be defined, it was something that existed beyond words. It was a feeling, a sensation, that he couldn't really understand. But he knew it when he saw it, when he felt it.
You stand in the garden, watching the rain fall from the sky. The sound of the water droplets hitting the manor’s roof is a gentle, soothing sound. The fresh scent of rain fills your senses, and you take a deep breath.
The garden blooms around you with colours of red, green, and yellow, and the water envelops the leaves with dew drops – some large, and some small like tiny stars. The rain falls against your skin gently like the soft caress of twilight, and it coats you with a sense of peace and joy. As the water hits the ground and splatters against the earth, it moulds between your toes and under your feet.
You begin to realise that the beauty of rain is more than just a natural phenomenon – it’s a reminder of the wonders of nature. And as you stand there, feeling the rain on your skin, you can’t help but feel grateful for the simple things in life, but you could only wish that the simple things in life included Draco as well.
“Darling, will you come in?”
The soft voice of Narcissa Malfoy is the only thing that could calm you these days. She offers a sweet smile from the manor’s doorway, and her hair swings slightly with the cool wind. She reaches a hand out, and her pale skin—contrary to yours—is coated dry.
You give her a small nod, a smile so obviously forced, and head towards the manor. It’s a quiet walk through the cold grass as you make your way to her. And when you reach her hand, she leads you inside with a coat ready to warm your skin. She takes you to the dining room for the fifth time that week, and you, Narcissa, and Lucius have dinner.
Dinner is quiet, only the sounds of clattering of utensils echo through the mansion. Lucius stares blankly at his food, Narcissa glances at you, and you watch as the rain pours against the huge windows of the manor. The water droplets against the windowpane blurs in your vision.
You don't want to accept it yet ― you could barely bear the thought of accepting it. But if you don't, the emptiness would never fade, and so, you finally let it sink in.
"It's the fifth dinner without Draco," you tell the Malfoys. Your head turns away from the window to meet Narcissa's eyes, and she gives you a look indescribable. She seems shocked at your voice and the harshness of your discoveries.
"We won't ever have dinner with Draco again."
You let that be the last thing you say before you leave the dining room. Acceptance is the first step to healing, and so, you would let yourself learn to do so. It's what Draco would've wanted.
Song here
Based off of this post by @dracosathenaeum
(she’s great, here’s her masterlist)
The room is musty, almost stale — a mix of mildew and cobwebs that is difficult to place. It’s unpleasant, and as you follow Draco further into the Room of Requirement, the air feels like it clings to your skin.
He walks towards the back of the room, his eyes searching the cluttered space for something that might be hiding in plain sight. After a brief moment, he stops before a decrepit old cupboard and trails his fingers through the timeworn varnish.
His shoulders hunch in a clear display of stress and his grip on the edges of the cupboard becomes tight, as if he's afraid of it slipping from his grasp. You can't tell how long he's been this way, but it's clear that something is causing him a great deal of worry.
With trembling hands, he gestures with his wand, the glow of its energy creating a fleeting light in the dim space. His expression is tense, and you can't make sense of what he's trying to accomplish.
He pulls his robe off with a sudden, abrupt motion, tossing it aside as if it means nothing. Then, with a new sense of purpose, he grips his wand tighter and speaks the words of a charm that you're not quite familiar with. Still, the result is the same – the door creaks open slowly, revealing nothing but barren darkness beyond.
In a moment of frustration, Draco lets out a yell of anguish. He bumps his head against the cabinet, and the pain etched on his features is noticeable even in the dark. His fingers wrap tightly around the edges, almost as if he's afraid the cabinet will disappear if he lets go. But the only thing that vanishes is the light in his eyes, replaced with the look of a lost and confused boy.
With a slow approach, you reach out and place a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Draco,” you say his name softly, hoping to help him find ease in this moment. But he only tenses at the sound of your voice.
His breath hitches in his throat as if your touch is a surprise to him. You've always been there for each other, offering solace in times of great sorrow, but it feels different now. It's as if you're nothing more than a mere object to him, just like the robe he had cast aside to collect dust in the corners of this room. Draco has been hiding his true intentions from you, and you're not sure if it's because he's afraid of your reaction or if he simply feels ashamed.
And then, your eyes catch the mark on his wrist; a strange skull with a serpent crawling from its mouth. You've seen it before, in your studies of the First Wizarding War. The Dark Mark. You stop him before he can slip his wand away and turn his wrist over.
Neither of you speak for a moment, but your silence is broken by a heavy exhalation from Draco. He must have realized that the secret he's been holding onto is now out in the open. You can't help but feel a sense of shock and disappointment, but you also see the underlying fear and regret in his eyes. As you stare at the mark, you begin to connect the dots, and the reason for Draco’s secrecy is now explicable.
You don’t need to ask for him to explain himself. He tells you anyway, aware of the questions that cloud your mind. “A simple charm,” he says, his eyes low and droopy with fatigue.
The gentle warmth of your fingers glides across his skin, a contrast to the cold, ink-stain symbol of the Dark Mark. He averts his gaze when you speak. “Why did you do it?” You don’t have to look at him to know that regret etches on his face.
"I had to," he answers curtly, and you wish it had more to it. You fixate on his lips and the way he licks them nervously; the silent tear gliding down his cheek shatters your heart into a thousand pieces.
He watches as you touch the golden ring slung on your necklace. It was once a simple gift, a symbol of his endearment for you. You had often fiddled with it when you were nervous or upset, but you never thought you would be in this position because of him―he’d never thought you would’ve been.
The tears gather in your eyes and the look of pain in your face makes his gut clench. He wants to tell you that everything will be alright, that the mark means nothing, but that would be a lie. And he couldn't lie to you like that.
Instead, as you bite your lip to hold back a sob, he pulls his forehead to yours, and closes his eyes. He presses a comforting kiss to your skin, and you feel a cool touch on your temple. "You mean everything to me," he whispers. “I love you.” And then with a shakiness to it, the words echo the air.
“Obliviate.”
You leave the Room of Requirement with a sense of confusion and emptiness, and Draco only tells you that you were lost before leading you out. For weeks on after, the feeling of void stays, engulfing you to the point of physical exhaustion.
There’s a blank space in your memory that feels like an important piece of you―but you don’t know what it is. You begin to hang out with your friends, trying to discover the void left behind from that moment in the Room of Requirement, but to your displeasure, you discern nothing.
You begin to tuck yourself into bed with a sense of difference; with an ache to go somewhere, to sneak out and have someone to see. But your mind remains blank, it seems you are forgetting so much these days.
“Draco, isn’t that your ring?”
You’re studying with your friends, head deep in textbooks and various pieces of parchment when someone speaks, their voice whipping against the silent air of the library. Draco watches as you flip through the pages of the book you read.
Blaise speaks again, “isn’t it?”
Draco shifts in his seat. “I’m sure it just looks similar.” His grey eyes watch you attentively, and his voice comes monotone when he speaks. There’s a sense of desolation to it.
“We both know that’s the Malfoy family crest.” Blaise tells him, his eyes slightly wary of his friend’s lie. “I wondered why you stopped wearing it.”
After a few moments of silence, Draco stands, the inside of his cheeks between his teeth. He takes slow, prideful steps towards you. Your eyes are still on your paper, indulged in your reading when his voice chimes out. “That’s my ring,” he says. You look up.
Draco hovers over your slouched figure, his eyes attempting a hard gaze. There’s a glimpse of regret in his hues of grey and it doesn’t come unnoticed. But he doesn’t glare at you – and he couldn’t, even if he really attempted to. His eyes just couldn’t seem to lose their shine around you.
You flicker your gaze from him to the golden ring hanging from your neck. It feels warm under your fingertips and slippery from your sweat. It had probably been caressed from your stress as you studied. A heat travels through your cheeks.
“I’m sorry, I must’ve picked it up by accident.” Your drop your quill to untangle the lock of your necklace, but your friends stop you before you can.
“Wait, how do we know if it’s yours, Malfoy?”
He knows that your friends hate him, but he still feels that familiar pain strike his chest. He acts the part that they know so well. “My vaults could buy this castle, why would I be stealing gold from a mere student?”
He’s usually more harsh, but he can’t bring himself to insult you either. Instead, he watches as you struggle to unclasp it until you have six girls pulling at the expensive chain around your neck.
He inhales deeply, reaching to undo it himself. “Move you lot, you’re going to damage it.” His fingers brush against your cold skin, and his warmth gives you a sense of comfort you don’t understand. He unclasps the chain easily, and when it leaves your skin, Draco slips the ring off before giving you back the golden line.
“Thank you.” You tell him, but there’s an ache to say something more.
He leaves the table without another word, and you watch as his retreating figure leaves the library. Your fingers crawl to your neck, your other hand holding the golden chain. It feels weird to lose the charm. It wasn’t yours in the first place, but it felt like it should’ve been―it’s a selfish thought. You don’t even remember how it came to your possession.
Draco stands motionless, his breath coming quickly as his father's cruel, raspy voice echoes through the air. For one second, Draco feels his heart drop into his stomach like a stone.
“Step forward,” the Dark Lord commands, his voice is as cold as ice.
Draco takes a hesitant step, his breath shaky beneath him. He doesn’t want to move from the crowd of his peers, but his heart races with fear and uncertainty. He forces himself to keep going.
He moves until he’s almost by Voldemort’s side, his feet shuffling like a soulless vessel, controlled by the will of the Dark Lord. He wants to stop — for anyone to tell him to stop; but he thinks it’s impossible. After everything he had done, he wasn’t sure if anyone would.
And then his ears pick up a voice — one softer and gentler. “Draco,” you call his name. His chest aches and his feet halt.
"Draco, stop." Your words aren’t a command, but a desperate plea. A shake follows your voice, and the grief in your heart threatens to consume you. The Dark Lord had taken everything from you, and you couldn’t bear to see him take Draco too.
"Please, step back," you plead. You try to hold back your sob, but Draco’s throat chokes, and a single tear slips from his eye. He wants nothing more but to run into your arms, but his father watches him warily.
“Draco, come,” his father commands again. His voice is a cruel reminder of the power he holds over his son. Draco hesitates, torn between his father and the one who has always supported him through every hardship.
“Draco, please, no,” you step forward, desperate to keep your voice strong in the face of the Dark Lord. Draco turns to you. He has a sad smile playing at his lips.
“Please?” You beg him, and despite your attempt at a strong facade, your voice breaks. He looks so exhausted.
The Dark Lord had taken everything from him – his innocence, his happiness, and his ability to simply be a child. He looks so tired, like he had fought the whole world on his own, his eyes are shrouded with a deep darkness.
He had developed frown lines, and his forehead is creased, a symbol of all the stress that he had endured for the dark wizard. A pang of sadness overwhelms you. This boy has been your best friend – a boy who has only ever wanted to be loved and protected, but now he’s facing his worst hardship — choosing between power and love.
His lips part as he watches you, and it's as if time had stopped, with the two of you alone amidst the harsh winds. His eyebrows are elevated in sorrow, and he sniffs. Everything feels silent around you besides the tremble of his voice. “I want to, love, truly.”
“Then come, please.”
As the world engulfs in darkness, Draco only sees you; you are his beam of light in midst of a sea of shadows. Despite all of the magic he had witnessed, you are the most magical. You are the light in every room he enters, and at that moment, you brought the light back to him. Amidst all the darkness, you are all he could see — the lighthouse in the storm, guiding him to the path of warmth. You are the fire in his cold heart, a reminder to keep strong. You are a beacon of hope in his callous heart.
And yet, he turns away. His feet take him until he is fully engulfed by the Dark Lord’s embrace, before he makes his way to his parents with his head low. He knows it might be a mistake to leave, but he also knows that he would find his way back to you after the war — he promises to.
And as his eyes watch you from afar, broken and battered, he whispers a solemn vow. “I love you.”
Draco Malfoy knew he had a duty to his family, to continue their pure bloodline and legacy. He was bound by tradition to marry a pureblood, but his heart longed for something different.
When he met you, he was willing to drop his name to be with you. A Muggle―the filthy blood his family despised―he had suddenly forgotten all about it. He wanted to cherish every moment with you, even if it meant going against everything he knew to be true.
As his blonde hair falls against his forehead, and his eyes soften, he looks at you and speaks the simplest of words from the deepest parts of his heart: "I just want to be with you for a moment."
Those words make the world seem to pause and in the silence, you could hear your heart’s melody. The world outside, with all its chaos and noise, fades into the background. All that matters was this moment, this fleeting instant of time.
The pair of you in your own little world, with nothing that could tear you apart.
You were sitting in the library late one evening, studying for your final exams, when there's a knock on your study door. You open it to find Draco Malfoy, the smug boy from Slytherin, standing there looking like an angry storm cloud.
"What do you want?" you ask, your heart rate increasing as you take in his intense gaze.
Draco looks at you with his characteristic sneer, his blond hair falling across his forehead.
"Don't feel too special," he says, his voice dripping with condescension. "I only asked to be in here because all the other rooms were taken. It wasn't like I had a choice."
His words are harsh in your face, but you step aside anyway, opening the door for him to enter the room.
He raises an eyebrow as he walks in. The light from the candles cast a golden glow on his pale skin. "But I'll admit, you are... somewhat tolerable. But let's not get ahead of ourselves here. This is just a matter of convenience."
You raise a brow at this and sit down at your spot; at a table littered with endless books about magical creatures. He glares at you, a look of confidence and arrogance is etched on his face, before he closes the door behind him and sits across from you.
A dark, emerald-coloured book is in his hands, along with his quill and parchment paper. With a seriousness on his face, he begins to read, and a silence falls onto the room. The stillness is broken only by the sound of his quill scratching against his parchment.
You don’t even spare a glance at your own paper and instead, watch his. His gaze remains fixed on the pages in front of him, his expression stoic. He seems almost in a trance as he jots down notes.
“What are you reading?” Your voice is soft and blends with the sizzle of the fireplace.
Draco ignores you at first, but eventually turns his head toward you. His gaze is cold, calculated, and intense. His eyes seem to pierce right through you, as if he can see your every insecurity and weakness.
Still, your mouth moves before you can think. “Is that the Dark Arts?”
Draco’s expression darkens further, his stare growing even more intense. You feel like he’s looking right through you, as if he knows every secret you’ve ever kept. It’s a chilling feeling, but you’re captivated by the intensity of the moment.
He says nothing, but the silence between you is fraught with tension. Finally, after what seems like an eternity, he speaks, his voice barely more than a whisper.
“Yes.”
The word hangs in the air, a silent and mysterious promise. But then, Draco's eyes turn to fix on his book and the quill in his hand writes furiously across the page. The silence feels heavy, like it could be sliced through with a sword.
Draco shifts in his seat. His book is clutched tightly in his hand. He seems more focused than ever, as if he’s trying to block out everything else in the world in favour of the words written on the page.
“Draco,” your voice is softer than before, and this time, he doesn’t hesitate to lift his eyes from his book.
“How are you?” You ask, hopeful. He looks more composed than he was moments ago, like the weight of the world has been lifted off of his shoulders at the sound of your voice.
In your eyes, he sees a softness that he has only ever seen in the gentlest of creatures. He can't remember the last time someone asked him how he was, and the fact that you did fills him with a sense of happiness and relief.
“A bit tired,” he admits. "I was up most of the night working on an essay for DADA class. But I think I've figured it out. It’s not much, but I think I've got it.”
You smile, and for the first time since you’ve known Draco, he seems to offer an attempt of his own. When his lips lift, the darkness beneath his eyes crinkle. The tension in his shoulders relaxes, and he looks at you in a way that makes you feel like he hasn’t really hated you all this time.
“Maybe I can help you,” you propose.
Draco lifts his head, eyes locking harder on yours. His look is serious yet tender—almost like he's asking you if you're really sure you want to do this. You're not sure how to articulate it, but something deep inside you urges you to say yes.
“I mean,” you pause. Your eyes scan his face for a reaction, “Professor Snape gave me some private lessons, I can tell you what he told me.”
He nods thankfully and releases the tight grip he had on his book. He lets the leather fall onto the wooden table as he guides you to the page where he left off. You both sit in silence for a moment, the only sound: the ruffling of papers as he flips through the book.
You take a deep breath and begin summarising the information your professor had taught you, keeping an eye on his reactions as you go. He listens intently, occasionally nodding or asking a question to clarify a point.
After a few minutes, he leans back in his chair and smiles, “thank you."
The words were simple yet carried the weight of gratitude and sincerity. It was a rare thing for Draco to express his gratitude - he was usually the one receiving the thanks. Nevertheless, he meant it. He meant every word.
With a sincere smile, he meets your gaze and nods once more. "Really, I mean it," he reiterates. "And if there's anything I can do in return, just let me know."
Your voice is gentle when you speak, “you don’t have to do anything, it’s fine really.” Draco’s heart warms. “I’m glad to help out a friend.”
As he looks at you, he begins to realise that he’s never truly looked at you before. Your facial features are soft and your eyes sparkle with a sense of kindness. The delicate curves of your nose, the way your eyelashes dance against your cheeks and the warmth in your eyes; he had never payed it much mind before. For a moment, he’s lost in your beauty.
He feels a twinge of guilt rise in his heart. It feels as if he’s seeing you for the first time and he can’t help but feel a mix of adoration and awe. How he could’ve treated you so heartlessly in the past is beyond him. Perhaps he had judged you too harshly — perhaps you were worth getting to know after all.
The fall of the Dark Lord should call for a grand and special celebration—a sumptuous dinner table, adorned with immaculate cutlery and extravagant menus.
When the doors open to the Great Hall, anticipation should fill the air; the scent of hope and new beginnings wafting through the room, calling for smiles to be shared and laughter to fill the space.
But as the doors to the hall creak open, the mood is anything but celebratory. The hall is filled with a palpable melancholy, a somber atmosphere of grief and tears. The atmosphere is unsettling.
You let yourself watch the scene with low eyes. The rain that had washed over your back in the war blends with the flow of your tears, and you have to leave the room with heartache on your lips.
The walk to the black lake is silent. It’s still raining but it falls softer now, as if the clouds were letting go of their own grief. The tears of the dark sky wash away all the pain.
When you near, there's a ghostly figure standing by the shore. The figure stands, hunched over with his back to you, his black suit a contrast against the muddy shore. His shoulders are slumped forward as silent tears fall from his eyes and into the black water below.
You approach him quietly, your footsteps nearly lost in the mud and the rain. You can hear his breathing, ragged and uneven, as if he's holding back a wave of emotions that threatens to overwhelm him.
As you approach, he turns his head to you and the platinum-blond hair gives him away. It's Draco, still in his black suit, still mourning the loss of those he loved―his heart full of anger and resentment.
"Love?" he says softly, extending his hand towards you. You can feel the tension in his voice, the strain of the pain that he has endured. You take his hand, letting his warmth envelop you as he pulls you into a embrace.
You can still feel the coldness of the rain, but the warmth of his blazer against your skin brings you a sense of comfort. A shaky breath leaves your throat.
"We'll be alright," he tells you. You can see the doubt in his eyes, the struggle to believe in the words he's saying. It's an attempt at reassurance, and as the song of birds grows louder, you let yourself believe.
The fight is over and now it is time to heal, to mend everything that has been broken. Only the sweet smell of dew and the sound of bird song can offer a respite from the pain.
The skies above him open, as if the very gods themselves are weeping for what has been lost. The clouds have begun to drift away, but a dark fog remains, lingering over his head to remind him of his grief.
In the silence of the night, the faint noise from the Great Hall comes as a whisper. It's the noise of a world still celebrating their triumph in the face of death, the sound of a world still healing from the damage of war. Draco stares ahead, his arms glued to his sides and his fingers shaking, as if the effort to release them from their hold will shatter what little he has left.
Your lifeless body is in a tangle of limbs. They haven’t even thought about carrying you into a stretcher just like every other motionless body laid; this must be a nightmare. He chews on his lip, his throat shaky with a sob that threatens to consume him. This has to be a nightmare, Narcissa promised to protect you.
“I’ll keep her close,” she told her son.
But how were you there, laying stiff on the ground, while his mother no where to be found? Was it because of your ‘filthy’ blood? ― The blood Narcissa despised, afraid to tarnish her pure-blood name?
There’s a bubble that travels his throat and pains his jaw. His own mother, driven by her lust for blood purity, left you there to die. He feels his knees buckle and his legs crumble beneath him. For all the promises you shared, to marry him and take the Malfoy name; everything fell apart with your loss.
A shaky breath leaves his throat. There’s a threat behind his eyes, eager to spill his tears. He wants to sob, and amidst the hall, everyone shares a similar ache. They all grieve their dead and celebrate their victory in silence. He swallows.
Then a professor approaches and lifts your body into a stretcher, pulling a blanket up to drape over your cold skin. At least now, you’re laying comfortably. Draco’s eyes lift to scan the hall, and in that silent moment, he catches a familiar pair of blue―Potter’s eyes.
That familiar colour of blue that reminds him of the harsh sea and his anger towards the world. He takes in a deep breath. Now blue only reminds him of your robe, and how it clung onto your body in your last moments.
Blue is sorrowful, a true reminder of a dark storm. His eyes drift just as Potter offers him a weak smile, and he raises to take himself to the Great Lake. His feet splat against the mud until they find comfort in the cold water.
The water is calm and dark, a contrast to how he feels. His heart pumps hard in his chest, terrorising to consume him until he can’t breathe―until his eyes spill.
He cries until he’s submerged in it all. He remembers your promises, the sound of your cries as you told him about your fears. You were scared for the war to come, scared for the possibility of losing him in the battle. But instead, he had lost you. The memory of you swims in his head until it makes him nauseous.
For a moment, in the water’s reflection, he thinks he sees you. Those beautiful eyes he knows so well stare back at him, full of sunlight and life. You smile and tilt your head adoringly at him. He stares, enamoured by you until his hallucination fades and the dark sky overtakes the lake.
He lets out a sigh and rubs at his eyes. He was sure they were red and puffy, but he couldn’t bear to care about it. All he could think about are the blinking lights along the water. He reaches the cold, as if he could touch the stars through the lake, but it only ripples under his fingertips.
His wrist flicks against the liquid until he can barely feel his fingers. It feels like icicles under his touch, and the reflection of the stars remind him of the nights at the astronomy tower. Those nights when he’d sneak away from his friends just to spend a few minutes with you to see the stars align.
You drew him a journal of constellations, excited to show him the world of astronomy. He thought the whole idea of being in love with the stars was absurd until your fingers guided him to a constellation.
“That’s constellation Draco,” you told him. Your fingers caressed the air as you outlined the connection of lights. “See, it’s a dragon?” you continue, a soft smile grazing across your face. “Just like your Patronus.”
He fell in love with the universe that night. Your eyes that sparkled under the moonlight, full of happiness and hope, he fell in love with that sight. He fell in love with you, his universe. If only he had cherished that moment a little longer.
And until the storm calms down, only the memories of you could offer Draco comfort. As the stars align, and until his grief subsides, he speaks to the moon, hoping that one day, you two can watch the stars together again.
