And several increasingly pathetic requests for “just one more kiss.”
Snow battered the manor windows hard enough to sound like thrown gravel.
The wind howled through the old estate in long, mournful groans, rattling the shutters and slipping icy fingers beneath every door no matter how many servants stoked the fires. The entire countryside had frozen solid beneath winter’s cruel hand, roads buried beneath thick drifts, horses refusing to travel farther than necessary.
And upstairs, in the dim gold warmth of Draco Malfoy’s bedchamber, your husband burned alive with fever.
You woke to the sound of coughing.
Not the restrained sort Draco usually hid behind his fist with quiet irritation, but something rough and violent that tore straight from his chest. It echoed through the dark room until it dissolved into a ragged breath.
The mattress shifted sharply beside you.
“Draco?”
Another cough answered you.
You sat up immediately, sleep vanishing as moonlight spilled across his figure. Even in the dark you could see how wrong he looked. Sweat dampened the pale strands of his hair until they clung against his forehead, his breathing uneven beneath the heavy blankets tangled around his waist.
“Don’t light the lamp,” he muttered hoarsely.
Too late. You already had the match in hand.
Soft amber flooded the room.
Draco squinted against the brightness with a quiet hiss before turning his face deeper into the pillow.
Your heart clenched.
He looked dreadful.
His normally sharp features had gone flushed from fever, pale skin stained pink high across his cheeks and nose. There was exhaustion beneath his eyes, and his lips looked dry despite the sheen of sweat along his temples.
“You’re burning,” you whispered, immediately pressing the back of your hand to his forehead.
The heat nearly startled you.
Draco made a low sound at the contact—not quite a sigh, not quite a groan—before suddenly catching your wrist.
“Stay.”
“I’m only getting water.”
“Stay first.”
The words came rough and quiet.
Needy.
That alone told you how ill he truly was.
Draco Malfoy was affectionate even on ordinary days. In private, away from noble eyes and sharpened gossip, he had always been far softer than the rest of the world realized. He kissed your knuckles absentmindedly during supper, pulled you into his lap while reading correspondence, buried his face against your neck whenever returning from long rides.
But sick?
Sick Draco became something else entirely.
Every ounce of restraint vanished beneath fever.
You barely had time to set the lamp aside before he was moving toward you, large hands wrapping around your waist as he dragged himself close with exhausted desperation.
“Draco—”
He buried his face directly against your stomach against the soft fabric of your nightgown, arms tightening around you immediately.
His forehead pressed into your stomach like some oversized, miserable cat.
The heat of him seeped through the thin cotton instantly.
You couldn’t help the small, helpless smile that touched your mouth despite your worry.
“Oh, darling…”
A muffled noise came from him.
Then another cough shook his frame.
You threaded your fingers carefully through his damp hair, pushing pale strands back from his forehead while he practically melted against you at the attention.
“There you are,” you murmured softly. “Poor thing.”
“Mm.”
“You should’ve told me you felt this bad before bed.”
“I was fine.”
“You are very clearly not fine.”
Draco only burrowed closer.
The movement would have been amusing if he did not look so utterly exhausted. One of his hands slid beneath the blanket to find yours, immediately intertwining your fingers as though terrified you might disappear.
“Don’t leave,” he mumbled again.
“I’m not leaving.”
“You were going to.”
“For water.”
“I don’t care.”
You nearly laughed.
Instead, you leaned down to kiss his feverish temple. His eyes closed instantly at the affection, lashes fluttering faintly.
“There,” you whispered. “Satisfied?”
“No.”
The answer came immediate.
You blinked. “No?”
Another weak cough rattled through him before he tilted his face upward just enough for you to see the miserable crease between his brows.
“Kiss me properly.”
Even half-delirious with fever, he still sounded vaguely offended.
You smiled despite yourself and cupped his face gently.
“Demanding tonight, aren’t we?”
“Please.”
That softened you immediately.
Draco almost never pleaded for things. He seduced, persuaded, cornered, charmed—but begging sat poorly on his pride.
Yet now he looked at you with glassy grey eyes and flushed cheeks, visibly aching for affection like a man starving in winter.
You kissed him softly.
He sighed against your mouth like the contact alone eased something painful inside him.
The kiss should have ended there.
It did not.
The moment you pulled back slightly, Draco followed immediately, chasing your lips with startling desperation. One hand rose shakily to cradle your jaw while he kissed you again and again—warm, lingering, almost painfully tender.
You laughed quietly against his mouth. “Draco, you’re ill.”
“So?”
“So you need rest.”
“I need you.”
The blunt honesty of it made your chest ache.
His fever had stripped him utterly bare.
You stroked your thumb across his cheekbone. “You already have me.”
“Closer.”
“I’m directly in your arms.”
“Closer anyway.”
You finally relented fully, shifting until you sat properly beside him against the headboard. Draco wasted absolutely no time.
He immediately folded himself against you.
One arm wrapped tightly around your waist while his head settled into your chest, breathing slow and uneven. The blankets tangled around both of you as he practically climbed into your lap despite being far too large for it.
“Comfortable?” you asked gently.
“No.”
You blinked. “Still?”
“You stopped kissing me.”
You laughed softly then, unable not to.
The sound seemed to relax him further.
“There’s my sweet boy,” you whispered teasingly.
Draco made a faint grumbling noise that might have been embarrassment if he weren’t currently nuzzling into you with alarming determination.
“You’re cruel,” he muttered weakly.
“You adore me.”
“I do.” Immediate. Feverishly sincere. “God, I do.”
Your expression softened.
Even exhausted and sick, he spoke the words like they physically hurt to contain.
You pressed another kiss into his hair.
“Drink some water for me first.”
“No.”
“Draco.”
“No,” he repeated stubbornly, though his voice cracked midway through the word. “Stay like this.”
“You need water.”
“You need to stop moving.”
You tried unsuccessfully to pull away.
He tightened his grip instantly.
“Absolutely not.”
“Darling—”
“You’re warm.”
“So are the blankets.”
“They don’t smell like you.”
Your face heated despite yourself.
Fever made him catastrophically affectionate.
You finally compromised by reaching awkwardly toward the bedside table while still half-trapped beneath him. Draco watched the entire process with visible suspicion, arms refusing to loosen from your waist even slightly.
The moment you handed him the glass, he frowned at it.
Then at you.
Then at the glass again.
“Do I have to?”
“Yes.”
“You’re tyrannical.”
“And you’re dramatic.”
“Cruel woman.”
“Drink.”
He obeyed only because you pressed a kiss against his forehead immediately afterward.
The second your lips touched him, his eyes closed again with a soft exhale.
“There,” you whispered. “Better?”
“A little.”
His voice had gone sleepy now, rough around the edges.
You set the glass aside before easing back against the pillows, gently guiding him down with you. Draco followed instantly, clinging shamelessly the entire time until you were both lying beneath the heavy winter blankets.
Snow continued raging outside.
Inside, the room glowed gold and warm around the two of you.
Draco curled himself around you without hesitation, one leg tangled with yours while his face buried against your throat.
Every few moments he pressed absentminded kisses against your skin.
Your jaw.
Your collarbone.
The corner of your mouth.
Small, lingering things.
As though he could not stop.
“Draco,” you whispered after the fifth kiss in less than a minute.
“Hm?”
“You’re impossible when you’re sick.”
“You like me.”
“I love you.”
His entire body softened at that.
Not relaxed.
Softened.
Like warmth melting snow.
Another kiss brushed beneath your jaw, slower this time.
“Say it again,” he murmured.
Your fingers slid through his hair carefully. “I love you.”
A shaky breath left him.
You realized suddenly that part of this clinginess was not merely fever.
Draco had always loved intensely—quietly, privately, desperately beneath all his elegance and sharp wit. Illness simply stripped away the last barriers protecting that devotion from view.
Every thought became you.
Every need became you.
Warmth. Comfort. Safety. Love.
You gathered him closer instinctively.
“There you are,” you whispered into his hair. “Rest now.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
He tilted his face upward slightly, eyes half-lidded and fever-bright.
“You stopped touching me again.”
You huffed a quiet laugh through your nose before immediately cradling his cheek.
“There. Better?”
“Mm.”
“Incorrigible man.”
“Your incorrigible man.”
The words came sleepy and slurred.
Then, softer:
“Love you.”
Emotion tightened unexpectedly in your throat.
You kissed his forehead carefully, brushing damp hair away from his skin once more.
“I love you too, darling.”
This time, finally, Draco settled.
Still clinging to you fiercely.
Still pressing sleepy kisses wherever he could reach.
Still nuzzling into your warmth at every opportunity like an overgrown housecat determined to climb directly beneath your skin.
But gradually his breathing slowed.
The fever still burned hot beneath your palm as you stroked his hair, and you knew neither of you would sleep much tonight.
You did not mind.
Not when Draco held you like you were the only gentle thing left in the world.
Summary: As it turns out, proximity breeds fondness. A month of detention with you in a small space; rat tails and rotten weeds for company. What better witnesses for a disastrous fall into...what exactly?
-
Detention for a month.
It was ridiculous. Humiliating, even. All because of Saint Potter. Chosen Fucking Twat.
It wasn't his fault Potter looked punchable at the moment. In fact, he did right by society by rectifying Potter's nose. It was an altruistic endeavor, notwithstanding engendered exhilaration. Applause should have followed, yet here he was. Stomping to detention.
Draco Malfoy swung open the door to the Potions classroom as if it had personally insulted him. In fact, he decided that it did.
Detention with Snape wasn't the worst thing in the world. Merlin knows that man has favorites. The only obstacle is the other person he'd be doing detention with. Perhaps a rowdy fourth year. Or a reckless seventh year. Or, Salazar forbid, a Gyffindor. He shuddered at the thought.
Imagine his surprise when he sees you sitting across Snape. Quiet girl. Goody-two-shoes. Blank slate. It was a wonder you were sorted into Slytherin. You had the makings of a Hufflepuff. Ugh.
Malfoy sat down, eyeing you like he would a stain on a wall.
"Wands." Snape's voice cut the air, radiating positively with annoyance. Clearly, he thought this was a waste of time. At this, he and Malfoy agree. The both of you handed in your wands, albeit Malfoy with reluctance. "
"Good. Follow me." Snape motioned. His robes billowed behind him as he led the two of you into the potion ingredients stock room.
Its door was nestled along the walls of an empty room. Opening it revealed an incredibly cramped space, just shy away from a broom cupboard. Instead of magically expanding the room proportionately, someone thought it was a good idea to only expand two parallel walls. This resulted in an extremely rectangular room, with the distance between barely fitting two people. Long shelves and cupboards were fixed to the elongated walls, making the space even smaller.
Perhaps it would have made a decent storeroom of a lone potioneer if the ingredients—belladona, fig seeds, rat tails, frog entrails, you name it—didn't litter the floor and dripped along the shelves. It was a disaster.
"An accidental explosion occurred here this morning." Snape drawled. "Courtesy of our local poltergeist. Luckily, two students also deemed their stations above reason and logic this morning. How fortunate," he threw a pointed look at them, sneering, "that both those students happened to be in my House."
Malfoy rolled his eyes. You remained silent.
"Notwithstanding your stupidity, the two of you are expected to clean this mess. Your report by the end of the month should detail how you've organized each ingredient and catalogued each shelf."
Malfoy's mouth was agape.
"You expect us to do that without our wands?" He exclaimed. "This would take ages!"
Snape gave him a flat look. "Then I suggest you start now. You have a month's work ahead of you." His drawl held the hint of amusement. Sadistic old git.
Malfoy chanced a glance at you. Assuredly, he wasn't being dramatic. Sure enough, despite your silence, you had a pained look on your face. You hid it well, but there were flashes of annoyance in your eyes.
Without another word, Snape strode past and slammed the door.
-
He took it back.
Detention with Snape was horrible. At least he had the decency to leave some supplies behind. Armed with dragonhide gloves, the two of you wordlessly settled on a wall and started clearing out any debris on the shelf, cupboard, or on the floor. This resulted in your backs turned against each other, occasionally bumping the other when one overestimated their distance. Merlin, the wall was fucking long and cramped. It had already been an hour and three columns were barely cleared out.
The two of you worked silently over the hour, the silence punctuated only by the clanking glass or the charmed disposal bin clanging. Typically, he wouldn't mind it, but the mundane and increasingly disgusting task was starting to get to him. He needed a distraction.
"So," Malfoy cleared his throat. "What's a goody-two-shoes like you doing in detention?"
Your movements stuttered, clearly surprised at being spoken to. You paused for a few moments as if contemplating whether to answer or not. To his annoyance, you decided not to, responding only by throwing an empty flash at the bin.
Miffed about being ignored, he was about to throw a jab at you before you spoke.
"MacLaggen." You said so quietly he barely heard you.
"What?"
"I hexed MacLaggen." You said louder. It was in a tone so matter-of-factly, he would have thought you were talking about the weather.
An amused scoff escaped him before he realized. "The Gryffindor? Why?"
You turned a vial in your hand. The liquid was murky.
"A second-year asked him for help." You chucked the vial at the bin. "Told them he would if they sat on his lap." You clicked your tongue angrily, eyebrows slightly furrowing. "Kid was a Slytherin, too." Under your breath, he may have heard you say something like Bastard.
Malfoy always knew MacLaggen was a piece of shit, but even that was transcending the arts of Assholery.
He scoffed. "Fucking pervert. Hope he ends up in Azkaban someday."
He heard a snort of agreement from behind him, detecting the hint of a smile.
"I've got to say," Malfoy added casually, putting a clean vial onto an organized pile. "I didn't think you were capable of hexing anybody. What, did you heal him afterwards?"
You didn't answer. He glanced at you again, expectant.
"No. I, uh..." You cleared your throat. "Set his imported robes on fire."
Malfoy didn't bother hiding his guffaw. MacLaggen had gone on and on about his bloody robes. It wasn't as if they were Norwegian Ridgeback, for crying out loud.
"Merlin, I wish I could have been there." He gave you an impressed look, the laughter lingering in his eyes and in the upturn of his lips. You responded with a reluctant smile over your shoulder.
"What about you, then?" You asked lightly.
"Hm?" He said, turning back to cleaning.
"What did you do?"
"Oh," He chucked a piece of rotten flagweed into the bin. "I punched Potter." He said it as if it was the most normal thing in the world.
"Ah." You nodded, as if it was the most normal thing in the world.
-
"Er...Malfoy."
He hummed in response as he was organizing the plants by family at a lower shelf lining where artificial sunlight was convenient conjured.
He was crouched down, eyes squinted at the branches he was holding as he held them up to the light in examination. It was an odd sight; his domineering figure—lean, tall, and all things necessary to constitute a social pass for being a bigoted arse—awkwardly curled in on each other could warrant a few raised brows from the Hogwarts student body.
Malfoy turned his head to you, taking in the container in your hand, a piece of animal part floating in a gooey liquid inside. Your arm was raised slightly, as if you'd previously attempted to put it on the higher compartments. You probably did. In front of you, a tray of similar containers was nestled inside one of the empty shelf rows. A sheepish expression painted your face.
"I, er..." You pursed your lips to wet them. "...can't seem to reach the higher shelf." You raised the hand holding the contained, darting out an index finger to point to the offending height.
He only gave you a flat look—perhaps a glint of amusement flashing in his eyes—before standing with a grunt, dusting his still-perfectly-ironed pants. Wordlessly, he took the container in your hand and placed it on the high shelf. Then, he held out his hand to you expectantly.
You blinked at it.
Mind you, it was already getting quite late at night. In your defense, you had just finished an excruciating exam earlier. Your mind was muddled and barely functioning, so the following occurrences did not, well, occur very well to you.
Confused as to what he was asking, you placed your hand on top of his with a light slap! You felt the hints of callouses along his palm and fingers—echoes of his diligence as a Quidditch player, you're sure—and was surprised at how warm his hand was (i.e., considering he had the countenance of a corpse).
When you looked up at him, his expression was a mix of shock and affront.
"What the—" He immediately recoiled his hand, shooting you an incredulous look. "I was asking for the damn bottles!"
You blinked again. Then it dawned on you as you remembered the tray of containers right in front of you.
"Oh!" You exclaimed, fumbling to grab a container to quickly hand to him.
With a click of his tongue, he snatched it from you and placed it beside the one he'd already put. You continued passing containers to him until he had fully organized it on the high shelf.
Through it all, you were thankful he did not comment on how flushed your face was.
-
That night, Malfoy did not think of warm hands, wide eyes, or flushed cheeks.
-
When Malfoy entered the storage room one detention night, he found you crouched down on the lowest shelf. You were down on your knees, one arm braced against the floor, the other disappearing almost entirely into the magically extended shelf. The cupboard doors above you were all opened haphazardly and swinging wildly. He barely managed to dodge smacking headfirst into a semi-sentient door just as he walked in.
"What the hell is wrong with the cupboards?" He grumbled, slamming one of the doors shut before sitting on his haunches beside you. He made sure to bend down even lower to avoid any haphazard doors.
"Oh, hello." He heard you grunt, barely audible from how your head was almost inside the shelf. You retracted your arm and sat up cautiously, hovering a protective over your head as you turned to greet him. "I don't know. They were already like that when I came in."
Malfoy hummed noncommittally. "Right. And what exactly are you doing?"
"Ah. I was trying to get something out from the edge of the shelf." You shrugged. "Can't reach it, though."
He rolled his eyes in true Malfoy fashion and sighed dramatically. "You and your stubby arms, I swear. Move over."
He shifted closer to you, his firm shoulder touching yours as he shoved you lightly away to look down on the shelf. He knelt down—Gods, this humiliating act was starting to become familiar—and peered inside the shelf. Sure enough, there seemed to be a box nestled at the very edge, just far enough for his arm to reach with bare leverage.
"Aha!" He exclaimed when he managed to grab it firmly. Just as he sat up, he felt the brush of a hand on top of his head. Confused, he turned to you. You were bent on your waist, one hand braced against your knees and the other hovering above his head. Were you...protecting him from hitting the cupboard doors?
"Ooh, what's inside?" You bent down to examine the box in his hand, putting down your protective hand as he sat there with a dumbfounded expression. From the casual look on your face, he could tell your gesture was done subconsciously. The thought gave him pause. The fact alone that such a caring gesture was perfunctory to you warmed his chest a little. It also very much confused him, this physical proximity with you he seemed to be getting used to. Even more so because you had drawn your face closer to introspect the box in his hand.
Swallowing hard, he opened the box, revealing dried flowers that emanated a rich floral aroma.
"Hm," you hummed. "I'll have to sort that, I suppose." You gently took the box from him and stood up cautiously, eyeing the doors above you. "Watch your head, alright?" You flashed him a small smile before turning to one of the farther shelves.
As Malfoy watched your figure slink away, his hand unconsciously went up to his hair, tentatively touching the spot where your hand had lain.
-
"Don't move."
Malfoy felt you stiffen underneath him as he pressed closer.
He didn't mean anything salacious. Truly. He was only trying to put a tray of fragile cups on the high shelf above the cupboard you were cleaning. Admittedly, he may have timed his approach badly when he came up to you just as you turned around to leave. This left the both of you in an awkward and close position.
He could feel your body heat radiating against him and your breath ghosting the sides of his neck. You, on the other hand, had the perfect view to his loosened tie, the skin underneath the undone button, and the curve of his jaw. Because you considered yourself a respectable human being, you forced yourself to look away—do not ogle the man, for Morgana's sake—eyes darting to everywhere but Malfoy. You didn't exactly have the option to move because he was handling fragile things above you.
Malfoy was beginning to seriously regret his poor decision making skills when he figured he had to move closer to the cupboard to push the cups further in the back. Moving closer to the cupboard also meant he had to press closer to you.
The action had the both of you holding your breaths.
"Er...Malfoy." You managed, albeit breathlessly, and placed a hand tentatively on his chest. "I should probably move away." You cleared your throat, eyes continuing to dart everywhere. "So, you can work more comfortably."
"Right." He coughed and shifted awkwardly away from you. That was, until his tie clip snagged onto one of the buttons of your dress shirt. The tug you felt on your shirt when he moved away earned a yelp from you.
"Woah, woah, woah. Wait—" You rushed, hands flailing uselessly.
"What—"
"Stay still. Something—"
"Me? You're the one who keeps—"
"Wait, it's your tie clip. Why are you even wearing a tie clip at night?"
"Because I'm a respectable man. Here, let me—" Malfoy's hands reached out to undo the tangle between your dress shirts.
"Absolutely not." You swatted his hand away. "If you want to remain a respectable man, you'll let me do it."
"What are you—" He cut his sentence short when he realized that your button that had snagged was the one right at your chest. Feeling a heat rise to his cheeks, he quickly looked away, even as he felt your hands slowly work through his tie.
He felt you step closer to him, possibly to loosen the taut knot between your shirts. Involuntarily, the proximity had him taking in a breath, almost like a gasp. From this close, he could feel the outline of your chest against his, and it did things to his stomach.
He chanced a glance down at you but the angle made it hard to see anything but the top of your head. And his genius, of course, thought that he could focus on the scent of your shampoo, instead.
It was a mix of floral scents and vanilla. The type of scents he knew were exclusive to some feminine products. It was a refreshing scent, he decided.
It was a good thought to settle on, wonderfully innocent, until he felt the faintest brush of your finger on his skin where it must have slipped into the gap in his dress shirt. It sent a shiver down his spine.
He barely even noticed when you finally, finally, stepped away from him.
"All done." You smile up at him before moving away to give him space. Malfoy managed to mumble a thanks before resuming his work.
-
Notwithstanding the moments of proximal awkwardness (read: chest twinges and stomach drops), detention nights with you weren't so bad. Stilted exchanges segued into easy conversation as the nights progressed. For argument's sake, there was only so much the two of you could do in the closed space. In true introspection, Malfoy found himself enjoying the nights with you.
Some nights, you would sneak into the kitchen before heading to detention and bring him snacks. He had mentioned in passing that he liked pecan desserts at the beginning of the month. Imagine his surprise when you brought a pecan tart on one of the nights, saying you asked the elves to make it. The both of you would set aside fifteen minutes and just talk about anything as you snacked.
During the day, the two of you maintained the status quo. You remained in your respective friend groups and barely talked to one another in classes. You remained the quiet and goody two shoes girl, and he remained the obnoxious and prissy prick that he was. Every now and then, though, the two of your would pass each other in the hallway and you would share a very small smile or a nod, barely perceptible. When the two of you walked back together from the storage room, you would find yourselves lounging on the common room chairs after the dorms had filled in with sleeping students. You would just continue the conversation from your way back until both of you felt too tired to carry on.
Malfoy learned that, even though you were quiet in public, you become talkative when you get comfortable around someone. How did he know you've become comfortable around him? Easy. You were a touchy person, that's why.
When you tell him something in earnest, you would squeeze his arm with that sparkle in you eye. Or how you would use his shoulder as support to stand up when you're sat together on the floor. Or how you would swat him lightly on the hand when he says something sardonic. Worst of all, when you laugh, you would sometimes lean your head on him. On his arm, his back, his shoulder. One time, you even leaned your entire body weight on him as you gathered your bearings.
It was whatever. (read: it was nice; actually read: it was torture).
It certainly startled him at first when you lightly swatted him when he made you laugh; he was left baffled the entire night. But then the physical contacts started increasing—a squeeze in the hand, a playful shove at the shoulder—and he really, really hoped he would get used to it. Perhaps, then, the warmth that spreads in his chest, the swoops in his stomach, and the clamminess of his hands would disappear over time. Surely he was simply getting used to such unpretentious touches.
Surely.
-
"Damn it, why is this so narrow?" Malfoy grumbled as he struggled to fit his arm into a compartment on the top of the shelf. He was standing atop a stool that precariously wobbled on the cobblestone floors.
"What's wrong?" Your voice resounded from below him.
"I can't—" He groaned loudly, irritated. "I think there are some Ancient Runes carved onto the wall, but I can't fit my bloody arm to feel it.
"Should I try, then?" You asked. Absentmindedly, you had placed a hand on his calf as he felt you shuffle closer. He'll get used to it.
Malfoy gave you a look. He wasn't sure if he should let you; the stool wasn't very stable, and you would only barely reach the engraving. But your lithe arm would certainly fit. With a dramatic sigh, he stepped down from the stool.
"Just be caref—" He started. Nope, that sounded wrong; different connotation. "Watch yourself." He finally settled and helped you up on the stool, firmly holding your hand as you used his for support. Tingles. He'll get used to it.
You jolted suddenly when you got up on the stool, and his arms quickly shot up to catch you just as you managed to right yourself. You didn't seem to notice his very impressive and altruistic reflexes, so his hand was left hovering uselessly over your waist. He quickly lowered it before you noticed. Merlin, this is embarrassing.
You flashed him a small smile before standing on your tip toes to feel the runes. You were a couple of inches shorter than him, so the stool wouldn't have provided you the optimal height, but it should be enough. Malfoy warily eyed your shaky legs as you shuffled on the stool. Hesitantly, he hovered his hands over your waist once again in case you suddenly lost your balance. His fingers twitched uncontrollably when it accidentally brushed against the waistband of your skirt, a phantom warmth of your body clinging to him.
"How many runes do you reckon are in here?" Your question startled him out of his sensory hallucination.
"About four or five."
"Four or five..." You repeated thoughtfully. "Well, I know what these three runes that I'm feeling here are. I think there's another just by..." You leaned in farther inside, making the stool tip precariously.
"Oi!" Malfoy blurted urgently. "Don't—"
"Aha! I got it! There's another—woah!"
The stool suddenly lurched backward, making you lose your balance. You flailed uselessly before two firm hands grabbed your waist to steady you. The strong grasp on your waist made you gasp involuntarily. Mouth slightly agape and heart racing from exhilaration (yes, it was exhilaration; you almost fell off), you looked down.
Malfoy had a frantic look in his wide eyes. They were staring at his hands that were at your waist as if he couldn't believe what he had done. With a breath, he looked up at you and—
Well, you didn't know.
The both of you stared at each other, both unwilling to move and break whatever this was. Still, his hands remained on your waist, his warmth seeping through the fabric of your dress shirt. Still, you did not move, refusing to even take a breath.
Neither looked away. Neither spoke.
Malfoy resisted the urge to let his thumb run circles over your shirt. Oh no, absolutely fucking not. Not going there.
He quickly retracted his hands and looked away. The grain of the wood on the shelf suddenly looked very interesting.
"So," he cleared his throat. "What were the runes?"
"Oh, er..." You blinked at him, perplexed by the dissipating charge in the atmosphere. "Right." You shook your head as you stepped down from the stool. You tried to catch his eye, but he was looking at everywhere but you. A flush was riding up his neck and his cheeks had the slightest tint of red. It was very telling especially for someone as pale as him.
You fought back a smile. Looks like the butterflies on your stomach weren't so one-sided.
-
Since that night, you seemed to double your efforts to torment him. He didn't know if it was because he grew more conscious of your presence since or if he was simply overthinking things. But he could swear that the physical contacts had increased.
Exhibit A: He was examining the label on a bottle one time when, suddenly, he felt your hands pressing on his shoulder as you peered over to look at the label, as well. And, gods, your thumb would just barely brush the skin underneath his collar when you leaned forward.
Exhibit B: When you think deeply about how to answer something, you tend to tilt your head side. One time, though, you didn't only tilt your head. You fully leaned it in his shoulder, just barely nestling at the crook of his neck. You had a thoughtful expression on your face as if you didn't just cause a dramatic sensory overhaul. It also bombarded him with that same floral and vanilla scent he had smelled from before. He barely resisted the urge to turn his head and inhale.
Exhibit C: You had asked him about Quidditch training while you were eating the snacks you had snuck in from the kitchen. Pecan, again. You'd asked him how he got the callouses on his hands. As he listed the training regimens the team had to go through, you gently took his hand and rubbed your thumb over his callouses languidly as you nodded along to his words. That made it infinitesimally higher to continue the conversation because, well...He forgot how to fucking breathe.
Now, he had received enough of those physical contact to know what the baseline is for casual touches. Perhaps he'd simply unlocked a new level of casual torture. But, damn it, there was only so much he could take.
Enough was enough. Turnabout's fair play, was it not?
-
He started off slow.
You were talking animatedly while the two of you were in the storage room. You were just finishing up, and he was leaning languidly on the space beside you, facing you and watching the refreshing difference between you during the day and how you become when you're with him. Frankly, the thought that you were only like this with him sent flutters in his chest. But there was something more pressing than that at the moment.
As you talked, he brought a lithe finger to end strands of your hair and started twirling it. You visibly paused, your sentence cutting off suddenly when you felt shift in the air. You blinked rapidly for a few seconds, then resumed talking.
Malfoy continued to twirl your hair on his finger. He didn't bother hiding the smirk on his face.
He was in.
-
You didn't quite realize the shift, but it certainly wasn't doing good things to your heart.
For heaven's sake, Malfoy started touching your lower back whenever you entered the classroom. You knew he always hovered over it like a true gentleman, but, this time, his hand was fully nestled and curled almost at your hips.
Another time, you were munching on a pastry in front of Malfoy before heading to the storage room when you caught him unabashedly staring at you with that stupid, stupidly handsome smirk of his. You were mid chewing, so you could only glare to which he responded with a quirk of his brow. The gall of this man. You swallowed hard.
"What?" You narrowed your eyes at him.
"Nothing," he remark with a careless shrug, "Just..."
He leaned forward and swiped his thumb at the spot right by your lips, his touch barely brushing your lower lip.
"You had a crumb." He smirked, flicking the crumb away from his thumb.
Heat rushed to your cheeks, and you frantically wiped your lips. You fixed him a glare.
He was still looking at you.
-
Wiping that crumb off your lip was an agonizing exercise of self-control.
Malfoy knew what game he wanted to play. He decided that you had started it, but damn him if were to lose like that.
The plan of feigning nonchalance and mustering all Malfoyesque charm on you was foolproof in his head. Except, when he saw those wide eyes and parted lips as he swiped his thumb over it, he felt the urge to just close the distance and—
What? He thought with a start. No, no, no.
This was only retaliation. He couldn't be the only one being flustered in this dynamic. Whatever this was. He only wanted to show you that he was perfectly capable of flustering you, as well.
But didn't he already get proof of that? When he guided your lower into the classroom or even into the storage room, he knew your gait would stutter and that your breath would audibly hitch. He knew that when he would brush off an imaginary lint from your shoulder, your cheeks would have the most adorable flush. Or that when he would lean in to whisper in a low voice, face close to ghost a breath through your cheeks, your arm would twitch and you'd refuse to look at him in the eye for the next minutes.
He'd proven it, but he still kept doing it. And...shit. He liked doing it. Malfoy liked being able to touch you. He liked how you reacted to him and how you'd look at him. Above all, he—fuck, fuck, fuck—actually liked being touched by you. He thought he'd get used to it. And he did, in a way. But in a way that made him want more.
Fuck.
-
It was the last detention night. Everything had been stored and organized just in time, and the two of you were just writing down the catalogue. Both of you were quite proud of you were work. Wandlessly done. Most of all, you were happy with how your relationship had progressed with Malfoy. Also confused about what the hell he wants, though.
Especially because he was sitting right beside you, facing you with his chin propped against his hand. He continued watching you write down things he already knew, and you had a feeling his eyes were also looking over you. You tried not to be affected, but you could feel the heat rising to your cheeks from the heat of his gaze.
He suddenly cleared his throat.
"So," He finally looked away. "I heard the weather was good this weekend."
"Oh?" You raised a brow. "That's good. It's a Hogsmeade weekend."
"Right." Malfoy swallowed. Merlin, this was nerve-wracking. Just ask the witch out, for fuck's sake.
"I happen to be free this weekend." He added lamely.
You hummed, seemingly distracted by the work in front of you. "Good for you."
Gods help him. He sighed deeply. Very deeply. "You're not gonna make this easy, are you?"
You finally turned to him and put down your quill. You rested your cheek on one hand and blinked at him innocently. "Make what easy?" You smiled at him.
"Just—!" He gestured his hands in the air uselessly before hanging his head and sighing. He sat up straight and took a deep breath.
"Will you," he paused, "come to Hogsmeade with me this weekend?"
You didn't reply. Malfoy watched with a deflating ego as you packed the parchment and quill, your expression impassive. You stood up and pushed your chair in.
Suddenly, he felt a touch to his cheek. He looked up only to feel your lips on his other cheek, your hand cradling the other. He involuntarily took in a shaky breath.
As you pulled away, you whispered, "I'll see you this weekend, Draco."
Summary: A late night mission leads to Giyuu finally confessing his feelings for you.
Author’s note: Sorry this took me so long to finish, I’ve had a pretty busy week. I hope you enjoy!
The village streets are quiet as you and Giyuu walk side by side beneath the fading evening light.
Dust kicks softly beneath your sandals while distant chatter from nearby homes drifts through the air.
It has already been six hours since the two of you departed for this mission, yet the demon remains nowhere to be found.
You walk a few steps behind him, filling the silence with random stories and observations just to keep the atmosphere from growing too heavy.
“And then she looked at me like I had personally offended her entire bloodline,” you say dramatically, hands moving as you talk. “All because I accidentally stepped on her vegetables.”
Giyuu glances back at you briefly. “You probably did offend her bloodline.”
You stare at him for a second before breaking into laughter. “Was that a joke?”
“…Maybe.”
“whoah, you can make those?” You ask teasingly.
The small smile tugging at his lips is fleeting, but it’s there.
Truthfully, he could listen to your voice forever.
He loves how animated you become whenever you tell a story, how your eyes brighten so effortlessly.
He loves the sound of your laughter floating through the air after hours of silence and exhaustion.
Most of all, he loves your smile,warm and beautiful enough to make something ache painfully inside his chest.
At first, he told himself it was nothing more than a foolish crush. Something temporary.
Something that would eventually disappear.
Instead, the feelings only grew.
Stronger. Softer. Warmer.
Dangerously real.
He’s in love with you. He’s certain of it.
The thought honestly scares him.
The two of you continue through the village until an older man finally stops near the road, adjusting the lantern in his hands.
“You’re demon slayers, right?” he asks nervously.
He nods once.
The villager lowers his voice. “People have been disappearing near the eastern mountain. Some say it’s a wild animal… but the sounds at night don’t sound human.”
You and Giyuu exchange a quiet knowing look.
A demon.
After thanking the man, the two of you begin heading toward the mountain path.
The walk is calmer now, the cool evening breeze brushing against your skin.
“You’ve been awfully quiet,” you hum, looking over at him.
“I’m listening.”
“To me ramble?”
“You talk a lot.”
You gasp dramatically. “You wound me, Tomioka.”
“…It’s not a bad thing.”
The sincerity in his voice catches you off guard for a moment.
Your smile softens. “Good. Because I don’t think I could stay quiet this long.”
“I know.”
You laugh again, and the sound alone makes the exhausting mission feel lighter.
By the time you reach the mountain, darkness has completely swallowed the sky.
The forest is eerily silent aside from the rustling trees and distant cries of insects.
The demon would come eventually.
What it doesn’t know is that two hashira-level slayers are already waiting for it.
You and Giyuu stand several feet apart, remaining alert as the cold wind moves through the trees. Minutes pass in tense silence before a sudden growl echoes through the forest.
Then—
Movement.
The demon lunges from the darkness with terrifying speed.
You react instantly, drawing your blade while Giyuu steps forward to block the attack effortlessly. Steel clashes against claws.
“Left side!” you shout.
He shifts immediately, creating an opening for you.
You dash forward, breathing steady and focused as your blade slices cleanly through the demon’s neck.
The body crumbles moments later into ash.
Silence returns to the forest.
Your shoulders finally relax as you exhale. “Well… that was easier than expected.”
Giyuu slides his sword back into its sheath. “You handled it well.”
A grin spreads across your face. “Careful. Too many compliments and I might think you actually like me.”
His heart nearly stops.
“…Maybe I do.”
He looks surprised as the words leave his mouth, but his expression quickly becomes unreadable again.
You blink at him in surprise, but before you can answer, your stomach growls loudly enough to echo through the trees.
You immediately cover your face in embarrassment. “Pretend you didn’t hear that.”
“I definitely heard it,” he deadpans.
“You weren’t supposed to.”
Without another word, Giyuu begins walking toward the nearby village.
“Wait—where are we going?”
“To eat.”
Your eyes light up instantly. “You’re paying?”
“…No.”
“You’re so cruel Tomioka.” You smirk
Despite his expression remaining mostly unreadable, there’s something softer about him tonight.
The nearby food stall is warm and lively compared to the cold mountain air outside.
You sit across from Giyuu, happily eating while continuing your endless stream of conversation.
“This is the best meal I’ve ever had,” you mumble between bites.
“You said that last week.”
“And I meant it last week too.”
Giyuu watches you quietly while you talk.
The way your eyes crinkle when you laugh.
The way your lips pout slightly whenever you complain about something.
The warmth in your expression whenever you look at him.
He notices all of it.
Every little detail.
“…Why are you staring at me like that?” you ask suddenly.
His gaze flickers away slightly. “I wasn’t.”
“You were.”
“…Sorry.”
You smile softly. “I don’t mind.”
That only makes his chest tighten further.
After eating, the two of you head to a nearby inn for the night. Separate rooms are prepared, and after exchanging quiet goodnights, you each retreat for the evening.
Giyuu spends some time in the hot spring, allowing the warm water to soothe the ache in his muscles.
Normally, exhaustion would drag him to sleep instantly after a mission.
Tonight, sleep never comes.
His thoughts drift endlessly between old grief and painful memories… until they settle on you.
Your smile.
Your laughter.
Your voice.
With a quiet sigh, he eventually steps outside and sits along the engawa, the cool night air brushing against his skin.
The moon hangs high in the dark sky, surrounded by scattered stars that shimmer softly above the sleeping village.
Peaceful.
Then he hears light footsteps approaching.
You step outside moments later, wrapped loosely in your robe before sitting beside him on the engawa.
“Couldn’t sleep?” you ask quietly.
“No.”
You smile faintly. “Me neither.”
For a while, the two of you simply sit there together beneath the moonlight.
“I think this mission took years off my life,” you mumble.
“Hm.”
“You’re supposed to disagree.”
“You’re dramatic.”
You gasp softly. “That’s twice today you’ve insulted me.”
A quiet chuckle leaves him unexpectedly, low and soft.
Your eyes widen slightly. “You laughed.”
“…Don’t make it a big deal.”
“It is a big deal you’re so serious all the time, I’ve never heard you laugh before.”
The warmth in your laughter spreads through his chest so easily it almost hurts.
Without fully thinking, Giyuu reaches up and gently tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
The motion makes you freeze.
So does he.
For a moment, neither of you speak.
Then quietly, almost painfully honest, he says—
“I love you.”
Your breath catches.
Giyuu lowers his gaze slightly, as if surprised the words escaped him at all.
“I didn’t mean to say it like that,” he murmurs. “But… it’s true.”
The night suddenly feels very still.
“I tried not to feel this way,” he continues softly. “But every time you smile at me… every time you talk to me… I just—”
You gently take his hand before he can finish.
His eyes widen slightly.
“I love you too,” you whisper.
The tension that had lingered between you for so long finally breaks all at once.
Relief. Affection. Warmth.
Giyuu stares at you for a moment like he can hardly believe the words he heard.
Then slowly, carefully, he leans down and kisses you.
Soft.
Gentle.
Warm enough to make your heart ache.
It’s brief, but it says everything the two of you have left unspoken for months.
When he pulls away, your foreheads rest together lightly while shy smiles tug at both your lips.
Neither of you know what the future holds.
The path ahead is uncertain and dangerous.
But beneath the moonlight, sitting close together on the quiet engawa with his hand still holding yours, one thing feels certain.
Right now, you have each other.
And for the first time in a long while, that feels like enough.
synopsis: you’ve been dating draco for almost a year now, and you’re finally getting ready to meet his parents, when you receive an unexpected surprise
notes: no voldemort au, affectionate draco, established relationship, partial nudity, kissing, very fluffy, a little rushed but i was having so much fun with this idea !! honestly just wanted to write some fluffy ooc draco!! i’ll probably write some angstier draco sometime soon…
wc: 2.6k
Dinner with the Malfoys. For a long time, the suggestion of it had seemed like one of those niceties your boyfriend had been bringing up for the sake of maintaining interest. He hadn’t ever meant it, you’d always thought. Dinner was a step beyond whatever casual relationship the two of you had started up, all those months ago. Then again, the more thought you gave to it, the more you realised, it had been drifting beyond the realms of simply casual.
For starters, Draco had been a somewhat more attentive boyfriend than you’d thought he would be. He’d bought you flowers almost weekly since you began your relationship, beautiful ones, a bright batch of daffodils sparkling with pixie dust to welcome spring, a beautiful bunch of peonies in your favourite colour for your birthday, and even an incredibly rare flutterby bush in full bloom to celebrate the end of your exams. And that had just been the start of things, everywhere he went he was singing your praises with the ferocity of mersong, telling everyone who could hear, in a voice heavy with pride, that you were his girlfriend. It didn’t feel at all like a fling anymore, no mere highschool romance. You’d been together for almost a year, and once or twice, you’d even heard him say those fated words. I love you. Draco Malfoy, saying I love you? When you’d first met him, pompous and arrogant, pointed noise in the air and sneering at everything that moved, you’d had hardly thought it was possible.
He’d been saying that his parents would love you, too, since your first date, if it could really be called a date, for it had ended up being a slightly rainy walk around the school grounds, taking shelter under a deliciously grand oak tree when the drizzle had turned to a storm, telling you, in a voice peaked with the same fluttering enthusiastic and dreamy romantic sincerity that had fit such an occasion, just how wonderful Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy would think you were.
“I’ve written to father about you, of course.” He’d said, two months after the relationship had truly kicked off. “Him and mother are just dying to meet you.”
A similar sentiment had been repeated a week before the end of term, when Draco had suggested, exams now over, your head in his lap as you and a raucous crowd of his Slytherin friends lay lazily beneath the same oak you’d hidden under on that first date, “My parents would love to meet you, Y/N. They told me to invite you to the manor this Summer.”
Despite his surety that his parents would, in fact, like you, you couldn’t help but feel the slightest bit anxious. Confident in your own adequacy as you so often were, you had no idea whether or not you’d be able to charm his family, one of the oldest and most well respected in Britain. You’d always been so confident, so self- assured, and Draco had been drawn to you for that very reason, but couldn’t help but feel nervous about whether or not you’d impress the Malfoys. Failure to enchant them would surely lead to the destruction of a relationship you’d begun to value more than you could even put into words. Not to mention, they did truly adore their son. A more doting and affectionate set of parents would have been hard to come by. You know, truthfully, that they’d want nothing but the absolute best for their beloved only child.
It was that encounter, however, that forced into stark focus the stark cognizance that there was absolutely no way to put off meeting the Malfoys forever, and that if it was to be a disaster, it would be far better to rip the bandaid off now, rather than allow the injury to fester. So despite your reasonable nerves, and lingering reservations, you agreed to spend an evening in Malfoy Manor, the illustrious Wiltshire estate of which Draco had recounted so many illuminating tales about. Draco had assured you, on the last day of term, when all the plans had been set in place, that he’d pick you up just before the sun set, and, you both having successfully passed your apparition test the year previous would apparate to his home, and he’d walk you up to the front door like the picture- perfect boyfriend he was turning out to be.
For as long as you spent waiting, you spent it in a deep state of overthinking, throwing a haberdash mixture of clothing from your wardrobe to the bed and eventually, when they dissatisfied you, to the floor with significant frustration. Choosing an agreeable outfit was turning out to be more of a challenge than even your hardest N.E.W.T papers. You’d given up on the knee- length purple velvet dress you’d worn to a birthday party last Easter holidays, and you’d stared in repulsion as one of your favourite dresses- a royal blue slip with a pattern of silvery stars around the hem- had turned out to be nowhere near as perfect as you remembered. With the possibility of choosing a perfect outfit now seeming completely dim, you’d resigned to silently finishing your makeup in the mirror across from your messily made bed, hopscotching your fabric- adorned floor with learned steps, deciding that, at least, makeup was not so much a complicated pastime.
Just as you’d finished applying the last of your eyeliner, a smooth black streak in a perfect flick across your lid, with the low buzz of music humming from the Wireless resting on your bedside table, you here a sudden crack loud as a whip from just behind you. It cuts through the steamy summer air like a blade, causing you to jump what feels like a mile out of your skin.
“Well don’t get all dressed up for me,” a teasing voice drawls, in reference to the sleek black underwear set you’d been lounging in as you completed your makeup.
“Draco!” You gasp, spinning around on your heel, reaching instinctively for the black robe you’d left hanging on the edge of your bed in a display of sudden modesty, “Doors exist for a reason! You could have knocked.”
“I was too excited, darling.” He says, in that same tone of teasing affection. You roll your eyes, quickly, at your boyfriend, who’s nudging a balled up dress with the edge of a black dragon- leather shoe, as he examines your room (of which he’s visited only once before) with mild fascination, clearly marvelling at the astonishing mess you’ve made. “I thought I told you I’d be here at dusk.”
“The sun hasn’t even started setting! You’re early, and I’m hardly ready! Can’t you just… wait outside?” You say, in a tone of slightly flustered agitation, wordlessly summoning the dress closest to him, and banishing it back to the wardrobe, before wrapping your robe around your shoulders, and slipping grumpily into its silky depths.
“But the view is so much better in here,” he pouts, sardonically, settling down on your bed, head thrown back in a familiar swan- like languidity. You’d appreciate his careless teasing and effortless charm on any other occasion, but when you’ve got parents to impress and nothing more than a pair of lacy underwear covering your body, you fail to find his humour as appealing as it ordinarily would be.
“The view is fine enough in the corridor. And you’re-“ you point your wand in a somewhat accusatory way at him, “Sat on my shirt.”
He pulls a face of mild surprise, withdrawing a crumpled black satin shirt from beneath him. He examines the garment, holding it up in one hand. “You’re not wearing that, are you?” He laughs. It’s the same shirt you wore to a distant family member's funeral, a slightly old fashioned acquisition that hardly shows you off to your best, all dull cotton and charmless ruffles, awfully ill- fitting and somber in shape. You should have discarded it months ago, wearing it would be almost a death sentence to any reputation of fashionability you might have wielded. Nonetheless, you don’t appreciate his mockery, despite the validity behind the words and you can feel heat rising through your cheeks.
“I don’t know what I’m wearing!” You reply, in an exasperated tone, snatching the shirt from him, and banishing that, too, to your wardrobe, now a horrible mess of lazily scrunched up fabrics in a variety of your favourite dark jewel tones. You reach for the same midnight coloured slip you’d discarded before, planning on tossing it on the rest of the heap, feeling rather overwhelmed by the mess you’ve created. There’s no way you’d be able to find anything in the disorder. Draco waves his own wand, in response to your sudden move to tidy, and the heaped clothes fold neatly into a pile for you to deal with at your own leisure.
He responds, then, in a measured voice, “You’d look beautiful in anything, Y/N. You even look beautiful now, though I much preferred your outfit when I arrived.” He smirks, jovially, and you crack a small smile in response, rolling your eyes. With the clothes out of the way, and Draco’s charmingly derisive compliments to temper your feeling of stress, appreciating his teasing feels ever so slightly easier, and focusing on anything other than your own frustration and anxiety becomes suddenly facile.
You notice, for the first time since his arrival, just how handsome he’s looking. His silver- blonde hair glows golden in the dying sunlight that spills through your window like molten honey, and he’s dressed in a handsome dark green shirt and black suit pants, patterned with slightly silver pinstripes. The sight of him, sitting there, looking so effortlessly perfect, quells you almost completely. Sighing, you take a seat on your bed, at his side, resting your head on his chest, listening to the slow thud of his heart in an attempt to calm your own.
“I just… want your parents to like me.” You sigh, speaking aloud the fear that has been gnawing ferociously at your inside. There’s no getting around it. Admitting it, at the very least, means you’ve acknowledged it. It’s in the open, rather than bottled up so tightly that it might as well have suffocated you.
Draco shifts, in clear surprise, nudging you upwards with a hand placed determinedly on your arm, staring firmly into your eyes with his own, moonlight- grey irises. “Is that what all of this is about?” He asks, jaw tightening ever so slightly, brow furrowing.
“Of course it is!” You respond, shaking your head, as you slowly pull back, in an attempt to continue your desperate hunt for an appropriate dress.
“And of course they’re going to like you!” Draco responds, laughing in bemused surprise. “My parents won’t let me invite just anyone into our house, Y/N. You don’t need to worry.” With that, he rises, too, walking over to the wardrobe behind you. He stands there, momentarily, head resting atop your own, as his eyes scan the mess that is your wardrobe, before pointing his wand at a glinting corner of green fabric, shimmering delicately, behind the carelessly thrown pile of clothes within. It wriggles slightly, squirming out of the suffocating knots of tangled fabric before extrapolating itself from the wardrobe, hovering in front of you both, shiny green and sleek as a serpent in the golden- hour haze of the room.
You’d forgotten about that dress, a deep pine- needle green fabric, knee length and adorned with tiny glass beads at the neckline. It’s the same one you’d worn to that ridiculous Slug Club Christmas dinner party, where you and Malfoy had first noticed each other as more than simply classmates or distant friends. Where, he’d told you, he’d first fallen in love with you. How had you forgotten about that dress?
“Why don’t you wear this one?” Draco asks, and you can hear the reminiscent smile in his voice as you turn to face him. You take the dress from where he’s levitating it, holding it up to yourself, a hand running over the delicate fabric, feeling its smooth, silky composition beneath your fingertips. The shimmering fabric still smells faintly of your favourite perfume, an oddly comforting odour, you notice, as the smell takes you back to the night in the dungeon office, where Draco had told you how nice you looked.
“You remembered it?” You say, with a sparkly laugh.
“It’d be hard not to.” He responds, airily, as you take the dress to the mirror, examining the way it looks in front of you, just as it had all those many moons ago, bringing out the colour of your eyes and the shade of your hair. “You made everyone else at that stupid party look like trolls.”
“I thought it was goblins.”
“Those too.” Draco laughs, and spurred on by the encouragement, you drop your dressing gown, allowing it to fall to your ankles in a rippling heap of dark silk. Quiet effortlessly, you slip into the dress as if it's a second skin, and stand, your back facing Draco, as you ask, “Zip me up?”
He complies wordlessly, as you feel a steady hand rest gently on the small of your back, the other brushing the bare skin where the zip remains open. There’s a quiet buzz of zip teeth interlocking, before the pressure on the base of your back subsides, leaving a lingering feeling of sparks shooting up and down your back. His affections, his touch, never quite grow old. You couldn’t give it up for the world. The terrifying thought of having to forces you back to reality.
There’s a momentary pause, before, in an uncharacteristically mouse- like voice, you say, “You’re sure your parents will like me? I mean… if they don’t… well. They have to, don’t they?” You try to laugh off the question casually, as if its inconsequential, as if its answer isn’t horrifyingly cataclysmic.
“But they will.” Draco replies, careful hands spinning you in place, so that he can stare down at you, steely firmness in his grey eyes, no sign of humour of levity remaining in them. “It’d be impossible not to.” His voice has lowered into a faint whisper, and he leans down to place a feather light kiss on your lips, warm as the sunlight that’s enveloped you for the entirety of your meeting. You feel the nerves ebbing away from you in billowing waves, and for the moment it lasts, you’re filled with an incandescent bliss that fills you from head to toe.
When he pulls away, you notice a glimmer of your lip gloss sparkling on his own lips. You giggle, despite yourself, despite all your nerves at the sight of your shimmering imprint on his otherwise perfect visage. As he steadies you in place, smiling back, you gaze up into the eyes of a boyfriend who you are appreciating anew.
The sun has just begun to set outside, in shades of indigo and sapphire, and you can’t help but want for time in this room to stand still, as you reach up to wipe away the smudge of pink gloss from your boyfriend's lips and say, smiling, “You should break into my bedroom more often. Who knew you were so good at giving out advice?”
“What can I say?” Draco laughs, pulling away, “I’m a man of many talents.”
“That you are.” You ready to go, then?”
He takes your hand, and you steel yourself for the evening of a lifetime, knowing that Draco will stay by your side.
Summary: Turns out, Draco Malfoy’s obsession with blood purity isn’t limited to wizards—his disdain extends to your mangy mutt of a cat, too
A/N: I actually don't know what the fuck i was on when i wrote this. draco is so ooc in this im embarrassed to post this
Credits to @/cursed-carmine for the divider
When you were about ten years old, you became the humble recipient of the cat distribution system.
Your parents had always firmly refused to get you a pet. Neither of them were particularly fond of animals—your mother especially couldn’t stand the idea of fur on the furniture, and your father wanted nothing to do with cleaning out a litterbox. They were convinced that at your age, you wouldn’t be able to take care of a cat on your own anyway.
But the universe, in its infinite generosity and chaotic wisdom, had other plans.
One cool summer day, while playing in your backyard, you heard the strangest warbled wailing coming from the direction of the trash cans. Curious and slightly concerned, you went to investigate—and that’s when you saw it.
Peeking into one of the bins, you found a cat with its head stuck in an empty pickle jar.
Maybe the jar was just that small, or the cat was just that big, but somehow it had managed to wedge itself inside and couldn’t get free. You panicked. You were too short to reach in properly, and too scared to hurt it. So, you did the only thing you could: you ran crying to your father.
Together, you both tried your best. Your dad pulled with all his strength, and you sobbed beside him, begging him not to hurt the poor thing. But no matter how hard he tried, the jar wouldn’t budge. In the end, he loaded you—sniffling and red-eyed—and the filthy, desperate cat into the car and drove straight to the vet.
Somehow, the professionals there managed to safely free the cat from its glass prison. The vet gently explained that the cat had a pretty severe skin infection that would need treatment if it was going to survive. Your dad, reasonably, declined—this wasn’t even your cat, after all.
But then you started crying again. Loudly.
You cried and wailed and begged with your whole heart until your father, completely outmatched by your ten-year-old sorrow, gave in.
And that was how he ended up having to explain to your mother why there was a scabby, flea-ridden stray running around her clean house.
To your credit, you meant every promise you’d made to your dad. You took care of that cat. You bathed him with the medicated shampoo the vet gave you, even when he scratched your arms bloody. Your mom was terrified at first—convinced you were going to catch rabies—but you wouldn’t be swayed. You nursed him back to health, dutiful and loving, until his fur grew thick and glossy and he finally looked like a proper cat again.
And he adored you for it. Absolutely, completely adored you. Followed you everywhere. Slept on your bed. Watched TV with you like a tiny judgmental roommate.
You never wanted him to forget where he came from—or how you found each other. So you named your tomcat the only name that made sense.
Pickles.
When you got your Hogwarts letter, it was a given that Pickles would be coming with you.
There was absolutely no way you were leaving him behind for nine whole months. It simply wouldn’t do.
Your poor baby would die of despair if his favorite person in the world—the one he saw every day, the one who scratched behind his ears just right—suddenly up and disappeared for nearly a year. No. That wouldn’t do at all.
Even your parents, who had once sworn up and down they didn’t want a cat but ended up loving the little guy, admitted he might be a good source of comfort once you inevitably started to feel homesick. After all, you had never spent more than a week away from them. And it wasn’t like Pickles was going to miss them.
In fact, you were fairly confident that if your parents dropped dead in front of him, he’d simply fart in their faces and carry on with his day.
So they helped load the two of you onto the Hogwarts Express—Pickles curled up in his clear backpack carrier, peeking out with the quiet judgment of an old man. They promised to send the rest of his “luggage” once they figured out how magical post worked and got a sense of how big your dorm room would be.
His three-story bed, which he hardly used, his scratching posts, and his aggressively chewed squeaky toy would be shipped out soon. For the first week, he’d have to make do with his favorite bed of all time: your arms.
Which suited him just fine.
Now, six years later, Pickles was living the Hogwarts life better than you. He was practically a celebrity in the Gryffindor common room. He and his best friend Crookshanks, slept in the sun, ate like kings, and took long, fat naps in front of the common room fireplace. Every single one of your dormmates spoiled him rotten, feeding him treats at all hours of the day.
He didn’t even get lost in the castle halls like you did. Somehow, Pickles had mastered the moving staircases better than most seventh-years.
And worst of all?
Pickles was doing better than you in your love life.
“(L/N)!” A sharp voice snapped behind you, yanking you out of your thoughts.
You turned just in time to see Draco Malfoy stomping up, looking like someone had just told him the Malfoy vaults were being taxed. His face was twisted into an expression of absolute disgust, and in his arms… were two cats.
He was holding Pickles with one hand—just dangling him under the belly like a sack of potatoes, all four limbs flopping over like spaghetti. His legs were hanging loose, his expression the epitome of “I just woke up and I don’t know where I am but I trust the process.” Thankfully, he hadn’t made the mistake of scruffing him. In his other arm, cradled like precious cargo, was what could only be described as a giant, fluffy dandelion.
“Get your disgusting mutt away from my cat!”
Your brows furrowed as you immediately took Pickles from him, clutching your boy to your chest and gently scratching the top of his head. Unbothered by Draco’s dramatics, Pickles began to purr loudly.
“His name is Pickles,” Tou said coolly, “And you should know better than anyone that cats don’t typically do as they’re told.”
Draco’s lip curled, face souring further, “Perhaps not your mangy animal. Riddled with disease, that one.”
You rolled your eyes. “I know you’re very ‘mudblood this, mudblood that,’ Draco—but these are cats. They don’t care about blood status.”
“Speak for yourself,” he huffed, lifting his cat higher up his chest like royalty. “Belladonna is a rare breed. A show-winning feline with impeccable genetics, perfectly healthy, thick coat, never sheds. She’s been treated like a queen since the moment she was born. She has a pedigree. That thing—” He gestured to Pickles, who chose that exact moment to yawn directly in his face—“was probably found at the bottom of a dumpster.”
Your eyes widened, surprised at how he managed to get it right on the nose, “So what if he was?” You shot back, “He’s scrappy. He knows how to survive. Your little princess over there wouldn’t last a day without her weekly spa treatments!”
You held Pickles closer, your voice rising, “My angel faced death. He stared it down and came back stronger. He wouldn’t want to be with your stuck-up cat anyway! Her face looks like the backend of an ass! And not even a nice one!”
Draco’s jaw dropped like you’d slapped him, “Excuse me?!” he shouted, already launching into a flurry of extremely colorful obscenities.
You didn’t wait to hear them. You spun around with Pickles in your arms—still purring contentedly, eyes half-lidded, perfectly at peace—and stormed off, muttering about “pureblood delusion” and “privileged puffballs.”
Pickles, naturally, had no idea what just happened. But he was warm, fed, and in your arms.
Life was good.
Draco Malfoy did not “own a cat.”
He curated one.
She was a purebred Ragdoll with a coat like white clouds and eyes the color of the clearest summer ocean. Her name was Belladonna, and she was, without question, the most refined creature in the entire wizarding world—present company very much excluded.
He had acquired her from an exclusive breeder in Wiltshire after months of meticulous research, pedigree scrutiny, and a waiting list that included two minor royals and the head of the French Magical Opera House. Belladonna ate hand-prepared meals (which Draco personally oversaw), sat on velvet cushions charmed to maintain the perfect temperature, and had an entire wing of Malfoy Manor designated for her grooming and relaxation.
Even now, at Hogwarts, she was treated like nobility. She had a gold-embroidered travel bed, a crystal water bowl that refilled with glacier water from Switzerland, and a personal grooming appointment every Hogsmeade weekend. Narcissa sent a box of curated organic treats every Thursday without fail. Draco had collars in twelve different colors—each embroidered with her initials—and a seasonal rotation of enchanted accessories to match.
He couldn't imagine loving his own hypothetical child more than he adored Belladonna.
In his eyes, she was his child. His delicate, aristocratic, high-maintenance firstborn.
Belladonna was, in a word, impeccable.
So you can imagine Draco’s absolute horror—his visceral, soul-deep revulsion—when he saw that cat.
That scruffy, gremlin-looking, mongrel of a cat rubbing against Belladonna like some horny, hormone-fueled street rat in heat.
It was unacceptable.
It was criminal.
It was filth mingling with divinity.
And the worst part?
She didn’t seem to mind.
She purred. She leaned into it. She gave that degenerate alley cat the same slow blink she usually reserved for Draco when he fed her roast chicken off a silver fork.
He felt betrayed on a biblical level.
You were minding your own business—lounging on the grass near the Black Lake, sipping pumpkin juice and soaking in the sunshine—when you heard it:
The rapid, purposeful crunch of approaching footsteps.
You looked up just in time to see Draco Malfoy storming toward you like he was about to duel someone to the death.
His robes were perfectly pressed. His hair was a work of art. And his expression?
Murderous.
Once again, both your cats were cradled in his arms.
Ever since the incident, you’d really tried to keep an eye on Pickles. You didn’t want him bothering Belladonna anymore—after all, she was Draco’s cat, and no matter what your personal opinions were, he technically had a right to decide who she spent time with.
But Pickles?
Pickles was a free spirit.
Short of locking him in your dorm room all day (which was impossible, since your dormmates couldn’t open the door without letting him out), there really wasn’t much you could do. Which led you to your current situation.
Draco stopped in front of you, eyes blazing.
“Control. Your. Beast.”
You blinked, took another casual sip of your juice, and replied, “Good afternoon to you too, Malfoy.”
“I’m serious,” He snapped, holding Pickles out like he was radioactive, “Your disease-ridden rat is trying to court my cat.”
Your eyes lit up instantly, a delighted smile spreading across your face as you stepped closer. “Is that right? Are you in love, boy?” You cooed to Pickles, “Are you in love with little Bella here?”
“Her name is Belladonna,” Draco hissed through his teeth, “And he better not be in love, or I swear, my father is going to hear about this.”
You rolled your eyes, “You can’t control love, Malfoy. Besides, Belladonna seems to like him.”
As if to prove your point, Belladonna—regal, graceful, dignified Belladonna—leaned over and licked Pickles’s ear.
You watched in smug satisfaction as Draco’s soul visibly left his body.
“I’m going to exorcise her,” He muttered darkly, “This is demonic possession. This isn’t her.”
“Malfoy,” You said flatly, “she’s grooming his neck.”
He froze.
Belladonna had nestled into Pickles’s scruffy fur and was now purring.
Purring.
Draco felt bile rise in his throat. One hand clutched his robe lapel like a Victorian widow witnessing her daughter marry the village stable boy.
He was definitely writing to his mother about this.
You stood, shouldering your bag with Pickles now sprawled lazily in your arms, looking more satisfied than ever. “Maybe if you stopped judging him and gave him a chance,” You said, “you’d see he’s got a lot to offer.”
Draco scoffed, “Like fleas, I’m sure.”
You sighed, “Draco, I get it—you want to protect Belladonna, and yeah, she’s got amazing pedigree. But at the end of the day… they’re cats. They don’t care who’s above or below them in social status.”
Your voice turned just a bit more smug, “Because to them? We’re all beneath them anyway. And honestly? I think you could learn something from that.”
Draco looked down at Belladonna, who was now curled up in his arms with one paw lazily touching Pickles’s tail, like the scandal meant nothing to her.
And for once, he didn’t have a snarky response.
Only quiet, seething defeat.
The turning point came exactly two weeks after that lakeside confrontation—two weeks of eye-rolls and casual jabs, of Belladonna purring traitorously in Pickles’s presence, of Draco’s poor weak heart nearly giving out every time he saw them nuzzle together like a couple in love.
It happened when Belladonna didn’t come home for dinner.
It was unthinkable.
Belladonna had done plenty of un-Belladonna things lately—grooming a mutt in public, fraternizing with Gryffindors, sharing her window seat—but missing her dinner?
Never.
She was like clockwork.
9:00 PM sharp, every evening since she was six weeks old.
Draco had built his routine around it.
At first, he waited.
She was probably just late. Distracted. Maybe Pickles had lured her into some dark corner to show her how to chew a sock.
But by 9:10, irritation had given way to full-blown dread.
His friends didn’t get it.
“She’s probably napping somewhere,” Blaise said with a shrug. “Cats do that.”
“Have you checked the tower?” Theo yawned.
But Draco knew.
Belladonna didn’t do tardy. She didn’t get stuck.
And she certainly didn’t miss meals.
So instead of explaining himself to people who clearly didn’t grasp the gravity of the situation, he went to the one person who might.
Which was how Draco Malfoy found himself standing stiffly outside the Gryffindor common room, looking like he’d just wandered into enemy territory.
His dark green robes stood out like oil in water. He adjusted his collar, trying to look composed, but the Fat Lady was already glaring down at him from her portrait frame, lips pursed like she smelled something foul.
“Password?” She asked sharply.
Draco blinked, “Oh. Um— I don’t know. Can you just… call out for (Y/N) (L/N)?”
She sniffed, “I’m a portrait, not a messenger owl. Password?”
“Right. Uh…” He hesitated, “Dumbledore?”
“Wrong.”
“Godric?”
“Incorrect.”
“Gryffindor pride?”
She looked personally insulted, “Absolutely not.”
Draco sighed, dragging a hand down his face, “Look, it’s important. I just—can’t you make an exception?”
The Fat Lady squinted at him, “Are you the boy who said my frame needed ‘restoration work’ two years ago?”
“…Possibly.”
She crossed her arms, “Password.”
“Oh for the love of— (L/N)!” Draco shouted, pounding a fist against the portrait like it had personally wronged him. The Fat Lady shrieked at him for being a rude little git, and the two launched into a full shouting match—one that only ended when, after two solid minutes of banging and arguing, the portrait finally swung open from the inside.
You stood there, confused and tired, Pickles draped around your neck like a lazy, judgmental scarf.
You blinked at the sight of him, “…Malfoy?”
He let out a shaky breath, like he hadn’t properly inhaled since dinner, “Belladonna’s missing.”
Your expression shifted immediately, “What?”
“She didn’t come back for dinner,” He said quickly, the words tumbling out in a rush, “She’s never late. Ever. And I know you’ll probably think I’m overreacting, but I’ve looked everywhere—common room, Astronomy Tower, library—nothing.”
Your brows furrowed, “That’s not like her…”
Draco nodded, clearly trying not to spiral, “I thought—maybe—if anyone would know where she is, it’d be that walking dust bunny of yours.”
At his mention, Pickles stretched languidly across your shoulders and let out a slow yawn, looking entirely unbothered.
You glanced down at him, “…Pickles, do you know where your girlfriend is?”
Pickles blinked.
Then, without warning, he wriggled free of your arms, landed with a soft thud on the stone floor, and trotted off down the hallway with alarming purpose—tail high, strut confident.
You stared after him. Then looked back at Draco.
“…After you.”
The castle was quiet at this hour—eerily so.
Lit only by the occasional floating candle and the faint tap-tap of Pickles’s determined paws echoing down the stone halls, the two of you trailed behind him like anxious parents following a toddler on a mission.
You’d just rounded the corner near the Charms corridor when a grating voice sliced through the silence like a rusty blade.
“Oi! You there!”
You froze.
Filch.
He emerged from the shadows like something out of a horror story, lantern swinging in one hand, the other gripping a battered cane like he fully intended to use it. Behind him, Mrs. Norris slinked close to the wall, her yellow eyes glinting as she honed in on Pickles with twitching suspicion.
Draco stiffened beside you, his whole posture bristling with irritation and nerves. You instinctively stepped in front of him.
“Out after curfew?” Filch growled, eyes narrowing, “You think the rules don’t apply to you just ’cause you’re out on a midnight date?”
“Out of bed, out of bounds, out of line!” He hissed, “Detention, both of you—and your mangy little creature!”
Pickles let out an indignant mrrrow, scandalized.
“Are you kidding me?” Draco snapped, turning on him with a snarl, “We’re in the middle of something important, you moldy old—”
You slapped a hand over Draco’s mouth so fast it nearly knocked him off balance.
He made a muffled growl of protest against your palm.
“Mr. Filch,” you said quickly, stepping forward before Draco could verbally self-destruct, “I know it’s past curfew, and I’m really sorry. But we’re not out here for fun. We’re looking for his cat. She hasn’t come home.”
Filch narrowed his eyes, “So you thought you’d go traipsing through the halls like you own the place?”
“No, sir,” you said, softening your voice, “but she means everything to Draco. And she’s never late for meals. She’s been missing for hours. I know you understand—if Mrs. Norris ever didn’t come home, you’d be out here too. Wouldn’t you?”
Filch looked down at his beloved cat, who had now approached Pickles and was sniffing him with wary curiosity. Pickles, unbothered as ever, sniffed her back like a gentleman who had once eaten a sock but still had his dignity.
Mrs. Norris didn’t hiss.
That alone was a miracle.
Filch’s scowl wavered. His eyes flicked to you, then back to the cats.
“…What’s the cat look like?” He muttered.
Draco opened his mouth, but you beat him to it, “White ragdoll. Blue eyes. Very regal. Very spoiled. Answers to Belladonna.”
Filch grumbled under his breath and gave Mrs. Norris a meaningful look. She meowed softly, then slinked off down a side corridor, tail swaying—like she’d accepted the mission.
Filch sighed, “I haven’t seen her. But if you’re lying, and I catch you sneaking about—”
“We’ll go straight back to our dorms,” You said quickly, “Promise.”
Draco still looked like he wanted to hex something, but you grabbed his wrist and tugged him forward before he could blow it.
As you rounded the next corner, Draco finally exhaled.
“You... handled that well.”
You shrugged, “At the end of the day, aren’t we all just crazy cat ladies?”
Draco let out a soft, reluctant laugh, “I suppose we are.”
You didn’t say anything else—but when you glanced down, you noticed Draco’s hand was still gently brushing yours.
And—perhaps more surprising—he didn’t pull away.
Pickles led you down staircases, across courtyards, and finally out through a side passage beyond the castle walls, nose to the ground like a hound on a mission.
The night air was damp and cool, the scent of rain clinging to the stones. The grass was slick underfoot, and mud squelched beneath your shoes as you followed Pickles out into the overgrown field that skirted the castle’s edge.
Draco muttered something about this being absolutely ridiculous, but he didn’t stop walking.
You passed the greenhouses, the Quidditch pitch in the distance, and then—
Pickles halted.
He sat abruptly at the edge of a shallow dip in the land, where a muddy slope descended toward a narrow drainage hole set into the castle’s outer wall. The earth around it was slick with runoff from the recent storm, and a shallow stream of water trickled through the grass, spilling over the edge and down into the hole.
And just inside it—barely visible—was a familiar puff of white fur.
“Belladonna!” Draco gasped, rushing forward and crouching near the entrance.
You moved beside him, dropping to your knees as you peered inside. Belladonna was crouched deep within the narrow crevice, her fur soaked and muddied, one paw half-lifted like she’d tried to climb out and slipped. Water had pooled at the bottom of the slope, turning the ground into a sludgy mess. Her big blue eyes blinked up at you in distress.
“She’s stuck.” You murmured.
Draco’s breath hitched, “She’s going to catch cold—she can’t stay in there, her fur will mat—she’ll get sick—”
“Draco,” You said gently, “She’s okay. But we’ve gotta get her out.”
You looked at the small opening. It was barely wide enough for your arm, and the earth around it was already saturated—slick, heavy, and cold.
Draco stared at it. His face twitched. His hands hovered.
He hesitated.
Years of being taught to avoid mess, to preserve appearance, to never degrade himself with something as undignified as crawling through mud—it all played behind his eyes in a blink.
He didn't get his hands dirty, he paid others to get their hands dirty.
He stomach bottomed out, feeling utter shame at his reluctance to save his most prized girl.
You didn’t wait.
Without hesitation, you dropped to your belly beside the hole and shoved your arm in, shoulder-deep, wincing as cold mud squelched up your sleeve. You began scooping out handfuls of thick earth, making a channel for the water to drain so Belladonna could climb up.
Draco stared, watching the girl he had been barking at for the last month for not being good enough—for not having a cat that was good enough—now getting her uniform, her skin, her everything covered in mud to save his cat.
Only for a second, before he was on his knees beside you, shoveling at the mud with both hands, trying to make a larger channel for Belladonna to climb out.
And then Belladonna mewed again—soft and uncertain.
You tilted your head toward her, “C’mon, sweetheart. It’s okay. You’ve got to climb. We made you a way out.”
Draco reached out, dipping his fingers into the hole, wiggling them ever so slightly, “Come on, darling. It’s just mud. You’re going to be fine.”
Belladonna took a trembling step forward. Then another.
The water drained slowly through the channel you dug. Finally, she scrabbled forward—and Draco reached in, arms filthy, eyes wide—and caught her.
He cradled her against his chest like a newborn, mud and all, whispering her name.
You sat back on your heels, breathing heavily, covered in muck.
Draco looked at you. Really looked at you.
“…Thank you.” He said, voice hoarse.
You smiled tiredly, pushing a strand of hair out of your face with your muddy hand, “It was my pleasure. Couldn’t leave my daughter-in-law down there now, could I?”
That was the first time since Pickles and Belladonna had fallen in love that Draco released a deep, boisterous laugh.
The trek back up to the castle was slow and quiet.
Belladonna was tucked safely in Draco’s arms, shivering and damp but breathing steadily. Pickles trotted loyally at your feet like a muddy little sentinel, occasionally brushing up against Draco’s leg as if offering silent support.
By the time you reached the front steps, your teeth were chattering, your robes soaked, and your skin itched with drying mud.
“Come on,” Draco said suddenly, nudging you toward a different hallway, “There’s a place we can use.”
You blinked, “Where are we going?”
He didn’t answer—just took a sharp turn down a marble corridor, Belladonna still cradled carefully in one arm. He drew his wand and tapped on a door inlaid with polished gold and pearl.
“The Prefects’ Bathroom?” You asked, eyebrows raising.
Draco gave you a sideways glance, “Don’t make it weird. She needs to be cleaned.”
He swung the door open, and steam rolled out in a fragrant wave, enveloping you in warmth. The bath was massive—practically a swimming pool—its water bubbling gently, already scented with lavender and bergamot. Dozens of knobs lined the tiled edge, each labeled in elegant script: foaming bubbles, eucalyptus mist, warming steam…
“Wow.” You breathed.
Draco, to his credit, looked more distracted than smug. He set Belladonna gently on a cushioned ledge beside the bath, then stared at her like she might shatter.
She was curled in on herself, still trembling slightly. Her fur—usually immaculate—was a sopping, matted mess.
Draco shifted, visibly uncomfortable, “I’ve… never done this before.”
You tilted your head, “Bathed a cat?”
He nodded once, looking faintly ashamed, “She’s always gone to a groomer. My mother used to hire someone. I don’t know how to—”
“Hey,” You interrupted gently, your expression softening, “It’s okay. I’ll show you.”
You knelt by the bath and adjusted the temperature with a flick of your wand, turning the water warm but gentle. Then, carefully, you reached for Belladonna.
She didn’t protest when you took her—tired, cold, and soggy as she was—and you slowly eased her into the shallow basin you’d prepared, cupping water over her back with both hands.
Draco knelt beside you, watching with wide eyes.
“She’s… letting you.” He murmured, almost in disbelief.
“She better,” You said with a tired laugh, “I have mud under my nail beds and a worm probably somewhere in my sweater right now, all for her.”
He almost smiled.
You worked carefully, your fingers patient and steady as you massaged soap into Belladonna’s sodden fur. She looked pitiful—like a wet, deflated pillow—but her big blue eyes stayed calm, occasionally blinking up at you as if to say I trust you.
You showed Draco how to support her little body, how to stroke behind her ears without getting soap in them, how to use a conjured comb to tease out the worst of the tangles.
And he watched. Closely. Quietly.
Then, without needing prompting, he joined you—his hands a little unsure, but gentle. You guided him with soft instructions, and soon he was rinsing her chest and shoulders like he’d done it a hundred times.
“There you go,” You murmured, “See? You’re a quick learner.”
Once Belladonna was clean, you lifted her carefully from the water and conjured a thick, soft towel, wrapping her up like a newborn. With a flick of your wand, you cast a heating charm just warm enough to soothe her, and she immediately burrowed into the fabric, eyes fluttering shut.
Draco stared at her.
Then he looked at you.
“…Thank you.” He said again, quieter than before.
You met his gaze, muddy and tired but steady, “You already said that.”
“I meant it then. I mean it more now.”
You gave him a small smile, “She’s safe. That’s what matters.”
A beat of silence.
Then—gently, without really thinking—Draco reached out and brushed a streak of dried mud from your cheek with his thumb.
“I think you’re a better person than me.” He murmured, voice low.
You laughed softly, eyes warm, “Then maybe one day you’ll learn to pay it forward.”
You were soaked, your robes stiff with dried mud, your knees scuffed, and your sweater still suspiciously worm-squishy. Draco didn’t look much better—his hair was a mess, his pristine robes stained all the way up to the elbows, and there was a distinct patch of dirt on his jaw from when he’d face-planted trying to widen the drainage path.
You shifted uncomfortably as you glanced down at your clothes, “We’re disgusting.”
Draco huffed a tired laugh, “We really are.”
There was a brief pause. Then, almost too casually, he said, “The showers here are private.”
You blinked, “What?”
He gestured vaguely toward a frosted glass partition on the other side of the bathroom, “The prefects’ showers. There’s a few. Individual stalls. Full doors. Soundproofed. Charms for clean clothes after, too.”
You followed his gaze, taking in the polished brass fixtures and enchanted mist wafting from the far end of the bathroom. The space was massive, marble and quiet and very much still shared.
“Oh.” You said.
You considered your options at first. The baths would definitely not be open at this time, so you'd be reduced to sleeping in your bed caked in mud which was not only unappealing but quite frankly impossible to even think of.
Another beat of silence passed. Belladonna shifted slightly in your arms, letting out a soft sigh.
“You should go first,” Draco said, clearing his throat, “I’ll dry her off a bit more. Make sure she’s fully warm before I head in.”
You nodded, clutching the towel bundle a little tighter before setting her down on a velvet cushion nearby.
“Thanks.” You said, already turning toward the showers, trying to ignore the way your heart suddenly sped up.
It wasn’t like you were showering with him. Obviously. You had your own stall. He’d have his. It was no different than when your entire dorm got ready for the Yule Ball at the same time, right?
It wasn’t like you were showering with him.
Obviously.
You had your own stall. He had his. Solid walls. Separate doors. It wasn’t like you were exchanging shampoo or anything.
It was no different than getting ready with your roommates during Yule Ball season. Right?
…Except it was different.
You weren’t really one to shower when the girls' baths were crowded. You liked your space, your quiet. You’d never been flustered about that kind of thing.
But this?
This was different.
He was a boy. And he was just a few mere feet away from you.
Naked.
You physically shook your head as if that would shake the thought loose.
The hot water hit your skin, washing away grime and mud and the bone-deep cold that had settled into your muscles, and for a moment, it felt like the world exhaled.
You let your head fall back under the stream, breathing in the lavender steam and bergamot oils—but your mind didn’t settle.
Because just across the room—on the other side of a few inches of stone and the faint hum of silencing charms—Draco Malfoy was standing under the exact same stream of water.
Maybe leaning back against the wall, eyes closed. Maybe raking a hand through his hair. Maybe—
You clenched your eyes shut.
Nope.
Absolutely not.
You rinsed faster than you normally would.
When you stepped back into the main space with your hair wrapped in a fluffy conjured towel, dressed in your clothes that you had cleaned with a simple 'scourgify', cheeks flushed from the heat—and something more complicated—Draco was there.
He was sitting on a cushioned bench, freshly cleaned. His hair, normally so perfectly styled, was now damp and curling slightly at the ends, a rogue strand falling into his eyes. He held Belladonna like she was made of glass, her towel gently unwrapped now as he ran his fingers carefully through her drying fur.
He looked up when he heard you. And for a moment, his eyes did that thing—flicking down, then back up. Fast. But unmistakable.
His throat bobbed.
“You alright?” He asked, voice low and hoarse.
You smiled, trying to ignore the way your heart skipped a little. “Regretting not trying harder to be a prefect,” You joked, padding toward him, “Can’t believe I’ve been missing out on these showers.”
His mouth twitched, “You can come back anytime.”
You raised a brow, “That an invitation?”
He hesitated. Just a second. Then looked you straight in the eye. “Yeah,” He said, “I owe you.”
You tried to brush it off with a smile, “You don’t owe me anything. I didn’t do it for you, I did it for her.”
He looked down at Belladonna, who was now snuggled up in his lap like a warm little dumpling. Her purring was soft, steady—proof she was safe and content.
In the weeks following the rescue, Draco was utterly incapable of letting Belladonna out of his sight. The poor cat, traumatized by her muddy ordeal, had adopted a new routine of clinging to the safe confines of her daddy’s room like a tiny, furry shadow.
Which meant that Pickles—her devoted, scruffy little boyfriend—had also become a permanent fixture there.
Which meant you—Pickles’ very concerned owner, who had nearly filed a missing cat report the moment her gluttonous furball missed a meal—were now also a regular guest in Draco Malfoy’s room.
It had been like this for about a week.
Despite Draco’s repeated (and exasperated) assurances that all you had to do was send him an owl and he’d gladly confirm Pickles’ whereabouts, you insisted it was easier to just drop by.
And once you confirmed that your boy was safe and sound, you’d make yourself perfectly at home on Draco’s floor—Pickles immediately climbing into your lap, soon followed by Belladonna, who clearly believed she owned the place. The two of them would curl into each other and purr like synchronized engines, while you absentmindedly stroked their fur.
It had gotten to the point where your presence didn’t even require Draco’s.
So when he returned from class one afternoon to find you sprawled across his bed—Pickles draped over your stomach and Belladonna nestled against your shoulder, both cats sound asleep—he simply sighed, slinging his bag onto the floor with a dramatic thud.
“Have we officially abandoned the concept of common courtesy then?” He drawled.
You didn’t even blink, “She sat on me and fell asleep, Draco. What was I supposed to do—move her?”
He rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. Instead, he crossed to his storage chest and pulled out two porcelain dishes—each filled with what looked like five-star gourmet cuisine—and set them gently on the floor. Like clockwork, both cats stirred, stretched, and padded down to their plates like royalty answering the dinner bell.
Draco muttered under his breath, “I still can’t believe I’m wasting perfectly curated, nutritionally balanced, hand-selected ingredients on that mangy mutt…”
“That mangy mutt is your son-in-law, Malfoy.” You said smugly.
He shook his head but softened. After Pickles rubbed against his leg and meowed up at him with those pleading eyes, Draco—deep down a simple cat lover and now a begrudging admirer of Pickles’ role in rescuing his precious Belladonna—gave in.
The cats were busy eating—Pickles scarfing his food like it might disappear any second, Belladonna delicately nibbling at hers like a Michelin critic—and for once, you and Draco were left without furballs sprawled across your lap.
You’d relocated to the floor by his desk, leaning against the foot of his bed while Draco lounged sideways in the armchair nearby, sleeves rolled up, socks mismatched—looking dangerously like someone approachable.
The silence between you wasn’t awkward anymore. If anything, it felt almost… easy.
“So,” Draco began, casually flicking a stray cat hair off his trousers, “how’s Potions going?”
You groaned, flopping your head against the mattress with dramatic flair, “Don’t get me started. No, seriously. If I have to think about the methodology for the Draught of Living Death one more time, I will actually cry.”
Draco snorted, “It’s not that hard.”
You lifted your head to glare at him, “Right. Well, oh intelligent one, not all of us are big, huge nerds. Honestly, you should’ve been in Ravenclaw.”
He smirked, unfazed, “This big, huge nerd just got an ‘O’ on the latest mock finals.”
You perked up instantly, “Wait, really?”
He didn’t seem to catch the trap in your tone, puffing his chest out proudly, “I did.”
“That’s amazing! So you can help me study!”
“…Excuse me?”
“Yeah! Ugh, Draco, you’re brilliant. This is perfect!”
“I wasn’t—”
“You’re a lifesaver! I’ll meet you here tomorrow during your free period!”
And just like that, before he could get a single word in edgewise, you scooped Pickles into your arms—his mouth still glistening from liver pâté—and dashed for the door.
“Sleep well, study buddy!” You called as you disappeared down the hall.
You slowed to a walk once you reached the common room, exhaling in victory. Pickles looked up at you, his expression blank as ever.
You sighed fondly, “Great job, wingman.”
Pickles blinked.
You fist-bumped his paw.
It was a lazy Saturday in the Slytherin common room.
The fire crackled quietly, casting warm shadows against the stone walls. Blaise sprawled across the velvet couch like a bored cat, Theo sat upside down in an armchair for no reason other than chaos, and Pansy twirled her wand with the kind of elegance that suggested she hadn’t read a single word of Witch Weekly in her lap.
Finally, Pansy broke the silence.
“So. Are you shagging her?”
Draco choked on his tea.
“What?” He coughed, nearly dropping the cup. Pickles, curled beside him on the armrest, hissed at the sudden jolt.
Blaise didn’t look up. “(L/N),” He said evenly, “You know. The Gryffindor who’s basically moved into your room. Owner of the mongrel you supposedly hate. Ringing any bells?”
“I—what—no!” Draco snapped, “Absolutely not! Why would you even ask that?!”
Theo flipped upright with a shit-eating grin, “Because you’ve been unreasonably pleasant lately. Smiling. Not threatening first-years. Suspicious behavior.”
“Almost like you enjoy seeing her kitty.” Blaise added smoothly, glancing down at Pickles who had moved himself to Draco's lap but judging by the smirk on his face it was clear he meant something else.
Draco turned bright red, “That’s not—”
“Mm-hm,” Pansy hummed, eyes glinting, “She was in your room for three hours yesterday.”
“She’s there for the cats,” Draco snapped, “Pickles won’t leave Belladonna’s side, and she won’t leave mine. (Y/N) just checks on him. That’s it. You all know this.”
“Sure,” Blaise drawled, “Just cats. That’s why you panic when she doesn’t show up at her usual time, right?”
“I do not—”
Before he could finish, the door to his dorm creaked open.
You stepped out, hair tousled, jumper slightly off one shoulder, Belladonna draped lazily around your neck like a scarf. You were clearly mid-thought, not yet noticing the audience.
“Draco,” You called, casual as ever, “come back in—someone’s missing their daddy.”
The room went silent.
Draco’s soul visibly left his body.
Theo’s mouth dropped open. Pansy squealed into her sleeve. Blaise grinned like he’d won a bet he hadn’t even made.
Draco groaned into his hands, “She meant the cat.”
“Sure she did.” Theo said, practically vibrating with glee.
It started innocently.
Draco was lying across his bed, legs crossed at the ankle, a Transfiguration textbook open in his lap—though he hadn’t actually turned a page in the last ten minutes. Pickles was curled up contentedly on his stomach, rising and falling with every slow breath. Across from him—well, technically on the bed but lying in the opposite direction—you were stretched out with your head by his feet, your own legs propped against his pillows like you lived there.
Which, to be fair, you kind of did lately.
Belladonna was nestled on your chest, queen of her tiny kingdom, batting half-heartedly at your fingers as you played with her paws, making little punching motions.
“And bam! And pow!” You said dramatically, “You’d never hurt me though, right, Bella? Us girls have to stick together.”
She stared up at you with her wide, imperious blue eyes.
You sighed, your fingers going limp in her fur, “Or maybe you’re not a girls’ girl after all. You got yourself a boyfriend first. Traitor. And now you’re no help either…”
Draco raised a brow, glancing down from his book, “Should I book you a trip to St. Mungo's, (L/N)?"
You ignored him, voice going high and sweet as you lifted one of Belladonna’s delicate paws and made her wave, “Not your fault, is it, darling? Your daddy’s so dense he can’t tell when a girl’s flirting with him to save his life. And you can’t knock some sense into him, can you? You’re just a cat.”
That made Draco freeze.
“Excuse me?” He said, sitting up just slightly, the book nearly sliding off his stomach.
Still, you didn’t look at him. You kept your attention on Belladonna, now rubbing her behind the ear like she was your emotional support therapist.
“Honestly, I’ve tried everything,” You sighed, dramatic and long-suffering, "Casual compliments. Gifts. Repeated close physical proximity. But nooo, nothing. He just sits there like a lemon, being oblivious and stupidly attractive.”
Draco blinked.
“I’m sorry,” He said slowly, “are you talking about me?”
You sighed, giving him a single glance before looking back at Belladonna, "He can't even tell when someone's blatantly talking about him either. Your daddy's a lost cause."
He looked like you’d just told him he was half-kneazle.
“You—you like me?”
You tilted your head, “I’ve been hanging out in your dorm for weeks, Draco. Do you think I do that for fun?”
“Well—yes? I thought you liked Pickles being around Belladonna!”
“Oh, I do,” You grinned, lifting Belladonna so you could sit up, “but I happen to like Belladonna’s daddy a lot more.”
A beat of silence.
Draco’s ears turned red. His entire face went warm. And he stared at you with an expression you couldn’t quite name.
Then—
“…Do you want to go to Hogsmeade with me next weekend?” He asked, voice slightly breathless, “Like—on a date?”
You reached out and laced your fingers with Draco’s, casual and easy like you’d done it a thousand times before.
“I’d love to go.” You said softly.
And from the way Draco looked at you then—wide-eyed, a little dazed, absolutely besotted—you had a feeling this was going to be the start of something very good.
Bonus:
“(Y/N) (L/N)!”
You shot upright, heart lurching at the sound of your boyfriend’s furious voice cutting across the room like a curse.
Draco Malfoy never yelled. He condescended. He complained. He drawled insults like an art form.
But this? This was new.
You stared at him from your perch on the couch, blinking.
He stood in the doorway of his dorm room, chest heaving, face pale with horror—and Belladonna tucked gently in one arm like a fragile glass ornament. His other hand was shaking. Literally shaking.
“…What’s wrong with you?” You asked slowly.
He marched across the room, holding Belladonna aloft like a witness to a crime.
“You said that thing was neutered!” He hissed, venom dripping from every syllable, clutching his cat to his chest like he was protecting her from the lump of orange fluff currently rolling around on the rug, trying to eat his own tail.
You stood slowly, voice tight, “I was told he was neutered.”
“Well, clearly you were lied to!” Draco snapped, setting Belladonna down on a velvet pillow with surgical care and clutching his hair like he was about to pull it out in clumps, “Because my daughter is pregnant.”
You stared at him. Then down at Pickles.
Then back at Belladonna, who had begun daintily licking her paw, looking vaguely smug.
There was a long, long pause.
“I’m gonna be a grandma!” You wailed, hands flying up to your face, “Oh my God, I’m gonna be a grandma!”
Draco gaped at you, “I just found out my baby is having babies and this is how you’re reacting?!”
Pickles burped.
Draco made a strangled sound, “That is the father of my grandchildren.”
You were laughing so hard you wheezed.
And somehow… somehow this entire disaster only made you love him more.
To be added to a taglist, please send me an ask! (I might respond to you in comments but I can’t guarantee that I won’t accidentally miss it)
feat. Draco Malfoy x fem!reader
SUMMARY: When a sleep-deprived Draco Malfoy collapses from academic exhaustion, he finds his grueling recovery interrupted by a sweet, early-morning visit from Y/N. However, an innocent indulgence in smuggled contraband sweets leaves behind a vivid clue that has Madam Pomfrey questioning the true nature of their interaction.
CW: From the title itself, too sweet.
a/n: Sorry for ghosting. Studying architecture was quite time consuming and tiring (oops). Part 2 will be posted in a few hours. Happy Reading!
-----
The high, arched windows of the Hogwarts hospital wing were usually met with the steady, rhythm of afternoon light or the dull gray of a typical Scottish morning. But for the past few select months, the ward had become an oddly high-traffic zone, much to the mounting exasperation of Madam Pomfrey.
The reason for this sudden spike in minor, inexplicable ailments was currently organizing a stack of freshly laundered sheets at the end of the room.
Y/N Blackwood was, by all objective accounts, a bit of an anomaly in Slytherin House. She was a pureblood of impeccable lineage, independently wealthy, unfairly pretty, and sharper than most of her peers combined. Yet, instead of the characteristic cold detachment expected of her circle, she possessed a genuine warmth that seemed to draw people in like moths to a flame. She was adored by virtually everyone, from the nervous first-year Hufflepuffs to the otherwise stoic older Slytherins.
Naturally, this universal adoration extended to Draco Malfoy. Not that he would ever acknowledge it aloud. In fact, he would rather leap headfirst off the Astronomy Tower than admit that his gaze tracked her across the Great Hall every morning, or that his heart did an irritating, uncharacteristic flip whenever she smiled in his direction. To Draco, acknowledging his feelings meant vulnerability, and vulnerability was out of the question.
Instead, he chose to overcompensate. With the absence of any looming dark threats or tyrannical figures over their sixth year, the pressures on Draco were purely academic and societal. Determined to maintain his position at the top of the class, he had spent the last three days surviving entirely on black coffee, sheer spite, and an average of two hours of sleep a night preparing for a grueling Ancient Runes examination.
Draco Malfoy, however, was no deity and had its limits.
By the time the exam concluded the previous afternoon, Draco’s vision was swimming, his skin was burning, and his limbs felt like lead. He had barely managed to stumble out of the classroom before his knees gave out, forcing a pair of passing Ravenclaws to haul his shivering, feverish form straight to Madam Pomfrey.
That was how he had spent his first day: completely dead to the world, buried under heavy blankets, drifting in and out of a restless, fever-induced sleep.
Now, it was the morning of the second day. The sky outside was a pale, crisp lavender, the very first rays of dawn just beginning to creep over the horizon.
Draco sat propped up against a mountain of pillows, staring blankly out the window. The fever had broken sometime during the night, leaving him feeling hollowed out, incredibly bored, and thoroughly dazed. His throat was dry, and the silence of the early morning ward was doing nothing to distract him from the lingering ache in his temples.
A soft, familiar rustle of fabric broke the silence.
Before Draco could turn his head to look, a sharp, shocking jolt of cold pressed directly against his left cheek.
He flinched back slightly, his gray eyes widening as he looked up, heart doing backflips. Standing beside his bed was Y/N. Her dark robes were slightly loose, her hair fell perfectly over her shoulders, and a look of quiet amusement danced in her eyes. In her hand, she held a cherry-flavored lollipop, the crinkly plastic wrapper having been the source of the chill against his warm skin.
Without waiting for an invitation, she deftly unwrapped the bright red confection, held it out to him with a tilted head, and casually popped a blue raspberry-flavored one into her own mouth.
Draco stared at the offering, his mind still slightly sluggish from the fever. "What is this?" he muttered, his voice raspy from sleep.
"A peace offering for the grumpy patient," Y/N replied around the stick of her own lollipop, her voice a soft, melodic murmur that seemed to echo gently in the quiet room. "And a sugar boost. Madam Pomfrey is still asleep in her quarters, so you're safe. Eat it."
Draco hesitated for a fraction of a second. If anyone else had tried to smuggle contraband sweets into his sickbed, he would have sneered and told them to get lost. But it was Y/N. He reached up, his fingers brushing against hers for a brief, electric moment as he took the plastic stick, sliding the cherry lollipop past his lips.
The tart, sweet flavor immediately burst across his tongue, cutting through the stale, bitter taste of medicinal potions.
For several long minutes, neither of them spoke. The ward was entirely theirs, insulated from the rest of the castle by the early hour. Draco kept his eyes fixed on the window, though his peripheral vision was entirely occupied by the way the morning light caught the edges of her silhouette. Y/N simply leaned against the edge of his bedside table, swinging one foot lightly, enjoying her blue raspberry sweet with a look of pure contentment.
Suddenly, the shifting of fabric caught his attention. Y/N had stepped closer, leaning over the edge of the mattress.
Draco’s breath caught in his throat. She was close, close enough that he could smell the faint, crisp scent of vanilla and parchment that always seemed to follow her. Her eyes, bright and incredibly focused, scanned his face, inspecting the lingering flush on his cheekbones.
Slowly, she took the lollipop out of her mouth, holding it between her fingers as she peered into his eyes.
"Huh," Y/N murmured, her gaze locking onto his. "I didn't know your eyes were gray. I mean, I knew they were light, but up close… they’re really pretty."
Draco’s brain completely short-circuited.
The compliment, delivered with such casual, unvarnished honesty, shattered whatever fragile defense mechanism he had spent the last six years building. His heart hammered violently against his ribs. The combination of the lingering fever heat, the quiet intimacy of the dawn, and the sight of her lips just inches from his own drove out every ounce of his usual calculated restraint.
Before he could process what he was doing, before his conscious mind could scream at him to stop, Draco reached out. His hand closed around the nape of her neck, his fingers tangling in the soft strands of her hair, and he pulled her down.
He kissed her.
It wasn't a tentative, hesitant brush of lips. It was deep, desperate, and entirely consuming. The sudden rush of adrenaline made his senses explode. As his lips parted hers, the taste of tart cherry mingled instantly with the sweet, vibrant blue raspberry on her tongue. The contrast was sharp and intoxicating. Y/N let out a soft, muffled gasp against his mouth, her hand instinctively coming up to rest against his chest, her fingers clutching at his shirt.
Draco deepened the kiss, his tongue sliding against hers with a possessive, unyielding hunger that he had suppressed for far too long. For a few suspended seconds, the entire world narrowed down to the heat of her mouth, the sweetness of the candy, and the intoxicating reality that she wasn't pulling away.
The heavy thud of the hospital wing's main doors swinging open broke the spell like a shattering glass window.
They pulled apart instantly. Draco’s hand dropped from her neck as if he had been burned, his face instantly turning a violent, brilliant shade of crimson that had absolutely nothing to do with his fever. Y/N stumbled back half a step, her breathing shallow, her cheeks flushing a vivid, beautiful pink.
"Right then!" Madam Pomfrey’s brisk, authoritative voice boomed through the quiet ward as she marched out of her office, balancing a heavy silver tray piled with bowls of porridge and cups of pumpkin juice. "Time for breakfast, Mr. Malfoy. Let’s see if that temperature has—"
The Matron froze mid-stride, her sharp eyes darting between the two sixth-years.
She took in Draco’s wild, wide-eyed expression and Y/N’s frantic attempt to look perfectly casual. Then, her gaze dropped. In Y/N’s left hand was a half-eaten blue lollipop. In Draco’s fingers, clutched like a lifeline, was a bright red one.
Madam Pomfrey let out a long, heavy sigh, shaking her head in deep disdain as she set the tray down on the bedside table with a loud clunk.
"Sweets before breakfast. Again," Pomfrey scolded, fixing Y/N with a stern, maternal glare. "Ms. Blackwood, I have told you for the nth time, smuggling sugar to the patients does not aid their recovery. It interferes with the potions, ruins their appetite, and quite frankly, is a disciplinary hazard!"
"A little sweet won't hurt, Madam Pomfrey," Y/N stammered out, her voice a pitch higher than usual as she tried to regain her composure. "It's… for energy. Academic exhaustion, you know."
"A potential sore throat is what it is," Pomfrey muttered, crossing her arms. She then turned her attention directly to Draco, noting the severe, unprompted flush that had taken over his entire face. "Good heavens, look at you. Your face is bright red. Did the fever spike again over the last hour?"
Draco froze, his jaw tightening. "I feel fine," he managed to choke out, his voice incredibly stiff.
"We will be the judge of that. open your mouth, let me check your throat," Pomfrey commanded, stepping closer and reaching into her apron for a small diagnostic wand.
Reluctantly, under the Matron's piercing gaze, he parted his lips and stuck out his tongue.
It was stained a deep, unmistakable, vibrant shade of purple.
Madam Pomfrey stared at his tongue. Then, she slowly lowered her diagnostic wand, her eyes shifting to the bright red lollipop in Draco’s fingers. Then, very deliberately, her head turned toward Y/N, who had suddenly found a particular corner of the high stone ceiling to be the most fascinating thing in the entire castle. In Y/N's hand, the blue lollipop caught the morning light.
Primary colors. Red plus blue.
Realization dawned on Madam Pomfrey’s face with the force of a crashing Bludger. She pinched the bridge of her nose, letting out a breath that sounded like a slow leak in a tire.
"Ms. Blackwood," Madam Pomfrey said, her voice dropping into a dangerous, exhausted register. "How many times do I have to tell you to stop flirting with our patients?"
"I swear I didn't do anything!" Y/N blurted out, her hands flying up in a defensive gesture, her face now matching Draco’s in intensity.
"Save it," Pomfrey sighed, waving a hand dismissively. "Out. Before I deduct points from Slytherin for compromising my ward. Go get your own breakfast in the Great Hall."
Y/N didn't need to be told twice. She gave Draco one last, wide-eyed, completely flustered glance before turning on her heel and hurrying out of the hospital wing, her cloak billowing slightly behind her.
Draco sat frozen, staring at the closed doors, his thumb tracing the stick of his lollipop, his mind a complete and utter chaotic mess.
---
By noon, Draco had been officially discharged. Madam Pomfrey had declared him cured of his fever, though she had given him a very pointed, lingering look as she handed him his shoes.
The moment Draco stepped out into the corridors, however, he realized that the hospital wing wasn't just a place of healing anymore. It had become a stage for a ridiculous, ongoing theater production.
As he walked down the grand staircase toward the dungeons to drop off his bag, he crossed paths with Blaise Zabini and Theodore Nott. Theo was currently leaning heavily against Blaise, clutching his stomach with a theatrical groan that could be heard from three corridors away.
"Oh, the agony," Theo groaned, his voice dripping with exaggerated despair. "The pain is unbearable, Blaise. I don't think I can make it to Double Potions. I need the gentle, healing touch of the hospital wing assistant."
Blaise rolled his eyes, catching sight of Draco. "Look at this idiot. He’s been practicing his 'dying orphan' routine since breakfast."
Draco stopped, eyebrow raised. "What for?"
"I have a terrible, mysterious ailment, Draco," Theo said, instantly straightening up and dropping the act entirely, a smirk spreading across his face. "A sudden, acute bout of loneliness that can only be cured by Y/N Blackwood checking my pulse. Have you seen the queue up there today? It's ridiculous."
Draco’s chest tightened with a sudden, sharp spike of irritation. "A queue?"
"Oh, absolutely," Blaise chimed in, leaning against the stone balustrade. "Ever since word got out that Y/N is doing the morning and afternoon volunteer shifts, a portion of the male population of Hogwarts has developed sudden, chronic conditions. Cormac McLaggen tried to pretend he twisted his ankle during Quidditch practice, but he forgot which foot was hurt and kept switching which leg he was limping on."
"And Davies from Ravenclaw," Theo added, shaking his head. "Claimed he had a severe migraine. Y/N sat with him for five minutes, gave him a glass of water, and talked to him about his Herbology essay. The moment she walked away to get a cold compress, the bloke was completely cured. Smiling like a bloody loon."
Draco clenched his jaw so hard his teeth clicked. "They're pathetic."
"They are," Theo agreed easily. "But can you blame them? She’s nice, she actually listens, she’s gorgeous, and she hands out those muggle sweets. I'm thinking of faking a dragon pox outbreak on my left arm just to get her to sit next to my bed for an hour."
Draco didn't say another word. He pushed past his two housemates, his stride lengthening as he headed down into the dungeons. The irritation burning in his gut was a stark contrast to the cold, calculated demeanor he usually maintained. The memory of the morning, the taste of blue raspberry and cherry, the softness of her lips, the way she looked at him, was a private, fiercely guarded treasure. The thought of every bloke in the castle faking sick just to swindle a piece of her attention made him want to hex the entire student body. And despite how absurd it sounded, getting sick didn't sound that bad after all.
-----
Summary: A little something happens before they head out to Hogsmeade. Of presents, bows, and surprises.
-
It was the last Hogsmeade trip before the holiday break. The Slytherin common room was abuzz with excitement and antsy people who hadn't bought their Christmas gifts yet.
You were sat at one of the sofas in the common room, basking in the heat of the fireplace. You were absentmindedly fiddling with the page of a book while you waited for someone.
Over the year, you didn't expect to become friends with this person. It was unrealistic for your paths to cross in the first place. Yet here you were, proving the Mere Exposure Effect.
You supposed it was all the times you've passed each other in the hallways, sat beside each other in the common room, seen each other in the library studying. One Potions project, one duel in Defense Against the Dark Arts, one detention. Nods in the hallway slowly eased into conversations in the common room. From different tables in the library to shared ones.
Then, he'd start sitting beside you in the Great Hall, the classrooms, even on your spot under the tree facing the Black Lake. He'd grunt and scoff, but he would stay anyways. As it turned out, you would let him.
Like so, Draco Malfoy sauntered outside the dormitories like a king. Hands tucked in his pockets, coat and scarf swinging from his arm. He pointedly eyed the noisy third years leaving the common room before approaching you from behind the sofa.
You felt his presence loom from behind, making you look up at him from over your shoulder. He was looking down at you, brow arched as if that was enough to verbalize his question. Unfortunately, for you, it was.
You let your head fall into the backrest, smiling softly up at him. "I didn't see you with the others, so I figured I'd wait for you." You scrunched your nose. "You'd get all peeved later, otherwise."
He stared back at you for a moment too long.
"Tch. Whatever." He rolled his eyes and tossed his scarf over the backrest. You let out a chuckle. You knew he liked it anyway. He's just a prissy prat.
You watched his scarf slide down from the backrest, the other end shimmying across the seat until it almost reached the floor.
"Your scarf is really long." You commented, almost absent-mindedly. He merely grunted as he shrugged on his coat.
Humming thoughtfully, you snap your book shut and grabbed his scarf, wrapping it around your neck as you stood up.
The action seemed to give him pause, his hand freezing in its task of buttoning the coat. You paid him no mind and walked to the body length mirror, eyes focused on tying the specific knot on the scarf One fold, one overhand, one tuck. You fumbled a few seconds more before pulling the last knot snugly.
"Tada!" You announced heartily, both hands raised in appreciation of your work. The scarf was tied to resemble a bow, one bunny ear drooping sadly and one end of the scarf hanging stiffly from the middle knot.
It still looked like a bow, though, you reasoned, as you gazed at your work in the mirror. Somewhat satisfied, you turned back around to show Draco.
"Tada." You repeat, hands flourishing with a proud smile. Your enthusiasm was met with an amused expression, one side of his mouth upturned as if he didn't know how he should react.
You gave him a flat look. "It's a bow."
"Ah." His face brightened in mock realization. "I see. And you're supposed to be the present?" One brow raised, he flashed you one of his signature smirks.
You balked, hands coming up to cradle your cheeks in affront. "Excuse me. I am a pleasure to have." You simper at him. "Present or otherwise." You harumphed haughtily, nose upturned to the side and a smug smile on your lips.
A breathy chortle resounded in the now empty common room. The sound did a little something to your stomach.
You flash him a small smile before turning back to the mirror.
"I've always thought it a shame bows on prresents had to be undone." You say almost absent-mindedly, evening out the drooping bunny ears. "The bows really are quite pretty."
There was a shuffle of steps behind you. "Well, won't I need to untie the bow to get my present?" Malfoy asked, his voice getting closer to you and unusually low. You felt his presence settle beside you.
"Hm, yes. That's typically how presents work." You mumbled distractedly as you turned to him, eyes still fixed on the scarf whose knots you were trying to smooth out.
You stopped your ministrations when you saw one of his fingers twirl one of the hanging strands on the end of the scarf. You looked up questioningly only to see him gazing down fixedly on the strand he's twirling. The strands smoothly glided around his long fingers, curling obediently and falling back. You watched, entranced and confused. You didn't know if you should interrupt him. His actions seemed distracted, dazed, as if his body was acting automatically while his mind wandered.
Now he was taking some strands between his fingers and rolling them. Curling his thumb around them. Watching each strand bend and undulate to his touch. You could feel the warmth of his arm radiate, hear his steady breaths.
Slowly, his fingers trailed to the edges of the fabric, thumb drawing small circles over them as if he were feeling it for the first time. Pressing it between his index and thumb.
You glimpsed at his face, trying to read him. His gaze was soft, bordering affectionate. You wondered what could be going through his head. You felt a tug at the scarf. Surprised, you looked down to see his fingers closed around the fabric, tugging down. The both of you watched the bow unravel slowly, the scarf cascading down your chest as it came undone.
"Hey, what was that for—"
Grey eyes. Storms. Clouds. Piercingly clear.
There.
There it was. That look.
Gone was the softness, that mellowed arrangement of his feature. This was heated. Intense. The gaze you'd catch in his unguarded moments.
Catching it felt like the flicker of a ghost. Almost imperceptible. Almost. You wouldn't always catch it—at times, you'd wonder if you'd imagined it—but then you'd see it again. When you're studying in the library, when you're walking with him between classes, when he's listening to you talk about something.
He was always quiet at those moments. Expression schooled and mouth pressed. You sometimes wondered if he was waging a battle with himself.
You relished it, though—those cracks in his mask, flickers of something buried—but you also didn't understand it. And now you wish you did because what once was a flicker was now a raging fire, burning.
You felt your breath catch, staring dumbfoundedly at his face. You couldn't—wouldn't dare to look away.
Well, won't I need to untie the bow to get my present?
You didn't even realize when your faces were inches from each other. Had he bent down? From this close, you could hear him take a shuddering breath. His gaze remained locked on you, flicking briefly at your lips. He drew closer, movements stuttering briefly, before he softly pressed his lips to yours.
Hm. yes. That's typically how presents work.
He stayed there, let a moment linger. Another. Then another. Your eyes stuttered close as you tried to map out the way his lips settled on yours. It was soft, warm, and all things innocent.
It lasted for a lifetime and too quickly at the same time. With a final press, you felt him slowly pull back, his eyes half-lidded and gaze still fixed on your lips. His eyes shifted to yours, never leaving as he pulled back further to reveal his flushed face, his parted lips.
You stared at each other's eyes. Lost in the depths. Seeking answers. You heard him take a shuddering breath, not realizing your breath also shook.
A beat passed.
"...Hi."
"...Hello."
There was a slight crinkle in Draco's eyes, his lips twitching at the hint of a smile. It was almost hypnotic, seeing him like this. Unguarded. Dazed. You sought to sketch each crevice in his expression into your mind. You relished this, being the one to see this. Like a shared secret. In fact, it kind of was.
Suddenly, his eyes widened and he blinked rapidly as if to break himself out of a stupor. His expression morphed into mortification as rose himself to his full height, his warmth leaving you empty. Your heart stuttered.
He wouldn't. Anger started to flare inside you as you braced yourself for his words. He wouldn't dare.
His face turned a shade more scarlet and his mouth moved around soundlessly—trying to form words you hope to Merlin wasn't along the lines of regret. Shame. You were already thinking of how many times you'd punch him if he did.
"That is—er..." He stammered. Draco Malfoy stammered. You would have found it endearing, with that flushed face and awkward look, if your thoughts weren't going haywire. With a great exhale, he hung his head and fixed his gaze to his boots. "...I should have asked first."
You blinked. Oh.
Oh.
You were so shocked, you forgot to laugh. Here you were thinking he would shut you down. Tell you to forget the kiss ever happened. Tell you it was a mistake.
At the end off the day, he was just a pompous git. Your pompous git. Years of propriety and decorum bred into his arse.
Draco cleared his throat, eyes refusing to meet yours and darting around awkwardly. "I'll..uh...grab your scarf."
Draco began to turn and, before you realized it, your hand darted out.
Gently, you hooked your pinky with his, your touch communicating what your words couldn't. It wasn't a secure hook, curled almost listlessly, but it was enough. Enough to make him freeze. Enough to make him look at you with bated breath.
You didn't meet his gaze, keeping it fixated on both your hands. With a shaky breath, you wrapped your hands around his, movement stuttering slightly from the swell of emotions.
Finally, you looked up at him through your eyelashes, face completely flushed, and gave him a shy smile. Draco's lips parted a moment, eyes flashing in surprise and darting back and forth from your face to your joined hands.
You squeezed his hand. "Shall we go?" You smiled at him, lips wobbling slightly as if you couldn't control the happiness you felt. You probably couldn't.
Draco's lips began to turn up before he schooled it (unsuccessfully) into his usual nonchalance.
"Right." He cleared his throat before turning his face away from you, other hand coming up to cover the smile he was having a really hard time to hide.
On your way out, hand in hand, he grabbed your scarf and draped it around his neck.
-
Felt inspired to write this when I saw this pic from pinterest. Credits to the artist.
Summary: A series of interactions. Subtle realizations. Unacknowledged feelings. Your existence to Draco Malfoy was inconsequential, at first. Yet wonders never cease when he decides to acknowledge you.
-
You were the silent type.
He's never talked to you before but he knew of your existence. Like a ghost that lingered at the walls, ever present yet elusive. He knew you from your claimed seat in the Slytherin common room, right by the fireplace. Close enough to his friends' lounging spot yet far enough to be unnoticed.
He knew you were always there with a book in your hand and a stoic expression on your face. He knew that younger Slytherins would sometimes come up to you and ask for help. He knew you from when you would pass his friends when you grab or return a book to the bookshelves.
Other than that, you were just there. Irrelevant. Like a buzz in the air you eventually grew accustomed to. That was your existence: nonconsequential to his life in Hogwarts.
Draco Malfoy didn't give a knut about you until you were partnered up in Potions. After Theo Nott had bolted away from him the moment he heard his partner, he felt the quiet shift of your presence settle beside him on the table. You gave him a small nod as you sat which he deemed not to reciprocate. Chin rested in one hand, he glanced at you once–upright posture, folded hands, neutral expression–then brought his attention back to the board.
-
"Wait."
His hand froze midair, clutching the knife about to slice through the flower heads. He raised an eyebrow and gave you a critical look.
"Don't cut that yet," you continued, undeterred. "Cut that a minute before we add it."
Your tone wasn't condescending, but it was assertive in a way that made his ego curdle. Just a bit.
"And why, pray tell, should I follow what you say?" He sneered.
You merely blinked.
"Well, these particular flower heads are most potent when it's freshly cut." You replied matter-of-factly. "Considering its integrative properties with this potion, we'd want its quality to be as potent as possible when we add it."
Malfoy gave you another skeptical look. He wasn't used to being interfered with in Potions. In fact, he was used to handling the brunt of the work to ensure his stellar marks were left unmarred by his partners' incompetence. So, yes, ego was poked. Just a bit.
"No," he replied as if he were talking to a five-year-old. "Doing that just exceeds the optimal potency level. You'll ruin the viscosity and increase the acidity of the potion." Admittedly, he did feel proud of shutting you down. Ego restored.
"For a freshly harvested flower head, yes, that's true, but..." Merlin, will this witch back down? You gently pinched the ends of the petals between your fingers. "These ones were put on a stasis charm. It's winter and its sensitive period after harvest is significantly shortened in the cold. Hence, the charm. The magical influence interferes with the properties of the plant. Feel the petals? They're not as soft as they should be; there's rigidity. That means the release of its sap will be explosive right after the cut."
Malfoy was silent. Reluctantly, he felt the petals between his fingers and, damn it, you were right. He opened his mouth as if to refute you but nothing came out. What you said made perfect sense. Again, damn it.
He scoffed and rolled his eyes but put away the flower heads. You gave him a small smile and continued your work.
-
"Wait."
Malfoy clicked his tongue irritably. He turned sharply to you.
"What now?" He snapped. To your credit, you did hold an apologetic expression.
"I'll do the stirring." You offered. He narrowed his eyes but begrudgingly passed you the stirring rod.
"For Merlin's sake, the stirring is elementary. Don't muck it up." He grumbled as he moved away from the cauldron.
A few minutes passed as he started tidying up the rest of the station when, at the corner of his eye, he saw what you did.
You stirred counter clockwise at the end. Once.
Malfoy was enraged.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" He yelled-whispered, grabbing your wrist away from the cauldron. "The instructions were to stir clockwise continuously. Are you daft? Or are you perhaps mad-"
He stopped abruptly when the potion's color transformed from a muted blue to a vibrant turquoise. Perhaps the most vibrant turquoise he's seen on a potion like this, its color almost emitting a soft glow. Malfoy looked at the potion a few seconds more before shooting you a disbelieving look.
There was a glint of triumph in your eyes as your attention was completely fixated on the potion. He saw the slightest upturn of your lips before you schooled your expression back to neutrality. You turned back to him.
"The potion is similar to Moonseed Poison." You explained. "The procedure is almost identical and its properties are all derived from the same family of ingredients."
He scoffed. "And you thought it would be a good idea to apply the same principle to a potion that has completely different effects?"
You shrugged. "Same principle." You eyed the hand still holding your wrist, and he immediately withdrew his hand. He pinched the nose of his bridge, staving off an oncoming headache.
"Merlin, witch." He groaned. "And you didn't think to tell me?"
That gave you pause. You looked away almost sheepishly and added in a small voice. "...I thought you wouldn't be very cooperative."
You fiddled with your fingers and was adamant to look at anywhere but him. At least you had the decency to look a bit guilty.
He gave you a (barely) long-suffering look before moving past to scoop the potion for submission.
To his dismay, Slughorn praised your potion to the point Malfoy wondered if he would cream his pants. He sat back in his seat with a deep scowl in his face which you deemed not to comment on. You continued to work on your report silently even as Malfoy grumbled beside you.
After a while, he turned to you. "How did you know?"
You gave a questioning hum as you continued to work, refusing to look his way.
"How did you know the same principle would work?"
Your quill stuttered before you resumed.
"I didn't."
He raised a brow, giving you an expectant look. You pursed your lips slightly and glanced at him cautiously.
"Gut feeling."
Malfoy turned away from you, his hand rubbing the back of his neck as if trying to calm himself. "Bloody hell."
-
From then on, he began to notice you more. It was more so because he had now acknowledged your existence. You were promoted from the title or "irrelevant ghost" to "insufferable potions partner."
As you continued to be paired with him in Potions (to his dismay), he realized that, despite your penchant for having unconventional methods, perhaps there was a reason you were always close behind on the class rankings as the third or fourth top student. You had an intuitive sense for the interactions in each potion, making you an acceptable potions partner. He also realized that the only reason you lagged behind in rankings is because of your experimentations and your cursed gut feeling. With your potions, it was either a hit or miss.
Despite his initial annoyance with you, he couldn't deny that you were indeed competent. He began to develop a reluctant amicability with you and this was quite unfortunate because you began to do things he didn't understand.
-
One Charms class, he had run late and all seats had been taken up except for the one beside you. After receiving an admonishment from Flitwick, he sat beside you with a scowl, murmuring curses under his breath.
He had just set down his inkpot when you put a green apple in his desk space. Before he could say anything, you leaned close to him and whispered.
"I noticed you weren't at breakfast earlier. Figured I'd grab you your daily drugs." You flashed him a small smile before returning to your notes.
He was so surprised that he forgot all about his earlier frustrations. He managed to mumble a thanks before turning to his parchment.
-
"You have a Quidditch match later, right?"
That startled Malfoy. You two have never talked about anything besides academics. He nodded.
You rummaged through your pocket, and you pulled out a small charm shaped in a broom figurine.
He raised a brow at you inquisitively.
"It's a good luck charm." You rolled your eyes, a smile playing at your lips. "Not that you need it, of course. I know you're a good Seeker, but I figured I'd give you one anyway."
He continued to stare at you questioningly, and you grew conscious. Your fingers slowly closed around the charm.
"Well, you don't have to take it. I suppose I could just give it to another player–"
"Whatever." He scoffed and held out his hand. "Give it here. Merlin knows you'll accidentally set somebody on fire with your charms."
Your hand came up to your chest in affront as the other dropped the charm onto his open hand. "Excuse me? That was one time!"
-
Malfoy was met with cheers from the team as he descended from the broom, snitch in hand. He walked proudly, chest out and ego inflated, as absorbed all the praises.
Through it all, the small broomstick charm weighed heavily on his pocket.
-
The two of you were at the library working on a joint Potions project. It was raining hard outside and your table was right beside a window.
"Let me know when the rain gets any more interesting. I'm sure it can write the paper for us."
Malfoy drawled from across the table, interrupting your reverie of watching the rain. You didn't respond, and he paid you no mind as he kept writing down on his parchment.
He felt the prickle of your stare on him instead. He waited a few moments for your gaze to pass, but it didn't. He looked up from his parchment and raised a critical eyebrow at you.
You didn't deem his look with a response. You just kept looking at him as if examining a specimen from behind a glass, chin tucked in one hand and eyes lucid.
"Your eyes have a little blue in them."
That threw him off. What?
"What?" He managed, unable to school the look of shock and confusion from his face.
Again, you didn't respond and simply went back to your work.
-
One particularly boring History of Magic class, he felt a nudge at the side of his leg. He shot you a flat look–yes, he happened to sit next to you again because he can sit anywhere he pleases, thank you very much–and you held out your hand filled with candies from Honeydukes.
"Want one?" You whispered, smiling shyly at him.
He didn't say anything and just grabbed from the pile. As he popped the candy into his mouth, he noticed you struggling to open one. He wordlessly grabbed the candy, opened it, and gave it back to you.
There was a flash of surprise on your face before you shot him a smile. He watched you pop the candy into your mouth.
-
Apparently, your title has once again elevated from "annoying potions partner" to "tolerable person to be around."
Yes, he knew of your existence, your presence in the couch right by the fireplace. But when he sat by his friends close to your chair, he also began to notice other things.
He now knew that your expression wasn't as stoic when you're reading. The changes in your face were subtle but he noticed them. A raised brow. Pursed lips. Crinkled eyes. He also now knew that when the younger Slytherins would come up to you, you would also give them small charms or lean into them as if sharing a secret.
He also now has a collection of charms because of you. It could be for a match, an exam, a stressful day, or a random reason you would come up with. He kept telling himself to throw away those junk. He never did.
-
The weather outside was chilly. Which was really something to consider when having a class outside for Care of Magical Creatures. Most of the students were bundled up and huddled together to retain as much warmth as possible.
Malfoy stood beneath a tree, gaze fixed to the courtyard where a certain someone should be walking now that class was about to start.
Sure enough, there you were. All frantic, frazzled, and panting by the time you settled next to him.
He looked at you expectantly as if you owed him an explanation.
"I fell asleep."
"Wonderful."
"Did you miss me?"
"Witch, you must be mad."
You bit back a smile as you tried to tune into the lesson. That was, until you heard him click his tongue annoyedly. You turned to Malfoy questioningly before you felt fabric wrap around your neck.
"If you wanted to die of the cold, you could've just told me to push you into the Black Lake." He grumbled as he adjusted his scarf to be more comfortable on you.
You blinked at him, unsure how to react to such a gesture. By the time, he let go of the scarf, you were positively drowning in his scent. You sunk your head further into the scarf to hide the smile you were struggling to fight.
When you muttered your thanks, all the response you got was a grunt.
-
"Here."
He dropped a bag from Honeydukes beside you as you looked up from your book. You were sitting at one of the larger couches across the fireplace since you had the common room all to yourself. You looked up at him, and he made sure to school a look of nonchalance. Hands tucked inside his pockets and hair mussed just so. That probably didn't work as well because his face was frozen from the cold.
You raised a quizzical brow at him.
He scoffed and plopped down beside you unceremoniously, draping his arm across the couch behind you.
"It's sugar quills. You'd know if you had the decency to at least open the bag."
"Oh."
A pleasantly surprised expression passed your face and you checked that, indeed, there was an assortment of sugar quills in the bag. You still gave him a scrutinizing look as if asking Why?
He rolled his eyes. "You were complaining about running out. You wouldn't shut up about it." A quiet affronted gasp escaped you.
"It was one time..." You pouted, voice small in slight embarrassment. You opened the bag and grabbed a quill. "Thank you."
He only grunted and propped up his head with the arm resting behind you. This gave him the perfect view over your shoulder. And of your nape, apparently. A thought he quickly shook off. His eyes, however, kept drifting to the small hairs that tickled your nape and to the mole nestled at the bottom right.
He blinked his thoughts away. Ridiculous.
Thankfully, a sudden rush of warmth distracted him from his thoughts, realizing that you had cast a warming charm on him. There was a little twinge in his chest at the gesture, although he'd blame the charm for that.
You nudged the bad of sugars quills toward him and flashed him a small smile. "Share?"
He shrugged and grabbed one as you returned to your book. He didn't say anything else and just watched you from the corner of his eye, his head propped up far too closely next to you.
Malfoy didn't know what possessed him to buy those sugar quills. Or to sit down next to you when all he thought about after returning was to lie in his bed. And he certainly didn't know why he kept trying to lean closer to you.
Eager for a distraction, he tried to peek at what you were reading, eyes narrowing at the plethora of unfamiliar words. His curiosity won out.
"What are you reading?" He asked, leaning down to read better.
You startled, and turned to him to explain. This was, unfortunately, a mistake because both of you didn't realize how close he was leaning over your shoulder. This resulted in your faces being mere inches from each other, your breaths mingling. You shared a surprised look before immediately turning away from each other.
"It's 1984 by George Orwell." You finally said, voice small, and eyes adamantly glued to the book. He turned back to you which, again, was a mistake because he now noticed how flushed your nape had become. Damn it. "It's a muggle book. Social commentary on totalitarianism told through a dystopian setting."
A moment passed.
Malfoy cleared his throat awkwardly, attempting to tamper his speeding heartbeat. Merlin, that warming charm must really be overheating him. He blamed your Charms proficiency.
He swallowed, trying to focus on your words than your reddened cheeks.
"Right." He cleared his throat. "So what does doublethink mean?"
At that, the conversation turned for the better as you explained the details of the book to him. Malfoy, thankfully, was intrigued enough to override his earlier thoughts. You both eased into a comfortable atmosphere and, at some point, you had leaned your head against his arm behind.
Whether you noticed it or not, he did not know. But he did not care to comment on it.
Grief is a veil that constantly hangs overhead. It drapes over your face and clouds your vision. It stays there for a while until a wind blows and your vision clears for a moment before it settles again.
This was how Sanemi portrayed grief in his mind. He gave it a form. He made it into a symbol that he put some form of profound meaning into that he knows he'd never have the creative capacity to manifest into words. He made himself into some twisted sort of poet that painted some sentiment into the emotions he knew he didn't want to feel.
Giving his emotions a form gave him a sense of control. It made them seem tangible and, therefore, manipulable. He knew he could take off the veil or just squint his eyes through the fabric and keep going like normal. This way, he was able to maintain his aggressiveness and recklessness. This way, he could protect himself from the memories that seemed to resurface unwittingly at every tickle of tranquility the wind teased him with.
Lately, however, things have shifted. The veil suddenly felt like futons. It was no longer a whispy and elusive draping that fluttered over his eyes every now and then. No. This time, he felt it strain his neck, his shoulders, and his body with the heaviness that replaced that weightless feel of the veil. This time, he couldn't look past the covers and pretend it was just the veil's fleeting eclipse over the eyes. He felt its heaviness in its entirety that he couldn't even lift his hands to try to alleviate the strain.
To Sanemi Shinazuagwa, grief is now the sky, the moon, the stars. Grief held the eyes of his comrades slumped on the ruins of Muzan's creation. Grief was the unworthiness he felt standing among the pillars when Masachika should be there with him. Grief was the feeling of his brother turning into ashes as he cradled him in his arms. And, so, grief was again the laughter of his siblings as he gave them his share of food in their old little ransack. Grief again was his mother's gentle touches on his face as she assured him empty promises. Grief...again, was Genya's warmth on his side as they pushed the rickety cart when they made the promise to take care of their siblings.
Oh, his smile. How could he have forgotten.
Through the haze of his anger towards himself, towards Genya who forced himself into the battlefield Sanemi wanted to take him away from, towards the needless massacres of his comrades....Genya still called him his brother.
After the final battle, he felt grief everywhere. In every breath. In every blink. In every sensation. He'd smell the disgustingly sweet smell of Kanroji's pancakes in the air one time. Another, he'd feel the slither of a snake on his shoulder and even a flash of discolored eyes at the same time. He would hear the monotonous drone of a mantra and sometimes the airheaded mumbling of Tokito wondering whatever the hell he wonders about. There were also flashes of Kocho's smiles that creeped him to no end. And, on very disturbing occasions, he'd startle himself when Rengoku's booming voice would suddenly resound in his ears.
The past and present started to blur. He was stuck in the Butterfly Mansion for weeks. He would drift in and out of consciousness and he would wake up thinking he just heard the Hashiras chatting where to eat after their meeting. Then he would open his eyes staring at the wooden ceiling and to unbearable pain. His body felt like it was being skewered and sewn over and over. But, more than that....his heart. Hell, his heart felt so....This was the grief. Burying him like an avalanche cascading so mercilessly. Years of pushing back everything made it so much worse. Every moment was now hallucinations of everyone. Then came the thoughts.
What was it all for? What was he gonna do now? What the hell was he supposed to live for when demons are gone and, most especially....his brother.
Oh.
He wanted to kill himself.
It wasn't a gradual thought. He didn't feel any build up leading to what he did. It just abruptly spawned in hid mind.
And it made perfect sense.
Now, every moment he awoke from unconsciousness, he dreaded opening his eyes. He hated the feeling in his body and his heart. He hated the memories that kept flooding his mind. He hated the sounds he could hear from those who tended to him. He hated how they asked how he was doing. He wanted everyone to just shut up. He wanted everything to just shut the hell up.
Especially Uzui who just would not leave him the fuck alone.
He would come everyday, trying to catch him in his waking moments then try to talk his ear off. He would catch Sanemi up with everything that happened while he was unconscious which, really, just felt so damn depressing. He didn't need this shit. It had nothing to do with him. He didn't deserve it. Was this supposed to make him happy? Hopeful? Victorious now that there was actually a future in store for the younger generations?
Fuck that shit.
He did all of this for Genya. And he wasn't here anymore.
But in the quiet of his mind, he could hear the twinkling laughter of Shuya, of Hiroshi, of Koto, of Teiko, of Sumi. Somewhere in his fantasies, he had seen them get apprenticeships, get married, have children, and died of old age. And Genya. He knew Genya would have made a great husband. There was a charm to him that Sanemi could only dream to possess. And Genya would be an even wonderful father. Sanemi had seen it from how he had taken care of their siblings.
Sanemi supposed that there was a small voice in his mind that made him feel glad that other children will have a chance at what his siblings never had to.
But with these thoughts, his inner monster roared in his mind.
Who the hell do you think are to feel happy about that? After all you've done? After all you've killed? After who you've killed? Fucking hypocrite.
There it was.
There was the familiar monster Sanemi had long embraced. Had long associated himself to be. He scoffed at himself. Who the hell did he think he was acting like some saint? That ain't him. That was Genya. The kind-hearted one. The compassionate one. Sanemi was the monster. From his outward appearance to the disgusting blood that ran through his veins. Hell, it was so disgusting it attracted the fucking demons. That's right. Ah, he really should just fucking die-
"Oi. Listen to me, you fucking coward."
That snapped Sanemi out of his spiral. He twisted his head towards the bejeweled bastard. More harshly than he would have liked, even as he was already sitting up, if the pain was any indicator.
"Ha?" Sanemi demanded. He could feel his eye twitch and a vein popping in his head. Who's he calling a fucking coward? There was a rising heat from his stomach that he hadn't felt in a while. Ah, yes. It was anger. Finally, not some self-depreciating anger mingled with grief. This was the anger he used to displace his own self loathing and fortify his walls. How he'd missed it.
Uzui responded to his demand with a cold look. It wasn't Uzui's usual playful self. Not the persona he used to talk Sanemi's ear off. No, this look had a rawness in it. The exhaustion, the pain, the loss, and the anger. It unnerved Sanemi more than it should.
"What? You taking the easy way out?" Uzui glowered. His look contorted to something that made Sanemi bristle. Uzui looked at him like he was pathetic. "You think just because the fight's over, you can just die when you want to? Just give up on everything that everyone fought for? Don't you forget," Uzui jabbed a finger into his chest rather harshly and it sent shots of pain all over Sanemi's body, "we have a responsibility."
"We have to carry on." Uzui jabbed him again, more lighter this time, and Sanemi could hear a slight tremor in his voice. "For their sake." Uzui's finger curled into a fist which he pressed onto Sanemi's chest as if trying to stamp his point. He could feel Uzui's hand shake. "For their sake."
Their sake.
The Hashiras.
The fallen.
Mother.
Genya.
Ah. Sanemi realized that he wasn't the only one wrestling with the thoughts he had. Ever so subtly, Sanemi could now detect the vulnerability in Uzui's eyes as he retracted his hand from his chest. Uzui Tengen's personality seems to have been only a shell of its former exuberance. It really hit home just how much everything has changed. How things would never go back to the bickering between the Hashiras on who would take Kyojuro and Mitsuri's massive bill. Or on who would walk back Tokito to his estate. Or on the teasing about Obanai's hopeless case with Kanroji. Hell, he even reminisced about Kanroji's overly sweet desserts.
Sanemi gets it. Who would carry these memories? Who would remember that those who fought for everyone else were also just like everyone else? Who would honor them the way they personally would like to be honored? Like Rengoku and his damn sweet potatoes.
All this was beginning to stir something in his chest that made his throat tighten and his nose sting. No.
He will not cry. Absolutely not.
Instead, he let his anger win out, just like he had always done. He was his father's son, after all. The thought felt distasteful to his tongue. Yet that was what he had seen himself become. Disgusting.
So, Sanemi glared at Uzui, the same glare he'd always given any bastard that annoyed him.
"What the hell do you want me do, then?" He snapped. "Live my life like some fucking ghost? The world's going to shit, anyway, even after all we've done! What the hell's there for me to live for?"
Ah, hell. Even just getting worked up like this was torturing his body. He swears he felt a stitch open just from Uzui's jabbing.
"Live a life!" Uzui yelled, clearly also getting worked up. "Go court someone, have kids, some grandkids even!"
"What the hell you on about?" Sanemi looked at Uzui like he was crazy.
"Listen, I don't give a shit what you do. Be a carpenter, a fisherman, or something. But, Shinazugawa," he met Sanemi's gaze, and his tone turned guttural "don't you dare fucking die. Don't you run away. We've run away from our past long enough. The demons may have provided us a good distraction, but now? All we're left to fight with is ourselves. So," he jabbed Sanemi again, who was still glowering at Uzui, "don't be a fucking coward. Face it. Live. If not for yourself, then for them. Don't dishonor their deaths by dying like a pathetic bastard, Shinazugawa. They don't deserve that." Uzui's brows knitted, and Sanemi couldn't tell whether he was saying it for himself, too.
Uzui took a sharp breath and finally got up from his chair. He headed straight to the door and closed it with a bang. If Sanemi could roll his eyes without feeling like crap, he would have. Always the dramatics.
Sanemi slowly took a breath despite the brain and leaned his head back on the headboard.
He closed his eyes.
Oddly enough, he saw white. Like he was just in an open space of white.
And he felt.
He could feel Rengoku's slap on his back as he greeted him on the meetings.
He could feel the annoyance he felt when Obanai taunted him.
He could feel Kocho's hand on his arms as she tugged on his skin to stitch his wounds.
He could feel Himejima's hand on his shoulder as he tried to calm him down.
He could feel the irk he had towards Kanroji's squeals.
He could feel the sense of protectiveness he had towards Tokito, despite not having talked to him much.
He could feel Masachika's calloused hand when he reached out to him.
He could feel his mother's touch as she caressed his cheek.
He could feel Genya smile against his chest when he had asked for a hug.
Yes, in that space, he felt. He felt their hands touch his shoulder as their figures seemed to pass him one by one. Some gave it a squeeze. Some hands lingered.
And he continued to feel.
He felt the slice of his sword on his skin.
He felt the bite of the demon in his flesh.
He felt the blood that dripped from his hands.
He felt the warmth leave Masachika's body.
He felt Genya's body disintegrate into ashes.
He felt his father's slap across his face.
He felt his mother's body covering him from the hits.
He felt the axe in his hand as he watched his mother disappear before him.
He felt his siblings' corpses as he buried them.
Sanemi Shinazugawa felt. For the first time since, he felt.
And he cried.
He mourned. He mourned for all he had lost, had never had, what could have been. He mourned himself. Who he had become.
He was so, so, so tired.
Yet, he now realized...he couldn't bear to part with the memories. Who else would remember them? Who would remember that he had a family? Who would remember what everyone fought for? If he died now...would he rid himself the chance to remember who he was?
Sanemi Shinazugawa just sat in his bed. He let the tears fall. Because he deserved to have this moment, at the very least, right?
He'll be back to his snarky self tomorrow. He'll channel his anger, again, perhaps. But now, he will feel. And he will mourn.
Because Sanemi Shinazugawa is only human, after all.
________________________________________
After Sanemi was discharged, he headed back to his estate. He was greeted by the servants, although he could see their tension from the way they were overly cautious of him. He couldn't care less.
He had nothing to do. Nothing to kill.
Unsurprisingly enough, Uzui showed up at his estate, acting like their somber conversation never happened. He was back to his annoying self, but Sanemi was oddly grateful for the distraction.
He still wrestled with those dark thoughts. Often, he'd find himself on the cusp of acting on it. But then, there would be flashes of memories again, and the pain in his chest would become too unbearable for him to do anything else but stand there merely attempting.
As the weeks went by, Uzui visited more frequently. Even the former Flame Hashira and his son had visited him. Tomioka visited him, for fuck's sake. Was he that pitiful? Some girls from the Butterfly Mansion would bring him some medication, sometimes food, and just give him updates on what was happening in the mansion. Slowly, Sanemi started to find a routine. He started a correspondence with the others, too, through the Kasugai crows. Slowly, Sanemi started to ease into a life not so full of adrenaline constantly pumped. Slowly, he settled and the dark thoughts grew fewer. He still retained his somewhat aggressive personality, but it wasn't uncontrollable like before.
On the day he was called for the last Hashira meeting, he felt the finality of this part in his life. Yet, he also felt calm. For goodness' sake, he even smiled at Tomioka. He felt bittersweet, still, because even as he walked back from the mansion, he still saw glimpses of memories.
He was grateful, though, because he saw Genya. In the form of the little girl he once hated, he saw his little brother. Without a scar. Without a care. His little brother.
That day, he decided to travel. See the world in a different perspective. Not one where he's constantly leering from danger. He'd like to see it like how Genya would have liked to. Like his siblings would have. Like everyone else would have if the demons hadn't existed in the first place.
And so he traveled.
And he carried on.
_______________________________________
A/N: guys this is my first time writing any angst. Go easy on it. But I had plans to write something like a sanemi x oc story and had no idea how to start it. Ended up with this drabble. Really, you can see it as a prologue to the story ig. I was literally feeling sanemi while writing this. Had a whole meditation just to imagine the pain my baby went through. Also, I do think uzui somewhat sees himself as an older brother. The cool second eldest brother. The cool uncle who may have been gay idk. But after the final battle, i imagine he'd have taken up more responsibilities on himself out of respect for everything gyomei has done as well. Anyway, if you got until the end of this drabble, i appreciate you. Thanks for bearing with it 🫡
People love to portray him as rough and aggressive with his partner. I ve read those fanfics too - even the smutty ones - and it s always ticked me off how people consider him to be anywhere near mean with his partner especially in an intimate setting.
Sanemi's father has abused his mother his whole childhood until he died, and he grew up seeing his mother's frail body beat down by that brute who was double her size. He has witnessed himself and his little siblings be protected by their mom who took the beating for them, has witnessed bruises and blood and hits over the woman's small and weak body. Then, he was the one who had to put an end to it, and take the life out of that frail body that once protected and nurtured them all.
Sanemi is a deeply traumatized person. That trauma and open wounds turned into the violent and impatient man he is today, because he never got the closure and soothing to go over even a quarter of what he has been through. He was once the oldest sibling and his mom's protector and loving boy - everything was taken from him in one night, including Genya. So, he turned sour and damaged.
Romantic relationships are not something Sanemi is accustomed with , because 1. he never saw the example in his parents and 2. he never considered it for himself, knowing how difficult he is and how uncertain his life is as a Hashira. He knows it. So, when a romantic partner shows up and he has feelings for her and her for him, he takes a bit to accomodate the idea. The sensation that his love is returned and that he holds something so fragile as her in his hands.
Sanemi would be scared to even look at her, let alone insult / manhandle / treat roughly or raise his voice at her. Out of all people, the most violent and disturbing one would be the most gentle and scared in private, because he has seen what his father did to his mother, he has seen what he himself did to his mother, and he knows how rough he can be as a person. So, Sanemi Shinazugawa would treat his lover like a delicate flower, with the gentlest touch and the slowest movements, as if handling something small and delicate and fragile. Because that is how Sanemi Shinazugawa loves. That is who Sanemi Shinazugawa actually is, deep down, underneath all the pain and tragedy he had to withstand.
edit : i don t wanna hear the "but he talks to everyone that way !!! He would talk like that to her at the beginning at least !!!" No, he wouldn't. He s gentle to women and old people. It s written in the manga for everyone who knows how to read !
there is this small part in me that tends to imagine what it would be like for giyu and sanemi to end up in a relationship post war, where everything is the same as canon including the marks. it might not cross their minds in the beginning; they are too preoccupied with healing and falling in love, but after a year when it all settles down, and peace is their new reality, that is when the idea creeps into giyu's head and he recalls that meeting they had with amane in which she told them about the marks and their inevitable consequence. I wonder what giyu would feel then, the moment he realizes he might become another person sanemi is forced to lose. would he feel guilt over the momentary relief of knowing he will not have to outlive sanemi? would it sting nonetheless? they are heroes and warriors, after all, death has always been so near and imminent. he and sanemi were always content with that but somehow the idea of their mortality bothers him now, scares him even. is it selfish for him to want more time when the rest of the hashira did not even have any of it? I also think of sanemi in that situation, what about him? how would he feel about taking up giyu's finite and precious time on earth? would he revert to his old self and try to push the other away to keep him safe and happy with someone else who has more time, with someone who could keep giyu's name and legacy going? would a small part of him break knowing that he might have to say goodbye to someone else and would he think it might be easier to never love? I wonder if they will talk about it, fight about it and then leave to spare one another the pain and heartache or will they just never address it and allow themselves the company of the other, knowing that it will end badly? I wonder if they would deem the love of the other worth the sacrifice and future tears. would they grow closer knowing they don't have a lot of time? would they go all in and leave any hesitation behind as they dive deeper into the relationship, giving themselves the permission to fall completely and utterly even if that meant their complete devastation soon after? do they stay or do they go. does giyu step back and allow sanemi to become a father and spare him the pain or does sanemi do his best to make giyu despise him so he can let him go. or would they simply ignore the rules of reality and plunge into a certain sweet love because for once they earned it and for once they deserve to be irrational and young?
You sat on the engawa, legs swinging as you read, completely immersed in your book.
Sanemi stood a few feet away, arms crossed, scowling hard at absolutely nothing. He’d cleared his throat twice. Loudly. Even slammed the sliding door a little harder than necessary when he walked outside.
Nothing.
You didn’t even glance up.
He walked past you. Once. Then again. Then a third time, each lap with just a little more dramatic stomping.
Still nothing.
Finally, he stopped right behind you, hands on his hips like he was preparing for battle.
“You just gonna ignore me all day, or what?” he barked, voice sharp.
You blinked, glancing up at him over the edge of your book. “...I didn’t realize you wanted attention. Did you need something?”
He froze. Then turned his face away so you couldn’t see the way his ears turned pink.
“I didn’t say I needed anything,” he muttered, gruff. “Just… you’ve been sitting here all damn day. Thought maybe you wanted company.”
You stared at him for a beat, then smiled.“Sanemi,” you said sweetly, scooting over and patting the space beside you, “you could’ve just said you missed me.”
“Tch,” he grumbled, but sat down anyway, close enough that his shoulder brushed yours.
And when you leaned into him just a little, he didn’t pull away.
Where Sanemi tries to carry her to bed but unexpected touches make it very, very difficult.
OR
Sanemi is an idiot when it comes to physical contact, especially when her lips keep brushing his skin (very, very, very mildly suggestive)
-
Gray clouds blanket the sky like a heavy omen, its dreary weight leaving little light to brighten the noon. Rhythmic drops accompany Sanemi's motions as he finishes up cleaning the dishes in the kitchen.
He had just finished a meal with Yoshida, partaking in warm soup and a pleasant meal to suit the weather. And, as per usual—which was a strange notion to Sanemi that there was now a usual—he had gathered the dishes and gruffly insisted that Yoshida go about her tasks without bothering him. Of course, he reasoned, it seemed only right that he should do his part as a guest of her estate.
Over the months of sporadically visiting the Yoshida estate between his travels, he had found himself taking on tasks he deemed only appropriate as a gesture of gratitude for allowing his unexpected and unannounced stays. Taking the dishes, airing out the futons, fixing the roof, hell, he even learned how to organize the stacks of medicinal herbs and chemicals Yoshida used to treat her patients. It was all very unusual to Sanemi, to keep coming back to one place and even settling into a sort of routine. A domesticity, even. One he never thought to entertain during his days in the Corps, and certainly one he didn't think he could muster again after the death of his siblings.
What was even stranger is that, gradually, the things he's been doing in the estate started to feel less like obligatory tasks. The feeling of steadiness and predictability of mundane tasks was one he unknowingly relished, the emotion a stark contrast to the entire identity of anger and spontaneity he's constructed for himself. Yet here he was, times away from the final battle, enjoying how the water felt in his hands and how shimmered slightly under the dim light. Perhaps, it was so, that there was a different sense of contentment when there was a certain person at his side, asking him to open a container, reach on higher shelves, or taste the food. It incurred strange feelings in Sanemi, this domesticity he's developed with Yoshida.
The feeling that would twinge in his chest at the slight brightening of her face when she tastes his food, the way she's started to linger more closely when they cook together in the kitchen, or in her gentle touches and lucid gaze when she talks to him. Even now, as he wipes his hands, her small smile flashes in his mind and he quickly shakes his head with a groan. Seriously, he couldn't understand what he was feeling.
And so, with an exasperated huff, Sanemi walks out of the kitchen, a walking emotional chaos and confused fool, heading towards Yoshida's study just to check on her. Was it any of his business what she's doing right now? Absolutely not. Why does he care? No fucking clue. But his feet continued to stride like a detached body part, powered by indescribable feelings and a frustrated Sanemi.
He reaches Yoshida's study silently, stopping shortly before the open entrance and peeking inside. A brief panic overcomes him as he takes in Yoshida's slumped figure only to realize that she was resting on her arms and breathing deeply. Sanemi enters the room tentatively as to not wake her and notices how her desk was cluttered with papers, notes, and medical records. He figured she must have been noting down her current patient's information before she unknowingly fell asleep. Admittedly, he had never seen her slack off on her duties as a doctor, and Sanemi respected her for that. She was quick in her work and efficient in her tasks, yet she maintained a composure and patience he could never fathom how. And so, it was certainly a strange sight to see her sleeping in the middle of her tasks.
Sanemi notes how she had buried her head in her arms and how she doesn't stir even at the creaks of floorboards as he enters. A sliver of worry creeps up to Sanemi despite the rising and falling of her chest.
He approaches her desk quietly and takes in the mess, a frustrated sigh escaping him as he roughly ruffles his hair in annoyance. He doesn't know why he sighs nor why he's so annoyed. And he certainly doesn't know why he's bookmarking each page she's left open on her books and stacking them together neatly on the side, or why he's putting away the brushes and inkstones she's used, grumbling all while about the mess. Nevertheless, here he is, acting like some husband to her, cleaning up her mess, and worrying, and, gods, the thought of that made Sanemi's stomach flip.
Once he's done acting like a not-husband, Sanemi momentarily stares at Yoshida's figure before tentatively placing a hand on her shoulder to very gently shake her. And the gentleness in how he touches her unnerves Sanemi, the action a jarring opposite of how he sees himself. He bends down slightly so he could look at her properly when she turns her head just to check on her.
"Yoshida." He shakes her again, and she stirs this time. A low hum escapes her as she turns her head in her arms, her loose hair curtaining her face. Like a spectator to his own body, Sanemi watches how he gently tucks her hair behind her ear to get a view of her face with a sobering apall. Who the hell is this guy?!
"C'mon, idiot," he urges, softly, hand still lingering on her hair. "Let's get you to bed."
Yoshida only looks back at him silently through sleepy eyes, and Sanemi notes how her gaze looks a little...unfocused. He bends down lower to get a clearer view of her face, now noticing the bags under her eyes and the exhaustion in its depths. She must have been working herself to the bone again during the time he was gone, especially with her apprentice being currently away. Sanemi's brows furrow in concern as he places a hand on her forehead, relieved that it wasn't unusually warm or anything.
He feels up the rest of her face just to confirm and Yoshida, in turn, responds with a small whimper and turns her head back in her arms.
Sanemi's eyebrow twitches in annoyance. "Oh, hell no."
He goes behind her and pulls Yoshida's chair backwards, forcing her to carry her weight and sit up. Another whine escapes Yoshida and she turns to lightly glare at Sanemi who only looks back with an unamused expression.
"C'mon." He sighs before unceremoniously scooping her up from her chair and earning a yelp from Yoshida. Sanemi adjusts her hold on her as he carries her bridal style, effortlessly shifting her weight properly so she's more comfortable. Sanemi, on the other hand, is anything but. It helped that Yoshida didn't resist being carried but, instead, much to Sanemi distress, she also decided to melt into him and lean her weight as he carries her.
Now, Sanemi's carried plenty of people before, rescuing victims, taking away villagers, all done in an effortless manner constrained by ruthless efficiency and practicality. That, of course, includes women. Women his age, even. Yet not once has he felt as conscious of them as he does now with Yoshida in his arms. The way her body fits snugly against his, how close their skins are to touching, and how his hands tingled warmly despite being able to lift her with little effort. His stomach flips once again and his heartbeat resounds a bit more loudly in his ears.
Yoshida doesn't appear to be bothered or fazed by Sanemi's turmoil even as he took a breath, more shaky than he would have liked, to steady himself...emotionally. So he continues forward, walking out of the study while trying to keep Yoshida steady. Nonetheless, the rocking movement must have bothered Yoshida since as soon as he walks out, she slowly wraps her arms around Sanemi's neck in a loose embrace and languidly settles her head on the crook of his neck.
Goddamn it.
He feels his breath hitch at how he could feel her breath against his skin. So, so close, the warmth seeping into him and burning brighter than it should. So much so that he feels the strange warmth creeping up his face and the queasiness in his stomach intensifying. But he doesn't make a move to pull her away and damn it, he doesn't know why. Well, for one, it's certainly strange that Yoshida is initiating all this contact when her usual composure does so only by necessity of her profession. The sudden shift perturbes him slightly, but decides to blam it on the exhaustion. For another, Sanemi just couldn't bother to dwell on whatever emotions he's dealing with right now.
He's never liked physical contact, found it unnecessary or ill motivated most times. Frankly, with his appearance, it was a luxury to expect touches beyond the necessary and driven by survival. Yet here he is acting like some damn adolescent over some measly touches. Fucking hell, something's always going wrong with him whenever he's with Yoshida. Even now, as he walks the hallway in the gloomy afternoon of spring, the warmth of her breath at his neck sends shivers down his spine for reasons he would rather not ponder. In fact, from how closely she has embraced him, he could feel her lips grazing his skin every second. The slight chap in her lips, the way it parts when it grazes him, and the way it presses on him when she shifts lightly in her position. The cruelty of such unknowing brushes and intimacy is felt by Sanemi alone, in his agony and turmoil as he finds it harder to breathe with every step closer to her room. So close, yet so far. It feels like an eternity to Sanemi, having to deal with the constant shiver and tightening in his core with every contact.
Mercifully, he reaches Yoshida's room and shifts her entire weight on one arm as his other slides open her door. With a grimace, he realizes that he still has to lay out the futon.
"Oi," he looks at her and bounces her lightly in his arm. "Stand up on your own."
His command is only met with a whine and Yoshida tightens her embrace on him and nuzzles deeper into his neck.
Sanemi just freezes. Even as the warmth in his face grows and even spreads to all the wrong places. Damn it, damn it, damn it.
If the touches earlier were a tentative teasing, now a determined onslaught presses onto his neck like a damn curse. Her lips now press harder onto his skin and slowly trails up his neck, stopping at the tender parts below his jaw before moving back down. Perhaps they can't be considered kisses, not when it's merely brushing on him repeatedly, but damn it, he doesn't want it to stop.
At this point, Sanemi Shinazugawa's breathing has become labored, heavier, panting as he unconsciously tilts his head to give more access to her lips, and Yoshida's silent answer moves closer to the bob in his throat. As she presses onto that tender part beside his adam's apple, he could feel her lips part more from having moved from one place to another, and even just the feeling of her lips slightly opening has his imagination running haywire.
Yes, he could feel it already, the way her lips would close around his skin, lightly sucking on it and perhaps teasingly running her tongue over-
The deep moan that escapes his mouth shocks him like a thousand thunderbolts. Fucking hell, is this how he finds out his neck is sensitive as hell?
He quickly shifts Yoshida away from him and glares at her like the unreasonable fool he is. His glare is only met with a confused and muddled expression as her flushed face looks at him through lethargic eyes. Some foolish and very much unacknowledged part of Sanemi trills at the thought that perhaps she was just as flustered as he was and that maybe he does have an effect on her.
She's fucking tired, you idiot.
His logic startles him from whatever delusion he's having, and guilt washes over him as he realizes he was just standing there like an idiot when he should have gone and put her to bed and not acting like some raging, hormonal fool. And it's at this point that he realizes that perhaps Yoshida acts affectionately when she's reached total exhaustion, like a sleepwalking habit maybe. And an unexpected relief washes over Sanemi at him being here instead of some rando on the streets she was treating. It's a dangerous prospect, and the thought of Yoshida doing this with another man makes Sanemi's brow twitch unknowingly and causes a pang in his chest he couldn't name.
To avoid his spiral of thoughts, Sanemi puts her down gently and Yoshida, thank the gods, lets go of him without protest this time. She stays in place and watches Sanemi silently as he enters her room and grabs the futon, blankets, and pillows to lay it out. Once he's done, before he could even call out Yoshida, she wordlessly approaches him and plops down ungracefully on top of the blankets.
Sanemi lets out a huff in disbelief and shakes her lightly, hoping she hasn't immediately fallen asleep. "Atleast get under the covers, idiot."
When she doesn't stir, he heaves another sigh and gently moves her over to tuck her in properly. The peaceful look on her face confirms that she has, in fact, fallen asleep as soon as she hit the bed. After making sure she's comfortable and well, he finally leaves her room and breathes a long, long exhale.
Finally left by his lonesome, his mind immediately replays everything that happened in the few minutes he was with Yoshida. Damn it, is he really this pathetic? Regret and embarrassment settle on him as he recalls the spiralling thoughts he had. He roughly tousles his hair in frustration. Is he even allowed to feel like this? She's Genya's benefactor, for goodness' sake. She deserves more respect than what he just showed, damn it. Sure, he's never engaged in an intimate relationship with a woman before, having always found it burdensome. He saw pleasure as something that could open his weakest moment to his enemies and so, avoided it in favor of staving off his desires. Perhaps that was why now, with the threat of the demons gone, it had finally revealed itself, bearing its fangs like a beast hiding in the dark. And it just had to be Yoshida that it first pounced on. But no, it wasn't an occurrence that could have happened with any woman he'd come across. No, it was Yoshida who he had shown enough of himself where he could let his guard down around and perhaps have even started to care for her. But Sanemi isn't one to dwell on his emotions so he stops there, stops at that thought and leaves it at that.
And so, with a frown and his signature glare on his face, Sanemi Shinazugawa storms off like the idiot he is.
-
Yes, I hc that Sanemi's a virgin cuz guys...i genuinely think he hated any form of vulnerability he could show and that includes the high from having sex. Also, i think Sanemi respects women a lot which was rooted in his admiration for his mother from having put up with his father, but he doesn't show it in conventional ways cuz he's an impolite idiot. So, yeah, that also extends to respecting women in sexual aspects and not treating them like objects for satisfaction. Naturally, he absolutely hates it when women are mistreated. Sure, he dislikes certain personalities on women, but I also read from a post somewhere and yes I hc it now too that Sanemi likes gentle mannered women that sort of reminds him of his mother's touch (not in a weird way calm down).
just kya’ed reading the recent story omg… i know this is more of a sanemi x oc blog but do we get a glimpse of how genya and yoshida interacted before he died?🥺
YESSS!!! OMGOSH IVE BEEN WANTING TO DO THAT!! (well i knew i did then i forgot). We gotta give Genya cutie patootie some screentime man. Itll be interesting to explore his character since I havent done that as much.
