Soft words and starry nights â welcome to my little fic library.
âżÂ About This Blog
Hi! Iâm Blushes, and this is my cozy corner for writing fiction inspired by anime, TV shows, and the characters I adore. Expect soft angst, warm fluff, and dreamy moments â mostly one-shots or short series, always written from the heart.
Iâm just beginning, and English isnât my first language, so please be kind and patient with me. Thank you for reading! đ«âš
đ I'll be writing for:
One Piece
Jujutsu Kaisen
Haikyuu!!
Bleach
Tokyo Revengers
Demon Slayer
Dragon ball (Z and super)
Peaky Blinders
Harry Potter
The Vampire Diaries
đ« New posts weekly | đŹ Requests: Closed for now
One Piece
𧔠Mini-Series
âBug Guardianâ - Silvers Rayleigh x F. Reader
A story about finding comfort, falling in love, and accidentally vaporising beetles on a legendary pirate ship.
⥠Scene 0 â ⥠Scene 1 â
Harry Potter
𧔠One-shots
âThe silence of loving aloneâ - Draco L. Malfoy x F. Reader
A story about quiet longing, unspoken love, and the heartbreak of being invisible to the only person you see.
⥠The silence of loving alone
"Slytherins watching a Zombie movie" - Draco L. Malfoy x ex-Muggle actress F. Reader
A former Muggle actress stuns Slytherin with her horror film, forcing themâand Dracoâto rethink fear, strength, and control.
⥠Slytherins watching a Zombie movie
𧔠Mini-Series
"Can't stay away" - Draco L. Malfoy x F. Reader | Angst | Emotional tension | Comfort
One careless moment shatters their rhythm; the silence hurts, and something invisible draws them back until the space wonât hold.
⥠Part I â The break â ⥠Part II â Breathing again
⥠Summary: After days of distance, they meet in a quiet corridor.
Masterlist | Read Part I first
Draco L. Malfoy x F. Reader | Comfort after angst
It was late afternoon. The building was tired and quiet. Warm light lay through the windows; dust hung still. She walked without a plan, head clear, hands empty. As she turned a corner, she saw him. Her feet stopped on their own.
He was there.
She saw him before he saw her. From a distance he looked exactly as people expected: tie straight, cuffs even, hair combed too flat with a part that was almost sharp. The Malfoy heir, composed. Anyone else would have passed and thought nothing was wrong.
But she knew him. She saw the hollows at his cheeks and the way the collar sat a little looser at his neck. His color wasnât just pale, it was the faint, sickly shade of too many bad nights. His head tipped a few degrees down, Draco never used to do that. His eyes darted, then locked, then darted again, as if bracing for impact. His hands were the tell: one curled into a fist, the other trembled, and he hid both fast, in his pockets, so no one had time to notice. He was very quiet. Too quiet for him. His posture read perfect to a stranger, to her it was strain, shoulders set, spine straight, as if holding up a weight he couldnât put down because there was no one to hand it to.
He lifted his head and saw her. He stopped.
They looked at each other. He didnât look away. Neither did she. No one else was in the corridor. No noise. There was nothing to hide behind now, and neither of them tried.
He took a small step, like he was testing the floor. She took a normal step. He breathed in too fast. She took two more. That was enough to decide it. The distance between them shrank in quiet, even steps. When she reached him, she didnât speak. She reached with both hands, fingertips first along his sleeves, then set her palms to his sides, the firm line of his ribs under his uniform jumper. She drew closer and wrapped her arms around him. The first second was careful, after months without touch. Then the need hit. She pulled him inâcloser, tighterâuntil the fabric at his back bunched under her fingers. She tucked her head into his right shoulder and breathed him in. It felt like the first full breath after months of holding it. He went still, then his hands moved: one braced the middle of her back, the other rested warm at the base of her neck, holding her there. He was careful. Then he wasnât, he was firm.
He smelled like wool, ink, and cold stone. Under that, he smelled like someone who hadnât slept well. His chest moved against hers, quick, then slower, then quick again. He shook a little. She pressed her cheek to his shoulder and closed her eyes. His back was warm under her cold hands. Her breathing steadied. Then his followed.
She didnât say it's all right; it wasnât. She didnât say I forgive you; this wasnât a court. She didnât say donât do it again; he already knew. She just stood there and held him, because that was the one thing that mattered. It was the language they shared that never got twisted.
After a long time, long enough for both of them to come back into their bodies, he shifted. His forehead touched her temple. When he spoke, his voice was low and tight, as if the words had to push through the ache first. âItâs easier to breathe when youâre here.â
It wasnât an excuse. It wasnât a speech. It was the truth he could manage. She nodded against him. Her hand slid once along his shoulder and rested there. She didnât pull away yet.
When she finally stepped back a little, it was half a breath of space, enough to see him. His lashes were damp. His lips were pressed, but not tightly. He looked younger and older at the same time. She reached up and straightened his tie; it was crooked by a fingerâs width. He huffed a breath that could have been a laugh if heâd had more air. He studied her like he hadnât seen her in months, his gaze moving slow, eyes, mouth, jaw, and back again, relearning her until memory matched what was in front of him.
âIâm here,â she whispered.
He exhaled, and his shoulders eased a fraction. âI wonât ask you to forgive me.â
âYou donât need to,â she said. âYou understood.â
âI do.â
âYou know what it cost.â
âI wonât make us pay it again.â
For a few seconds they stood close without touching, heat shared in the small space between them. The corridor widened back into itself. Far-off voices rose and faded. She glanced at his hand: he wasnât twisting his ring. His fingers opened and closed once, like he was checking he was really there. He noticed her hands too, a quick look, then away; he remembered they were always cold. He almost reached. He let it pass. She let it pass with him.
She breathed, then turned. âCome on.â
He fell into step beside her. No hurry. No plan. Just the two of them moving in the same direction. Their shoulders kept a careful inch, their sleeves brushed once and neither of them shifted away. A portrait tsked, then went quiet when it saw Draco's face. She kept walking.
At the corridorâs end, she tilted her head his way. âLibrary?â
He met her eyes and nodded. âLibrary.â
They took the turn together. The distance stayed closed.
That night, their corner in the common room was too loud, laughs carrying, voices stacked. Draco came down the steps toward her, Blaise, and Theo, one hand in his trouser pocket, the other carrying books. He wore a black shirt open at the throat, even thinned by what heâd been carrying these days, he was still all clean lines and quiet polish. As he passed the noisy table, he gave it one flat look, the sound dropped without a word. He didnât check to see if she noticed. She did. He just set his books down and took his usual seat across from her, quiet, present. The space settled.
Next morning in Potions, he leaned toward the flame. âTemperature?â
She turned the dial. âSixty-eight.â
He nodded once. âThanks.â
At lunch, a second-year bumped him by accident. Draco steadied the boy with a hand to the shoulder. âWatch your step,â he said in a normal voice. No wand. No scene. He didnât look to see if she saw.
She did. She kept eating.
Later, when he reached the common room, she slid her bag off the seat beside her and left the space open. He paused, met her eyes, brief, sure, and sat. His knee brushed hers before it settled. She didnât need words; the open seat already said sit with me.
Days went on. There were still hard hours. He didnât say everything; she didnât pry. When he tipped too sharp, she stepped backâboundary first, warning second. He knew it now: her quiet and her distance meant she was upset, not done. She didnât use it for every misstep; he was walking through something brutal and she knew it. Most days she let the rough edges pass. When the line mattered, she held it, and he corrected. Heâd learned her silence was measured, not cruel; if she withdrew, he gave her space and came back steadier. Sheâd learned his control was scaffolding, not a wall.
They didnât fix each other. They kept the line together.
It had been there long before that day â their bond. The distance only showed them the cost of pretending it wasnât. Now it settled around them like a warm blanket, quiet, tender, safe. They both chose it, and kept walking side by side.
⥠Author's Note : Re-reading this makes me want to give Draco and Y/N more, even if Iâm not sure how to write it yet, so for now it ends quietly. Thanks for reading and for being here. Please tell me what you think.
⥠Summary: Sixth year, they fall into an easy rhythm, until one small, cruel moment at lunch breaks it. She walks away, and the silence starts doing the talking.
Masterlist | Part II
Draco L. Malfoy x F. Reader | Angst | Emotional tension
By the time sixth year settled in, she knew the places where the day breathed: the library tables with ink stains, the corner by the lamp in the common room, the far end of Slytherinâs bench. She was usually there with Blaise and Theo, and Draco took the seat that left her a bit of quiet. It wasnât planned; it was just habit now. She and Draco had a rhythm that didnât ask for words.
She didnât talk much. She listened. When she did speak, it was short and dry and landed exactly where it should. He noticed that. He also noticed that people lowered their voices when she was near. She smelled faintly of flowers and fruit when she leaned over a page. Her notes were neat. Her hands were always a little cold.
He adjusted to her without meaning to. He didnât perform as much when she was around. He caught himself before a cruel line. He asked for her opinion in a quiet voice, like it was a normal thing to do. He swapped places with someone so the loud group sat farther away from her when her head hurt. She never thanked him out loud. She placed a book at his elbow before he had to ask. That was the language between them.
And then, one time, during lunch, it happened.
The Great Hall was bright and loud. A first-year bumped his shoulder on the way past. It wasnât a big shove. It was the kind of thing that happened in a crowded room. Draco could have let it go.
He didnât. He flicked his wand. The satchel split. Quills rolled; parchment skidded under boots. The boy stumbled and hit his knees; the scrape on stone was loud. He sucked in a breath. What stung more was the laughter that followed. Dracoâs mouth settled into that small, pleased shape he wore when he thought heâd won something he needed to win.
She didnât say anything. She just looked at him.
Three seconds, but to them it seemed longer. Calm. Flat. It wasnât anger. It was disappointment, so clear he couldnât pretend not to see it. The look she gave him said: Youâre better than this. Iâm tired of pretending you donât know it.
His gaze slid off hers. He said something to a seventh-year. He didnât pick up the quills. Blaise watched her face. Theo stopped tearing his bread; the loaf sat in his hands. The hall stayed loud, but the air at their end turned thin and tight, like a string pulled too far. No one else felt it.
She closed her book. She stood. She left.
That afternoon he tried to catch her by the arch of the library. He didnât block her way. He didnât demand. He just waited, hands at his sides, eyes careful. She looked past him and kept walking.
In Potions the next morning he got to the table early and took the seat near her usual spot. She chose a different table. She didnât even glance in his direction. And he was irritated, but he didnât dare say anything. Later there was a corridor jam after Charms. They could have brushed shoulders. She turned her body and stepped the other way.
After that, he stopped trying.
He avoided her with the same precision he used for everything else. If she was by the window, he took the aisle. If she entered a room, he made it look natural to be somewhere she wasnât. To most people he looked the same: clean tie, clean hands, even voice. To Blaise and Theo he looked held together by force.
He was shorter with people. Not louder â sharper. He answered with a single phrase when a longer one would have been kinder. His quill dug into the page. He twisted his ring and then shoved his hand into his pocket to hide it. His posture was too straight, like he was bracing for impact.
Sometimes he didnât come down to the common room. When he did, he sat in a chair heâd never used before, the one with a view of the fire and the door, and stared long enough that Blaise gave up trying to pull him into conversation. Theo glanced at her once, like he was asking a question without words. She gave him a small shake of her head. No.
She missed Draco. She missed the quiet he brought with him when he sat down beside her chair. She missed the way his voice dropped a little when he asked what she thought. She missed the small, solid routine of himâpages sliding across a desk, her hand steadying a beaker, the soft sound he made when something finally made sense.
But she chose her peace. She didnât punish him. She didnât chase him. She kept to her places: library, corridor, common room. She slept more. She drank water. When the room got loud, she moved somewhere else. She refused to turn this into a scene.
Draco went home some weekends to a house that ate at him. He didnât talk about it, but it showed. His eyes were darker. His mouth was thin. Letters arrived; letters went unsent. He pressed ink into paper and then burned it. His mother wrote with perfect lines that said nothing and everything. His father expected. There were visitors. There was silence. There was fear.
At school, the empty space where she used to be felt like walking with one shoe off. He kept moving because movement was the only thing he knew. The edge in him sat close to the surface. He didnât laugh. He didnât smile. When the table around him got loud, his jaw tightened; he stood and shifted the whole group three tables away with a flat, âI need that chair.â He made it look practical, not personal. If she entered a room, he found another door. If her voice carried at the end of a corridor, he took the stairs. His face stayed calm and cold, but everything under his hands ended up aligned, quills in a strict row, books squared to the table, as if order could hold him together.
Blaise came to her one evening by the stair. âHeâs a nightmare,â he said lightly, which was Blaise for worried. âYou all right?â
âIâm fine,â she said, and meant it the way she always did: she was steady because sheâd made herself steady. Theo didnât ask anything. He already knew she wouldnât answer.
The days stretched. The school went on. Her shoes clicked in halls he chose not to take. His shadow fell across pages she chose not to look up from. They felt each other anyway.
And then the day came when pretending it didnât hurt cost more than crossing the room.
They get close in small, steady ways; then he falls into an old reflex and she withdraws. Days of distance show what their calm really meant.
⥠Author's note: This was mostly inspired by something that happened to me a few years ago. It felt so perfectly âDracoâ that I built on it and turned it into a two-part story. I wrote it a few weeks back and finally felt ready to share. Part 2 is already written and will go up shortly after this. Please tell me what you think.
⥠Summary: When a newly-transferred witch, pure-blood by birth but raised by Muggles, shows Draco Malfoy and his friends her latest horror film, curiosity turns to unease. Newtopia begins as comedy, but what they witness in her performance changes everything they believe about fear and control.
â ïž Content Warning: horror elements, implied graphic violence, zombie attacks, blood, emotional distress. Not overly explicit, but still intense.
Please read with care if youâre sensitive to horror or graphic themes.
Masterlist
Draco L. Malfoy x ex-muggle-actress F. Reader
The lake pressed its green light against the windows, soft and eerie, and the Slytherin common room looked half submerged. A fire snapped lazily in the grate, throwing gold against the stone. Most evenings were filled with quiet talk and the rustle of parchment, but tonight a different sort of curiosity hummed in the air.
Y/N stood at the centre, a small Muggle projector balanced on the table before her. Rumour had painted her as everything from a failed actress to a secret Ministry spy. What everyone agreed on was that she had arrived late, skipped several years of schooling, and carried herself with a calm that made even upper-years hesitate. The whisperers went quiet when she proved she could duel half the fifth-years in under two minutes.
The truth is, she is a new transfer student to Hogwarts. Her presence is strange, elegant but unassuming, quiet but confident. She was indeed a Muggle actress before discovering sheâs a pure-blood witch. Slytherins being Slytherins, they're half-intrigued, half-skeptical, some even snide about it.
Draco lounged on the couch, feigning indifference, though his grey eyes followed every movement she made. Pansy and Blaise were draped nearby, Theo slouched with the air of someone pretending not to care but unwilling to miss whatever was about to happen.
âAll right, fine,â Y/N said at last, a half-smile flickering. âYou wanted to know what I did before all this? Youâll see.â
âYou mean to tell us Muggles sit around watching pretend monsters for fun?â Draco asked, his drawl amused.
âYouâd be surprised how real fear feels,â she replied. âEven when itâs pretend.â
The mood changes to curious excitement.
She tapped a button on the projector. The room dimmed. Light poured over stone, and Newtopia began.
The first image was gentle: a girl in a white skirt and red jumper running through deserted streets. White shoes too clean for the blood and durt on her the floor. Hair a little mussed. A face too soft for the world bearing down on it.
âSheâs too cute for this kind of film,â Pansy murmured.
âExactly,â Blaise agreed. âMakes you think sheâs about to faint every second.â
Dracoâs smirk curved slowly. âUntil she doesnât.â
On the screen, the girl turned a corner, slipped on a fallen clothâand the zombie behind her pitched forward, colliding with the pavement. She scrambled up, breathless, staring at the sudden stillness.
Pansy burst into laughter; Blaise followed. Even Dracoâs mouth twitched. âShe just defeated the undead by tripping over herself,â he said. âThatâs brilliant.â
âThat scene wasnât supposed to be funny,â Y/N admitted, half-embarrassed.
âThatâs why it works,â Theo said thoughtfully. âYouâre terrified and clumsy. Itâs ridiculously human.â
Dracoâs glance toward Y/N had less mockery now, more curiosity at the edges.
The chaos deepened. The metro station heaved with bodies and panic, people surging at the train doors, others falling, hands grabbing, footsteps echoing. The girl, small, trembling, stood in the centre of it, a white-and-red flicker in a sea of grey. As bodies fell onto the railway tracks, a train passed by and it seemed as if all hell had broken loose.
âThatâs⊠well shot,â Blaise said.
âWhy donât they just Disapparate?â Draco muttered.
Draco rolled his eyes, but the words hardly landed; he was leaning forward without realising it, tracking the way fear trembled along the girlâs mouth.
âStill, thatâs chaos. You can almost feel the panic.â mumured Blaise.
âIt's⊠unpleasantly real.â says Draco, half under his breath.
He doesnât admit it, but it makes him a bit uncomfortable, the powerlessness of it all.
Then a little boy appeared, eight at most, clutching a toy car. The heroine knelt to him, voice shaking but purposeful.
âYouâre okay. Weâll make it, all right? Stay behind me.â
She pushed him toward the train. A woman inside leaned out, steadying him by the shoulder as if to say Iâve got him. The doors slid shut. The carriage lurched. The boy turned to wave, small hand in the window, eyes wide with hope.
âWait⊠sheâs not getting on?â Draco asked sharply.
âSheâs giving him her place,â Theo said, not taking off his eyes from the screen.
âWhy would she⊠oh, for Salazarâs sake, donât be noble.â he adds, as if the heroine could hear him, the actress though hears him perfectly, as she chuckles at his reactions. Y/N living her best life, as she studies their reactions, enjoying it.
Draco leans back again, pretending to be annoyed but his jawâs tight. âTypical. Try to do something good, and it gets you killed. It's ridiculous.â
As the train crawled forward, heads turned toward the back cars. The windows there were smeared dark. Figures pressed at the glass. The heroine, beside the boyâs grandmother on the platform, grabbed the woman by the shoulders, trying to calm her as the realisation rippled outward: the rear cars were already lost. The boyâthat poor little boyâtrapped between hope and a moving mouth of doom.
âHe's going to die, isn't he?â Pansy whispered, but she meant the boy, the girl, the whole world.
Blaise tried to joke, âYou did survive at the end, right?â but Y/N only smiled faintly. âKeep watching.â
The carriage slid out of sight. The girl stood there, chest heaving, her red jumper the colour of dusk.
Draco didnât speak again. He only watched.
A cry tore across the platform. The grandmother ran after the vanishing train, heedless. The heroine leapt the railing and followed, trying to haul her back.
The tunnel screamed with the approach of another train. The girl froze, turning toward the lights, desperation pinning her to the trackside as the roar surged closer. At the last second, when the incoming train ground to a halt, she bolted to the fallen woman, dragged her clear, and pressed them both against the crumbling wall.
When the screeching quieted, a smaller silence settled. Then the girl saw the blood at the womanâs ankle.
âOh no,â Pansy breathed.
âDonât tell meââ Theo began.
The camera held on the girlâs face, realisation, horror, denial chased through her eyes. The older woman twitched. The girl recoiled, her hands shook as she lifted the hem, saw the mark. Her lips parted, soundless.
âShe has to do it,â Draco said quietly.
âBut can she do it?â Blaise whispered.
On screen, the heroine stiffened, tears tracing furrows in the grime. What followed unfolded with implicit movement and force, felt but not shown. When the train started up again and roared past, a red light pulsed on the face of the young girl who was clinging to survival by instinct alone. Her eyes were horrified by what she saw inside the train through the windows; red was all she could see. It was then that the grandmother turned to her, completely transformed, and lunged at her. The girl, quick in her reflexes, pushed the old woman's face away, keeping her at a distance, and in a surge of survival, pushed the woman's head towards the train. When the train departed, the girl, still holding the undead body in her fragile hands, dropped it to the ground. The moment was broken; the girl almost collapsed to her knees, trembling, defeated, her face expressionless.
Silence. Even Pansy goes still.
Theo exhaled âThatâs⊠bloody awful.â
âWow, the sound, I felt that. The train, the scream⊠Merlin.â says Blaise amazed by the genius of the production.
âShe actually looks like sheâs losing her mind there.â adds Pansy is more concerned about the heroine's emotion state. She glances at Y/N and then away, almost uncomfortable by how raw it feels.
Draco hadnât looked away once. âShe didnât have a choice, did she?â he asked Y/N.
âNo,â Y/N said softly. âIt was her or my character.â
âYeah,â Draco murmured after a beat. âI get that.â
The story turned. In a stark workshop, the heroine wandered between tools, eating chips from a crumpled bag. Her face was emptyâthe blankness of a mind that had burned too hot and now refused to feel. She weighed a wrench. A helmet. A length of chain. Then her gaze settled on a chainsaw.
âSheâs eating? Now?â Pansy gasped.
âIconic.â comments Blaise with a lazy smirk, amused.
âThatâs good,â Theo said. âSheâs gone numb. Itâs survival instinct.â
âSomething like that,â Y/N said, a corner of her mouth lifting.
Dracoâs smirk returned, he almost sounds proud. âSheâs enjoying herself now. Knows what she has to do. Look at thatâcalm, calculated, efficient. Thatâs what Iâd do.â
The engine roared to life and Pansy actually jumped, laughing at herself a second later. Blaise grined. And Draco muttered, âFinallyâ. He leaned in, eyes bright, like someone recognising their own reflection in a strangerâs glass.
What followed came in pulses of light and breath. Red alarms stuttered along concrete. The fragile girl in white and red no longer trembled; she fought with a vicious grace born of exhaustion, every stumble turning into momentum. The film didnât linger on the violence; it let the sound and the rhythm carry itâboots, breath, the sawâs feral snarl, so the Slytherins filled in the rest with their own imaginations.
âWow. Thatâs⊠intense.â says Theo, still absorbed by the graphic horror unfolding in the scene.
âThey film this? People watch this?â Blaise asked, half-awed. âI didnât think Muggle films were this⊠violent.â
Draco sits forward slightly, watching her fight â eyes narrowed, intrigued. âSheâs not fighting to win. Sheâs fighting because she canât stop.â Or she dies he thinks but doesn't say it out loud.
The heroine paused at last in a corridor washed with emergency light. Silence swelledâthin, aching. The saw sagged in her hands. The red clot of the Zombies' a stark contrast against her white skirt, some of it on the side of her adorable pretty face.
The image shifted. She was still clutching the chainsaw as she stumbled through the tunnels beneath the city. The fluorescent strips overhead buzzed and flickered; the darkness between them felt alive. Her jumper and skirt bore the story of where she had been. Her breath scuffed in ragged pulls.
She passed an abandoned train and saw movement within. A man peered through the window, narrow face, wary eyes. He cracked the door and stepped out. A few hurried words passed, cautious, edgedâbut shadows gathered behind him like a second wave.
Seven, maybe eight men. Not infected. Just hungry in the way desperation teaches.
They fanned out and closed in.
Y/Nâs character stepped backward, chain lax, fear waking in a different shape. She fell, palms scraping concrete, the noise echoing.
Pansy inhaled sharply. âTheyâre notââ
âNo,â Theo said with a scowl on his face. âTheyâre just men.â
Hands reached, voices sharpened, the corridor shrank to the ring around her. The film kept its distance, just enough to feel the threat without naming it. She pushed, twisted, slid free on panic, bolted for the nearest carriage, and slammed the door. The men followed, shouting. Their noise rang like a bell through the dark.
She ran through the narrow passage, yanking open one metal door and then another. When she wrenched the next one back, she froze. Inside that carriage stood a cluster of unmoving zombies, backs turned. They hadnât noticed her yet.
She turned. The men were nearly there. One more door and theyâd be on her. Their voices, too loud, too close, would wake the dead.
The Slytherins leaned forward together, breath held.
The girlâs eyes mapped the space with a survivorâs math: door, ceiling, shelves, a loose helmet bobbing from its strap. She unfastened the helmet from her head, weighed it once, and sent it clattering across the opposite aisleâmetal on metal, a ringing bait.
The sound drew both groupsâhuman and notâinto collision.
What followed was confusion framed in edgesâboots stumbling backward, hands scrabbling at doors, the sudden surge of bodies through a gap. The girl hauled herself up into the overhead luggage rack and flattened there, a pale line in the shadow while the chaos churned beneath her.
When the noise collapsed into a smaller, uglier quiet, she slid down, feet touching the floor like a promise to herself. She ran, again, through the tunnelâs long throat. The chain in her hands dragged, dull and heavy.
âThat was clever,â Blaise said, genuine respect in his voice. âAnd terrifying.â
Draco didnât speak, but the hard line of his mouth had softened into something like recognition.
One more corridor. One more flicker of light. She stumbled and caught herself, and the next flicker revealed soldiers in masks and armour. She lurched toward them, tears cutting through the dirt on her face. They caught her as she fell.
The sound dwindled to a hush. The picture dissolved to white.
When the credits ended, the last light died off the stone wall, and for a long heartbeat no one moved. The lakeâs green glow seeped through the windows again, faint and wavering, and the silence that settled over the Slytherin common room was thicker than before. Even the fire seemed unsure whether to crackle or stay still.
It wouldnât just be politeness; Slytherins are good at masks, but that movie had slipped under every one of them.
Y/N didnât speak. She only watched the flickering embers, the way shadows licked across Dracoâs face where he sat opposite her, head tilted, unreadable.
It was Pansy who finally broke the silence, her voice shaky but trying to sound casual. âThat was horrifying,â she said, and then, after a breath that almost sounded like a laugh, âbut brilliant.â
The tension in the room loosened slightly; a few nervous chuckles followed. Pansy turned to Y/N, half hiding her unease behind a grin.
âYou looked adorable right up until the chainsaw part. After that, Iâm never sitting near you in a duel again.â
Blaise, lounging further down the sofa, let out a low whistle, studying Y/N as if recalibrating his impression of her. His humour return as armour. âIâll never mock Muggle films again,â he said. âThat was⊠an experience. Remind me never to go into their stations. How do they live like that without magic?â
His usual teasing had a note of something else, respect, maybe, or disbelief that Muggles could face such horrors without a wand.
Theo, quiet as ever, had his elbows resting on his knees, eyes on the empty wall where the last scene had just faded. âYou made fear look real,â he murmured. âToo real. The way you thought, improvised, survived. That trap with the helmet⊠brilliant.â
There was no irony in his voice, only genuine appreciation for the strategy of it.
Y/N gave a small smile, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. âI think It was instinct, mostly.â
âInstinct,â Theo echoed, as if testing the word, as though trying to understand what it meant to rely on something other than magic.
Through it all, Draco remained silent. He sat with one leg crossed over the other, chin propped on his hand, eyes fixed on Y/N. His expression wasnât teasing or smug; it was something elseâcuriosity, maybe even disquiet.
Heâs a boy who grew up hearing about power, blood, legacy. Watching her, a supposed ex-Muggle actress, playing a role, where her character fight, think, and endure without magic would quietly scramble something inside him.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low enough that only those nearest could hear. âYou looked terrified,â he said. âThen furious. Then unstoppable.â
His gaze didnât waver. âThat wasnât just acting, was it?â
Y/N met his eyes for a moment before answering, âNo. It's more complicated,â he nods slowly, like weighing what that means. For a Slytherin who measures worth in control, seeing someone weaponise fear instead of hiding it would hit deep.
From then on, Draco would treat her differently.
In public, heâd still tease her, because thatâs his defence mechanism. âSo our little zombie-slayerâs a pure-blood after all. Figures.â Heâd toss the words like they were casual, but his tone would lack bite.
In private, thereâd be quieter curiosity. Heâd ask how much of what she played on screen was her, what it felt like to live in a world where you couldnât use a wand to protect yourself. Part of him would admire that courage, another part would resent how much it exposes his own fears.
⥠Author's Note: I don't know what I did with this one. I wrote this after watching Newtopia (the Korean drama, mainly because Jisoo from BLACKPINK is in it âĄ). I have this habit where, whenever Iâm watching something, I start wondering what characters from other worlds would think if they were watching it too. Like⊠what would the One Piece crew think of Pirates of the Caribbean?
So while watching Newtopia, it started as something funny and light, then suddenly it turned serious, dark, and honestly a bit terrifying. And thatâs when the idea hit me: what if the Slytherin group, especially Draco and his circle, watched it? How would they react to something so raw and human?
I ended up making Y/N the actress in the movie, inspired by Jisooâs performance (she was so adorable, funny and by the end she absolutely broke my heart â it was perfect) I also made a few changes and didn't portrayed everything like in the TV Show.
Hope someone would like it.
⥠Author's Note: I wrote this a long time ago, a little inspired by something that happened to me personally, and I wanted to share it. I think many of us have experienced unrequited love, or found ourselves lost in our own delusions about someone. This piece is for anyone whoâs ever loved quietly, or believed in something that wasnât really there.
Masterlist
Draco L. Malfoy x F. Reader | Angst no comfort
Y/N had always been a reserved girl. Not in the way that made her invisible, no. She had presence, a certain stillness that made people glance twice, curious about the sharp contrast between her delicate cute frame and the unreadable calm on her face. There was something composed about her, always tucked-in and neat, like the way she folded her letters or fastened her buttons.
But there was one thing no one noticed about her: she was deeply in love with Draco Malfoy.
It wasnât new. It began back in her first year, when he was a third-year prefect who stopped a portrait from scolding her for being in the wrong corridor after curfew. Heâd barely looked at her when he told the painting to quiet down â âSheâs with meâ â before continuing on his way like it was nothing. He hardly spoke more than a few words, but she remembered it all: the smooth cadence of his voice, the pale curve of his jaw, the way his uniform hung just so. That was all it took. A moment. And it never really left her.
Since then, Draco had become the center of her secret world. The crush grew into something else entirely, something deeper and more unmanageable. She began noticing things others didnât. The way his eyes werenât just cold, but distant. The way he leaned back in chairs, confident. The way he sometimes stared into the fireplace as if he was somewhere else entirely. She memorised the brush of his hair, that impossibly soft silver-blond that she imagined running her fingers through. She pictured the feeling of tracing his skin with her fingertipsâcool, porcelain-pale, smooth. She imagined what it might feel like to kiss him. To be looked at by him.
And not just looked at.
Seen.
She didnât tell anyone. Not even her roommate, no one. She played her part: the sarcastic, observant Slytherin girl who didnât get involved. The girl who wore quiet, beautiful sweaters and never looked flustered. But inside? She was spiralling.
It didnât help that he had noticed her once. That time on the trainâwhen those brutish Hufflepuff boys wouldnât leave her and her friend alone. Draco had come over. Alone. His presence was thunderous even in silence. His cold, poised anger made them shrink back like dogs. And when he looked at her, really looked at her, she was sure he remembered her.
She'd clung to that moment like a lifeline. She played it over and over again, rewinding and dissecting it. She was convinced it meant something. That he saw her. That he chose to protect her. Not just because of house loyalty, not because of his prefect duty, but because of her.
That delusion became her oxygen. Every glance in the hallway. Every word he spoke near her. Every accidental brush of air as she passed by. It all became part of the narrative she built, alone in her mind.
She worked hard to look the part. Her hair always perfect, her perfume subtle and elegant. Her posture like poetry. She thought: he'll notice this time. She imagined him thinking: sheâs cute, she smells good, that dress looks good on her, she sounds smart.
But he never did.
Not really.
He didnât smile at her. Didnât sit near her. Didnât acknowledge her existence beyond a passing glance. And still, she told herself it was enough. That he was just like her: reserved, observing from afar. That he was playing the same silent game.
Until she saw him with her.
The girl was older, also Slytherin. Pretty in an effortless way, with thick dark hair and that careless laugh that seemed to spill too often. Y/N noticed the way Draco leaned slightly in when she spoke, how his lips tilted up at her jokes. How he turned to her, expecting her gaze, her laugh, her effortless attentionâand how she gave it to him naturally, instinctively, like it belonged to him all along.
He was laughing.
Laughing with her.
Y/N felt her chest tighten like a fist was slowly curling around her lungs. She stood frozen, watching the way the girl brushed something off Draco's sleeve. How he didnât pull away.
She spent that night turning in bed, face buried in her pillow, trying not to let the sobs escape. Her friend stirred beside her once but didnât wake.
It got worse. The next weeks, she came back from the library late and passed through the common room. Only a few people remained, mostly yawning or gathering their books. And there they were.
Draco and the girl.
Sitting on the couch by the fire.
Too close. Far too close.
The girlâs hand rested near his knee. Draco didnât move.
Y/N left so fast she didnât even hear herself breathing until she was halfway to the dorm. That night she cried so hard her throat ached, the sobs caught like rocks beneath her ribs. She buried her face in her sheets, body trembling, mouth open in a silent cry. Her pillow soaked. Her hands gripped her blanket like it might stop her from dissolving.
Then came the worst night.
She had returned from Astronomy, distracted and unfocused. She turned the corner near the dungeons and stopped.
There they were again.
Draco and the girl.
Sneaking into his room. His hand on the small of her back. The girl smiled as the door clicked shut.
Y/N couldnât move.
She hid in the shadow of a pillar until the corridor was empty. Then she ran. Not walked. Ran to the girls' bathrooms. She locked the bathroom door behind her and slid to the floor. Her chest was heaving. She wanted to scream. To hit something. To claw the feelings out of her.
She curled up on the cold tiles, hugging her knees to her chest, trying to hold in the grief that was pouring out of her anyway.
She felt like an idiot.
An idiot for every thought she ever had. For every moment she imagined him noticing her. For every time she picked an outfit thinking of him. For every day she stood straighter hoping his eyes would catch hers.
She felt sick.
The next morning, she said nothing.
One day, in the great hall, her friend mentioned how pretty Dracoâs new girl was. âShe has such good skin. Doesnât she? And the way she talks, she sounds so confident.â
Y/N just nodded.
Pansy watched her a little too closely after that. Said nothing, but the look lingered. Later that night, Y/N heard her friend whispering to Pansy near the fireplace.
Y/N began avoiding the common room. The sight of that couch, of the firelight, made her nauseous. She took her meals at odd times. Spent hours in the library or wandering quiet corridors.
She stopped doing her hair. Stopped wearing perfume.
She didnât cry anymore. Not in public. Not at night. Only in secret places. The second-floor girlsâ bathroom. Behind the old tapestry near the south stairwell. In the snowy corners of the courtyard when no one was there.
Winter break came. She left for home with a hollow chest.
At home, the silence was different. Heavier. She wrote him a letter. She wrote it all out: what she felt, how she loved him, how she thought maybe, just maybe he couldâve seen her.
She wrote that she hoped he was happy. That he looked beautiful when he smiled. That she wished she had the courage to tell him in person.
She never sent it.
She burned it in the fireplace.
When she returned to Hogwarts in January, something in her had calcified. Hardened. She was quiet again, but it wasnât the same kind of quiet.
It was the quiet of someone who had loved and lost without ever being held.
She didnât look for him anymore. She didnât dream. She no longer trusted herself to feel that way again. Because it hurt too much. Because it made her foolish. Because it left her hollow.
She kept the pain where no one could see it.
And no one ever did.
Heâll never know.
And no one will ever know.
For I have been foolish to believe in what I can never have.
⥠Author's Note: I  really want to continue this series â I have a couple of ideas lined up already. Itâs just my way of expressing all the love and affection I have for Rayleigh. I also adore Rogerâs crew so much. I honestly wish we had more screen time of their adventures and interactions⊠One Piece isnât long enough, I swear.
⥠Summary: Reader is an overpowered mage in Gol D. Rogerâs crew. Her one weakness? Bugs. This scene marks the very first time the crew discovers her fear â and it definitely wonât be the last time they bring it up.
Masterlist âȘ Scene 1
Rayleigh x F. Reader | Slow-burn Romance | Funny Moments + Crew Banter
Scene 0
The Bug Reveal, Aboard Oro Jackson, Afternoon, Karai Bari Island
The sun was warm, the sea calm, and for once, everything was peaceful aboard the Oro Jackson.
You stood at the table on the main deck, carefully rearranging a small vase of wildflowers and organizing your spell ingredientsâlavender sprigs, star shells, tiny pink stonesâwhile humming softly to yourself.
The rest of the crew milled about nearby.
Roger was lounging in a deck chair with a drink, talking loudly to Scopper Gabban about whether seagulls had a secret language. Buggy and Shanks were chasing each other around the mast, shouting over something ridiculous.
Crocus was sitting with a cigar and a book, pretending not to listen.
Then it happened.
A huge, horrible, shiny beetle scuttled out from under a nearby crate.
Click. Click. Click.
You froze.
Everyone else froze tooâthough at first, they thought you were staring at it like you might study it.
Insteadâ
âAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!â
A full-body, soul-deep shriek ripped out of you.
You leapt back, upending the entire table, spell ingredients flying everywhere. A bolt of uncontrolled lightning cracked from your fingertips and blew the beetle in half, scorching a burn mark into the deck.
Buggy jumped into Shanksâ arms with a scream.
âWHAT WAS THAT?!â
Shanks dropped him.
âWas that a new spell? Are you cursed?!â
Roger sat up fast, eyes wide and slightly singed.
âDid something attack us?! Is it Marines?!â
âIt was a bug!â you cried, now standing on the bench, trembling, arms wrapped tightly around yourself. âIt was shiny and it had too many legs and it was LOOKING at me!â
There was a stunned silence.
Then Crocus closed his book slowly.
ââŠThis is about a beetle?â
âIt was the size of a baby skull!â you wailed.
Scopper Gabban scratched the back of his head.
âI mean, yeah, it was kind of a big one.â
Roger blinked a few times, then threw his head back in a booming laugh.
âHAHAHA! You nearly took out half the ship because of a bug?! Thatâs amazing! Weâre definitely taking you to Bug Island now.â
âDonât you DARE!!â
Buggy poked his head out from behind a barrel, cautiously.
âIs she gonna fry us next time we eat shrimp?â
Shanks, still wide-eyed, muttered,
âI thought she was the calm oneâŠâ
Just then, Rayleigh approached from the upper deck. His tone was even, but his eyes flicked over you quicklyâscanning for injuries, emotional or otherwise.
âShe alright?â
âShe blasted a bug,â Crocus said flatly.
Rayleigh stepped closer, gentlyâlike he might spook you.
You were still standing on the bench, visibly shaking, lip trembling, hands balled up in fists.
⥠Author's Note: I had a dream the other night about being on the Oro Jackson as part of Gol D. Rogerâs crew. It inspired me, so I thought Iâd turn it into a mini story. For all those who are afraid of bugs â this oneâs for you.
⥠Summary: Reader is an overpowered mage in Gol D. Rogerâs crew. Her one weakness? Bugs. Sheâs absolutely terrified of anything ugly and crawlyâscreaming, zapping, hiding-under-barrels level of terrified.
Specifically: beetles, cockroaches (ugh, I even hate the word), centipedes. Butterflies? Fine. Anything crunchy and clicking? No. Just, no.
Masterlist âȘ Scene 0
Rayleigh x F. Reader | Slow-burn Romance | Funny Moments + Crew Banter
Scene 1
Aboard Oro Jackson, Evening, Near a Jungle Island
The crew had returned from a supply run, spirits high and arms full of food. Shanks and Buggy were already squabbling over a pineapple, Roger was laughing so loudly the ship shook, and the stars were just beginning to pierce the deep blue sky.
Youâgraceful, composed, wrapped in a soft pink shawlâwere walking toward your cabin with a little bouquet of wildflowers youâd picked on the island.
Then you saw it.
A massive jungle beetle, shiny, hairy, and crawling directly across the threshold of your cabin.
You froze. Your pupils shrank to dots. The flowers hit the deck with a soft thud.
A full two seconds of silence. Then: âAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!!â
A blinding crack of electricity arced off the mast, and the crew collectively jumped. Birds fled from the jungle. Somewhere below deck, Buggy tripped over a barrel. The beetle didnât even flinch.
Rayleigh was beside you in a flash, calm but wide-eyed.
âWoah, heyâwhat is itâ?â
He looked down. ââŠAh.â
In a whirl of pink shawl and pure panic, you threw yourself into his arms, clutching his shirt with white-knuckled hands, burying your face against his chest.
âIt was huge,â you sobbed. âIt had horns, and its legs were clicking, and it looked at me like it wanted to climb inside my soul!â
Rayleigh didnât laughâthough he wanted to. Instead, he wrapped both arms around you and held you close, rubbing slow, soothing circles on your back.
âShhh, I got you. Youâre safe. No bugs are going to lay a leg on you or eat your soul while Iâm here, I promise.â
Behind you, Buggy leaned in to whisper to Shanks:
âThis is better than the time she electrocuted a caterpillar midair.â
Shanks whispered back:
âTen berries says she sleeps on the ceiling tonight.â
âTwenty says she zaps Rayleigh by accident.â
Rayleigh shot them both a warning glare without turning his head. They scattered.
Then, he leaned down slightly to your ear, voice gentler now.
âDo you want me to handle it?â
You nodded frantically against his chest without letting go.
Rayleigh calmly stepped away, took a cloth napkin from the table, knelt, and scooped the beetle off the threshold with careful, deliberate motionâas if removing a cursed artifact.
âThere we go. Heâs off to terrify someone else.â
When he turned back, you still hadnât moved. Your shoulders trembled slightly, fingers twisted in the fabric of his shirt.
Rayleigh touched your chin and tilted your face gently upward, brushing away a few tears that hadnât even had time to fall.
âHey. Look at me. Itâs gone.â
You blinked up at him, eyes glassy and stormy all at once.
âI need at least⊠five business days to calm down.â
He couldnât help itâhe laughed softly, and pulled you into another hug, this time without urgency. Just warm and full of fondness, your golden bracelets bumping gently against his wrist.
âAlright, sweetheart,â he murmured into your hair. âLetâs get you to your cabin. Weâll take it day by day.â
Later That Night â Your Cabin
The door clicked shut behind you. The lanterns were glowing with a soft pink hue, enchanted earlier to give you comfort. Everything smelled like strawberries and lavender.
But your eyes still darted to every shadow, scanning for stray antennae.
âDo you want me to stay?â he asked voice low and steady.
You didnât answer with wordsâjust stepped in close again, arms around his waist like he was the only safe thing in the world.
Rayleigh didnât hesitate. He helped you sit on the bed, then took off his coat and draped it over your shoulders like a blanket.
âIâll stay right here,â he said, settling beside you. âAnd I promise, no bug gets past me. Iâve fought sea kings, you know. I can take a beetle.â
You gave a wobbly laugh and curled up beside him, still gripping the edge of his shirt. Your eyes flicked to the ceiling, to the corners, to your desk.
âWhat if it has a cousin?â
âThen Iâll duel it at dawn.â
âWith a sword?â
âWith honor.â
You finally let out a shaky, tired giggle, then rested your head on his shoulder. He gently brushed his fingers through your hair, slow and rhythmic, like he was casting a calming spell of his own.
âYouâre ridiculous,â you murmured.
âMaybe. But Iâm here. No scary bug will touch youânot while Iâve got you.â
You held onto him tighter.
And he stayed, warm and steady through the night, until your gaze stopped searching corners⊠and sleep finally came.
Rayleigh was so sweet in my dreams, I didn't want to wake up.
Tell me what you think âĄ
