amanda the hufflepuff

20 | slytherin enthusiast with a heart full of love for Jesus!

[shallowsallow]

masterlist ♡⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡

hogwarts legacy ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ sebastian sallow x reader: a penny for your thoughts || ao3 i love the sick because i have to. || ao3 - yours always, valentine || ao3

harry potter -`♡´- draco malfoy x reader: the sweet taste of indulgence || ao3 fits like a glove || ao3

[shallowsallow]

fits like a glove

word count: 3.3k tags/warnings: sixth year, hufflepuff reader, hufflepuff/slytherin house relations, female reader-insert, draco learns on his birthday that he loves you and it pisses him (and pansy) off summary: On Draco Malfoy's sixteenth birthday, he receives a gift from someone who cares - and he's panicking. notes: this is not my bestest fic in the world but i had to post becauseee it's my 20th birthday! God bless <3 || ao3

Draco Malfoy was a brilliant young man. Amongst the top of his class, a prefect, a Malfoy. He was destined for greatness. Destined to be better than all of his peers. It was a simple fact that Draco was brilliant – he was raised to be brilliant. He had no choice but to be brilliant.

In all of his brilliance and wit, it was incredibly difficult to find a time in which Draco was left speechless. His father had raised him well, teaching him how to have a comeback for every statement, how to torment those who are below him, to remind them of their place. He was particularly skilled at this when it came to Potter, whose every living breath existed merely to tick Draco off. It wasn’t Potter’s fault, of course. He was destined for greatness, too, but that dumb Sorting Hat had made a terrible choice. He remembered thinking that the Sorting Hat was taking a terribly long time to decide where to place Potter – perhaps, in some other life, he and Potter could have been friends.

Despite all of his practice in witty remarks and backhand compliments, he found himself rendered speechless for the first time in his life. Truly, it left him feeling plain stupid. It had happened on his sixteenth birthday.

On the morning of June 5, 1996, Draco Malfoy was practically stupefied. His birthday had always been a special day in the Malfoy home, as his mother and father were sure to spoil him rotten. He had never felt a shortage of love in his family, and his birthday was no different. His friends were kind enough to offer him gifts on behalf of their families, whose pockets were full of pretty galleons. He had received loads of gifts before – the finest brooms, the freshest jumpers, the sweetest chocolates… the gift itself wasn’t the problem.

No, it wasn’t the gift. It wasn’t even the way it was signed, sealed and delivered. No, it was the way his voice got caught in his throat and his heart was pounding outside of his chest and has the sun always been so bright in the dungeons? The problem, it seemed, was the way you stood waiting outside of the Slytherin dungeons with a small box in your small hands, clad in the cheerful yellow of your Hufflepuff pride, a hopeful smile on your face, bright eyes still carrying the weight of sleep and hair the tiniest bit mussed from your travels here. It was the way you looked at him like he was a treasure and not just some rich prick with a penchant for taking his anger out on the people who deserve it least. No, you were looking at him like he was the sweetest thing you had seen all your life, and it was killing him.

The conversation itself was fine. Draco Malfoy was a perfectionist and a performer, so even when he found himself in a state of irritating mental shock, he could carry a conversation with semi-automatic indifference. “Good morning. Have you gotten lost on your way somewhere? The Slytherin dungeons are no place for you.”

You giggled. Actually giggled. The indifference became harder to uphold. Had you always been this endearing, or was it something about your sleepy gaze? “I’m not lost, silly. I… Happy birthday.”

In her small, angelic hands was a black box, lined with a silver ribbon. Draco felt his jaw drop in sheer surprise. Unmoving, he gave a wry smile. “I don’t understand. Why would you get me a gift?”

Your smile faltered for a fraction of a second and Draco felt his heart come to a complete stop, as if suddenly being cut off by the shattering fragments of your joy. When the hell did he start to care this much?

You shrugged, awkwardly lowering your hands from midair. “Well, Pansy told me your birthday is coming up and I wanted to do something nice. There doesn’t have to be much else to it, does there?”

The question was genuine, or so Draco gathered by the widening of your sleepy eyes and raising of your eyebrows. Choosing to disregard your question, Draco instead chose to focus on a rather essential detail: “Since when are you and Pansy friends?”

Though Pansy was a relatively sociable girl with a penchant for finding the hottest gossip, it was unheard of for her to want to befriend a Hufflepuff. Unless, of course, she was doing it to gain intell to destroy someone’s life. Your smile returned at the question, forcing Draco to believe the reasoning to be the latter and all the while turning the dungeons infinitely brighter. “Oh, right! We were partners in Herbology. She’s brilliant.”

Draco snorted. “Brilliant is one word for it.”

An awkward silence hesitated between the two of you, air charged with a serenely terrifying sense of vulnerability. The Slytherin offered a wry, cagey smile as he reached out to accept the gift. “I, um, thank you. For this.”

His hand brushed yours for a millisecond and he felt blood begin to rush to his face, causing him to clear his throat in a panic. “Well, I ought to go. I’ll see you around.”

As he turned, he felt your eyes lingering on his back as you wished him one last happy birthday. Sulking off to the Great Hall, he found himself fighting off a small, tingling smile.

—-------

It had been a week, and he had yet to open the gift. For some reason, Draco Malfoy had come to believe it was cursed.

Pansy’s voice had found him quickly in the Great Hall the day of his sixteenth birthday. He found his place amongst his friends, receiving extra plates of tarts from Crabbe and Goyle. Blaise patted him on the back as he sat, regarding him with a birthday wish. Across the table, Pansy seemed gloomy and dull. This was a usual look for her, one which Draco had come to abhor recently, but today she looked extra sour. He observed her quietly, waiting for the pen to drop – he knew she would speak without his prompting; she liked the sound of her own voice more than anything.

“Draco, are you alright?” she finally spit out, a look of disdain clear on her face.

His eyebrows knit together in curious confusion. “Fine. Why?”

She rolled her eyes as if he should know he was supposed to be deeply bothered by something. “That Hufflepuff in the corridor? Delivering you a gift? I’d bet ten galleons she’s tried to either poison you or deliver chocolates dosed in Amortentia. Disgusting little rat, that one is.”

Though Draco was used to Pansy’s distaste for anyone other than himself or her, he found himself in shock at the way her words seemed to hit him like daggers. His mask remained, however, as he replied coolly, “She said she got the idea from you. Have you been making friends, Pansy?”

Her eyes went wide before she batted her lashes in his direction, though whether she was trying to send S.O.S. signals or seduce him was completely lost on him. He thought she looked mental. Meanwhile, Crabbe and Goyle laughed dumbly at his side, leaving him to helplessly pray that his birthday wish would bring him new, competent friends.

“Come on, Malfoy, do you even know me?” Pansy sneered. Draco poked at his food boredly, so she continued anyway. “You know I would only ‘befriend’ someone like her to embarrass her. You should have seen the way she was talking about her gift.”

Before Draco could interject, Pansy’s voice was raised by an octave and her hands were waving all frilly in the air. Mockingly, she exclaimed, “Oh, it’s handmade, you know. I knitted it! My muggle mother taught me to waste my time on frilly activities for silly little crushes on boys way too rich and handsome for me!”

It was at this moment that you decided to enter the Great Hall, brilliant smile lighting the room in that special way that only you could. Your eyes were still tired, yet you looked more like life to Draco than his own life had ever seemed. Indeed, on this solemn Wednesday, in the morning light of the Great Hall’s enchanted ceiling, you looked like the essence of living encapsulated in a bottle and sent to sea to survive the waves of a storm. Draco wondered what it would feel like if he were to pick you up and get a taste of all of that light. He couldn’t remember when you had begun to fascinate him like this, but all his mind could focus on in the moment was the shattering of glass as Pansy’s frilly, annoying voice found your ears and her words registered in your heart. Your eyes found him in an instant before turning around and deciding you simply weren’t hungry. Every breath in his lungs, every cell in his body begged him to chase after you – and yet, he sat, listening to the cruel laughter which spilled from Pansy’s lips like a radio.

He wanted to do many stupid things, like get up and kiss your lips or punch Pansy in the face or dive into the Black Lake in hopes it would make him forget about the look on your face. Instead, because Draco is a Malfoy and Malfoys are brilliant, wise wizards, he sat and ate his food and followed his cues and kept his place as the chess piece to society he was. It was foolish to throw away his efforts and alliances over some girl who knit him something for his birthday, just because she wanted to. He tried to pretend he didn’t care, but the guilt found its way into his stomach and made itself at home.

A week had passed, and he felt his fingers trembling guiltily as he slowly caressed the silver ribbon of his birthday gift, now considerably belated. Maybe Pansy was right, and you had somehow poisoned it, and that’s why he hadn’t been able to shake your name from his mind all week. Or maybe, possibly, your caring gesture had revealed to Draco feelings which were previously unbeknownst to him. Or maybe–

His mind continued to spiral as he delicately pulled at the lace as if undressing a lover. The motion felt strangely intimate, causing the guilt in his belly to poke around as if rearranging. It was the middle of the night, and Draco used only the moonlight and a muttered Lumos to aid him in his task. With the ribbon fully removed, he lifted the lid of the box with a breath of great trepidation. Half-expecting to find something dangerous and juvenile, he found himself grateful but not surprised to find a quiet, non-cursed, hand-knit pair of gloves in the most vibrant shade of forest green he had ever seen. Picking them up and trying them on, he found that you had charmed them to be self-heating, and they fit perfectly. A small, uncharacteristic smile found his face in the dark shelter of his dormitory as he noticed a scroll of paper in the box. He unrolled it, reading the neat scrawling of a Hufflepuff infatuated with a Slytherin.

Draco,

Happy birthday! I hope these mittens serve you well. I tried my best! I noticed earlier in the year that your Quidditch gloves had gone without maintenance for a while. I thought these might be helpful for the season to come. I am rooting for you!

Faithfully yours.

Heat as warm as his gloves rushed to his face at the signature. For a Hufflepuff, you certainly appeared to have the proclaimed bravery of a Gryffindor. He tucked the piece of parchment away into his bedside table along with his gloves, finally climbing into bed to contemplate. He was unsure of how to approach you – on one hand, he wanted to thank you for your generosity and commend your brilliant eye. After all, his gloves had just given out on him and torn two matches ago. On the other hand, he was afraid that he would become a babbling baboon should he attempt to express his thoughts. He was entirely unaware of when you had become his undying issue, but he found a greater problem in his lack of distaste for your very existence. Rather, he found himself wanting to give into his selfish desires to taste the sun for once, just to see if it was what he dreamed it would be. To hold the clouds in his hands and feel the wind in his face and not worry about what his fellow Slytherins may think.

He fell asleep to the thought of your lips and that brilliant, bright smile.

—-------

Another week had passed and Draco was still at a cross-roads for what to do in regards to you. Pansy had stopped bringing you up, for she knew from Draco’s silent avoidance that he was not letting on as much as he was thinking. She seemed rather pissy about this fact. Regardless, his thoughts continued their endless berate of his sanity as he questioned whether he should even bring the topic of his birthday gift up to you at all, lest he fall into further demise.

The time unfortunately came for him to make a decision, and he found himself completely unaware of which was the right choice to make. During breakfast the following morning, a note had befallen amongst his fine display of breakfast sausages and fluffy pancakes. Their year at Hogwarts was rapidly approaching an end, and he was thinking that with enough luck he would avoid you for the rest of the term and find a way to make you forget about his existence – perhaps you would find it in your heart to forgive him for the inevitable use of Obliviate on your beautiful, twisted mind.

The Slytherin was quick to realize that luck was not on his side as he opened the letter to see a familiar Hufflepuff’s scrawling.

Draco – I apologize if I embarrassed you. Perhaps Pansy’s words mislead me. Wishing you a great holiday.

Faithfully yours.

It was to his fortune indeed that this note had found him during breakfast among his terribly dull friends. Before they could get the chance to snoop, he rose with a rush to his cheeks. “I’ll be back,” he spoke sternly into the morning air.

He strolled through the Great Hall, meticulously scanning tables in search of your vibrant eyes and luminous smile. Finding your dazzling presence among a table of scorching yellow, he willed you to look up. Right on cue, your eyes met his with a look of – what was it, exactly? Sorrow? Discomfort? Pure angst? He nodded his head in one swift, nearly imperceptible motion, urging you to join him on a stroll. He prayed you understood and continued his walk to his own ruin. Mercifully, he heard soft footfalls from behind him as he exited the corridor. He paused, turning to await the sunshine he knew would inevitably fall on his face.

He was left waiting, as your arrival greeted him not with joy, but rather with a nervous, subdued air. “Did you need something, Draco?”

Caught off guard by your cool distance, he coughed up a weak reply. “I… yes, I did. I received your note.”

“That’s not surprising. My owl is a lovely little thing – quite the charmer down at the Owl Post.”

“Yes, I’m sure. Seemed quite nice from what I could tell.”

A pause. Silence, dripping thick like blood on cobstone. Had he waited too long?

“Did you just beckon me to discuss my owl, or was there more you needed to say?”

Draco sighed, realizing he would have to face his fears and discuss it with you eventually. “There’s more. Walk with me, would you?”

You nodded slowly, falling into step beside him. His breathing was heavy with an unseen weight, leaving you fearful for the berating you were to receive. It stayed like this for a while, until you had arrived in a clearing of open greenery devoid of nosey witches and wizards. His path strayed as he began to pace back and forth, searching for the best way to approach the conversation. Finally, still relentlessly pacing, he took three deep breaths. “My gift. Your mother taught you to knit – is that correct?”

Your eyes widened in shock. Out of all of the things which could have occurred in this conversation, the Draco Malfoy, the pureblooded extraordinaire himself, asking about your muggle mother’s teachings was the last thing you would have guessed. A small smile came to your lips as you spoke, a faint glow beginning to return to your skin. “Yes, my mother taught me when I was young.”

Draco Malfoy was raised to be brilliant. Yet, when this Hufflepuff sat before him bore even the smallest of smiles, he found himself wanting to be found plain stupid. There was no denying it – somehow, along the long and twisted road of Draco’s mind and heart and life, he had fallen for you. Though he wouldn’t admit it, he was terribly smitten, and smitten men do incredibly idiotic things like ask you: “Can you tell me about her?”

The question took you both by surprise, but it was already in the air. Draco had already twisted and torn and tattered so many of his father’s teachings – the least he could do was hold true to his commitment to mean what he said. You blinked twice, searching his face for insincerity. Making fun of you was one thing, but teasing your parents was a whole new offense. Finding no fault in his defenses, you began to slowly peel back your walls before his eyes: “My mother taught me to knit when I was still young. She told me that she wanted me to know how to express myself in ways beyond the magical bounds, so I would always know who I was. She won my father’s heart by her ingenuity. Papa had always called it her ‘artsy grace.’ Momma just called it ‘trying her best.’ I remember him telling me that till the grave he would see my mother in the color yellow and flowers and the smell of paint and feel her in the warmth of the sun. I always hoped someone would love me like that – sorry, I’m completely rambling…”

Draco was stunned – completely, thoroughly, unabashedly stunned. Stunned not by your words, but by their implications. Slowly, the color yellow, and the warmth of the sun, and the feel of soft wool had come to remind him of you. So he smiled, disregarding all he knew to be true in life to take the chance and taste sunshine. “That’s beautiful. I loved the gift.”

Your smile returned ten-fold, and suddenly Draco wondered how something as precious as this could ever be viewed as wrong when it felt so right. He continued with renewed confidence. “I’m sorry I didn’t say something sooner – I didn’t know the right way to approach you.”

You laughed softly, tucking a rogue strand of hair behind your ear. You were shy – was this a good or a bad thing? “It’s alright, Draco. It’s funny that we spoke today, though.”

“Why is that?”

“Because it’s my birthday.”

Oh. Oh fuck. “Bloody hell, I didn’t know. Happy birthday! What can I get you?”

Another laugh. “Oh please, I don’t need anything.”

“I insist! Anything at all.”

Your eyes twinkled with a certain sense of mischief. “How much for a kiss?”

“Cheeky bludger, you are!”

Draco laughed despite himself as he leaned into you. He knew this was insane, but he found it harder and harder to care. After all, who was he to fight the sun?

[shallowsallow]

reposting this to wish draco a very very happy birthday 💖💖💖

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

#know your fandom history

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

[shallowsallow]

i hate to be a tease, but i'm most definitely a tease. therefore, here's a snippet of my next short story for y'all.... can you tell i've been super duper angsty?

[graywrenhart]

FATAL ATTRACTION

| Draco Malfoy x f!Reader

summary: On the verge of failing Potions thanks to your idiotic lab partner and Quidditch rival Draco Malfoy, the two of you are forced to sneak into the greenhouse at night for a final ingredient, only to stumble into some strange plants along the way.

tags: 18+ MDNI, [sex pollen] [enemies to lovers] [quidditch rivals] [eighth-year at hogwarts] [mutual masturbation] [dubcon but only because it's sex pollen lol ] [oral sex] [malfoy whimpers] [hate sex] [switchy] [penetrative sex] [multiple orgasms]

author's note: It felt weird not writing Draco & Snitch from Lessons in Losing, but i hope you like Nineteen :) Title is inspired by the song Fatal Attraction by Reed Wonder. 9k words

“This is a terrible idea,” you hiss, rounding the corner toward the side exit of the castle.

Draco scoffs. “Like you have a better one.”

While he draws his wand from his robes, you cast another wary glance over your shoulder. The hallway is empty behind you, lit with dim floating candles. The castle sleeps, blissfully unaware of the plans you and your Quidditch rival have in store tonight.

Sadly, you don't. Have a better plan, that is. That's why you're out after curfew, dodging prefects and paintings like it's your full-time job.

"There's just got to be another way," you say, checking behind you again.

"There's not. Unless you count failing an option. You want to fail tomorrow, Nineteen?”

Draco Malfoy has never called you by your real name—only your Quidditch number. Because that’s all you are to him. Not a person. Just an obstacle on the pitch. But you know the truth: you’re the only Seeker in the entire school who gives him a run for his money.

“No—but I think it’s important for you to remember how it’s your fault we’re in this predicament in the first place!”

“I beg to differ,” Draco says, opening the door with a flick of his wand and stepping out into the night. “I’m quite good at potions.”

You rush to slip after him before the door swings shut behind you with a heavy thud.

Prick.

You’re not sure why Draco really even gives a shit about this assignment. All he cares about is winning Quidditch matches and getting the hell out of this school.

And why should he care?

It’s not like anything bad will happen to him if he gets one bad grade. You, on the other hand, have a bit more to lose. As a trainee healer, you need to score well on the NEWTs this year to secure your spot in the coveted apprentice slots. Needless to say, failing your Potions final just simply isn’t an option.

The air outside is muggy and warm—an unusually humid night for early April. The sky is clear, though, boasting a bright full moon. A perfect night for harvesting a nocturnal plant. An owl hoots somewhere in the Forbidden Forest beyond, and the tall grass tickles your ankles as you make your way to the cluster of greenhouses on the grounds.

You yank on Draco's sleeve as he walks straight past the entrance to Greenhouse Three.

He shrugs off your hand and gestures impatiently to the latticed door. “Hurry up and open it.”

“One of us should stay on the lookout,” you huff. Your fingers brush your wand in your pocket. “I’ll go and grab the sample, and you signal me if there’s any—”

“Wait.” He stops you. “Why do you get to go inside?”

You stare at him, jaw slack. “Because I’m the healer?”

“Not yet, you’re not.”

Sometimes, you take comfort in your fantasies about Draco Malfoy.

You’re up to ten different ways you might be able to knock him off his broom. Make him suffer in a way he never saw coming. And thanks to that comment, you’re now trying to come up with the eleventh.

“Why don’t you be the lookout, and I retrieve the sample?” He asks pointedly.

You sigh, irritated. “Because, Malfoy, I don’t trust you to get an accurate sample, okay? You couldn’t even keep our original sprig alive long enough for us to use it tomorrow!”

“You know, that’s a good point.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “Perhaps I don’t trust you, either. You know, we never did specify which of us was supposed to give the plant the appropriate amount of moonlight…”

You squint up at him. “Oh? We didn’t? That’s right. Maybe that’s because when we got assigned this potion, I stole the Snitch from under your nose at finals, and you didn’t speak to me for a week!”

Normally, you wouldn't complain about that. Being Quidditch rivals was one thing. Mouthing off to each other on the Pitch? That was a given. Outside of that, you didn't talk. It was a hard line.

That week just happened to be the one week you actually needed him to speak to you.

Because while he was busy trying to salvage his pride and keep his ego somewhat intact, you were actually doing all the heavy lifting for the assignment in Potions. The one Snape assigned to the both of you.

He huffs, irritated. He’s obviously annoyed you keep bringing that loss of his up, but you won’t stop anytime soon.

“We both go in, or I’m out," he says, his jaw set in determination.

You weigh your options. You could probably get the sample on your own, but you’re not willing to risk getting caught by yourself. If you get caught with him, you can do the obvious.

Blame him.

Turns out, it’s not much of a decision after all.

“Fine,” you mutter through grit teeth. “Let’s just get this over with.”

You unlock the door with a few precise spins of your wand and whisper the password low enough that Malfoy can’t hear it. The door unlatches with a hiss, and a warm, earthy smell hits you in the face. It’s familiar to you, and soothing in a way.

Malfoy shifts on his feet, eager to enter, but right before he pushes the door open, you bar his chest with your arm, wand at the ready.

You level his gaze. “Whatever you do—don’t touch anything.”

He scoffs, slipping past you and through the door with a flick of his robes. “Scared of a few plants, Nineteen?” He looks over his shoulder. “Bit concerning for a future healer and all. You might not make the cut.”

He shrugs with false sympathy before disappearing into the darkness beyond.

Nevermind. Gone are the thoughts of making his death a swift and easy one. Now, you’re envisioning something longer, slower, your hands around his neck—

You wonder if he begs half as prettily as he flies.

You’ve never really understood it.

The strange utopia that is Greenhouse Three. It’s always felt more like a portal to another dimension, rather than a plant nursery. But seeing it under the night sky is an otherworldly experience.

The tall domed ceiling stretches high above you, and dimmer disks fly from their assigned pots to line the narrow walkway upon your arrival.

There’s a silence about the place, but beneath it all, something living without breathing. As you walk among the taller plants lining the path, it feels like walking through a graveyard. But instead of the bones turning to dust under the earth—they’re watching.

The Nightbell Stalk lives all the way at the back of the greenhouse, in a secret locker called the Lumen Garden. You’ve never seen this garden, given the fact that it magically appears only when the moon is at its peak, and disappears again before the sun rises. Even despite the blatant breaking of curfew, you’ve been warned never to enter, given the dangerous nature of the plants one might encounter.

But, as they say, dangerous times call for desperate measures. Or, desperate times call for dangerous measures. Something like that.

All you know is it’s as desperate as it is dangerous, or you would never be so reckless.

Soon enough, the Lumen Garden door looms over you. It’s tall and black, and it sparkles in the light of the skimmer dimmers, like it’s made of crushed black diamond.

You turn to Malfoy. “Do you have it?”

He pulls an aged piece of parchment from his pocket. You reach for it but he snatches it back just in time.

“I didn’t risk my life in the Restricted Section, so you could show off your poor Mermish,” he says.

“‘Risking your life,’” you roll your eyes, unimpressed. “As if you don’t practically live there. Get on with it, then.”

He clears his throat. You try not to watch the way his fingers carefully unfold the paper, holding it like it’s something valuable. He’s always been like that when it comes to ancient scripts.

“Vaelith mora selune,” he whispers.

By moonlight reveal.

Your pulse leaps as the scrape of stone on stone reverberates throughout the silent room, bouncing off the glass panes above you.

As the stone door rolls back, it reveals a room so beautiful it nearly takes your breath away.

Opal stones guide you forward, leading to a circular pool in the center. The water lies perfectly still, glassy and undisturbed, yet the plants rooted beneath its surface sway gently in some unseen current.

Overhead, moonlight spills through the curved glass dome, and the panes are cloudy on purpose, filtering and diffusing the moonlight into something stronger and more even. 

You tiptoe onto the landing, barely noting the black mossy walls surrounding you before the stone rolls shut behind you. Malfoy’s polished shoes click decisively down the opal stones, not the least bit fased.

You swallow and follow after him. Mist rises up from the pond, and when you lean closer, curiosity pulling you in, you catch sight of movement. Thin, glowing threads streak by under the glassy surface. Jilly bugs. They help the plants thrive in the lowlight conditions.

“Keep up, will you?” Draco hisses, drawing your attention to him.

He’s standing over a garden bed beyond the pond, half swallowed by the shadowed wall behind him.

These nocturnal plants only bloom at night, and they die without it. Because of this, these plants have different colors than normal ones. Most of them are varying shades of black, purple, or blue, evolved to camouflage with the night or their natural habitats.

As you step closer, the vines come into view. There are tons of them, growing along a nearly imperceptible trellis that spans the full length of the back wall, their long stems twirling and looping, spilling out across the floor and crawling up the dome above.

You’re just reaching his side when something moves out of the corner of your eye. Your head whips towards the wall, eyes narrowing through the gray haze.

But there’s nothing. Just vines, their leaves sitting so still they could almost pass as wax.

“Where’s the bloody vial…?” Draco mutters to himself, patting down the pockets of his robes.

His features catch the light as he looks down. Your eyes drift over the edge of his nose, the slope of his brow, that strong jaw. You look away when his chin tips up.

Reaching into your pocket, you retrieve the small glass bottle, holding it out for him to see.

Draco frowns. “Thief.”

You shrug, glancing down at the Nightbell Stalk in front of you.

It’s a deep violet, with small, downward-facing flowers. Inside each one, the stems glow a faint gold. You can smell the nectar from where you stand--sweet, like honey, but heavier. Thicker.

When Malfoy reaches for the vial, you snap it back in the last second.

“I’m doing it,” you say.

“Like hell you are.” He scoffs. “Just because you’re a healer doesn’t give you the right to fuck this up. It’s my project too, you know.”

Anger sparks in your gut and you turn on him. “You haven’t given a shit about this potion the entire semester, and I’m supposed to believe you actually care now? Besides, you don’t have the experience required—”

“Oh, I have the experience. Stand aside.” He reaches for the sample vial. “I can handle something as simple as—”

You snatch it back again. “Oh, so you know that the bells ring when disturbed, so you only touch the stem. Did you know that Malfoy?”

“I—yes! I know more than—”

“So, obviously, you’d be cautious around the petals, since they’re so sticky they can leave a residue on your hands for a week.” Your lips set in a taunting line and narrow your eyes at him. “But you knew that, huh?”

Draco glares down at you. “I’m well aware of the difficulties with this plant. And by the way, I suggested this plan. So, I’ll do it.”

Your argument continues, words overlapping, while your voices ring eerily loud in the silence of the greenhouse.

Push, pull, counter, strike.

You fight the same way you fly on the pitch, chasing the same goal. Competitive to a fault.

The exact fault being that while the two of you are too busy arguing over who gets to hold the stem—and where the vial goes exactly—you don’t realize one vine unfurling from the wall behind you, growing curious in the moonlight.

“My hands are steadier,” Draco says from his place over your shoulder.

You bite your lip, ignoring the way his breath ghosts across your ear, focusing your energy on getting the ingredient.

You accidentally graze the edge of the downward-turned petal with the rim of the glass and the flowers on the Nightbell Stalk ring softly.

“Shit,” you mutter.

“You know it’s true,” he continues, voice low. “How many times have you lost the Snitch because of your poor grip, hmm? I haven’t. Not once.”

With one sharp movement of your fingers, you scoop up the drop of nectar from the stems inside. It slides down the glass, glowing a deep orange. Satisfaction curls warm under your ribs like your feline familiar back in your dorm room.

You grin. “Got it.”

Reveling in your win, you turn, ready to shove your success in his face, but the movement only presses your back further into his chest.

“Move, would you?” You bite, trying to slide around him, but the tight space doesn’t allow for much wiggle room.

He shifts to let you through, but the narrow corridor between the wall and the garden bed seems to get tighter with his body pressed against yours. Somewhere, your feet get tangled and he stumbles, sprawling back against the garden bed, which pushes you flat against the ivy wall, glaring up at him.

His head blocks the moonlight, his silhouette falling over you like a living shadow. His lips part like he might say something, and you find yourself leaning forward, waiting breathlessly, when something brushes your ankle.

You leap forward. Draco’s arm wraps around you out of instinct. The two of you stare at each other before he seems to remember who you are and drop his arm like you’ve burned him.

“Throwing yourself at me, are you?” He drawls, breaking the silent tension.

“No!” You look down at the ground, but there’s nothing there. Just mossy stone under your feet, the shadow of the vine wall at your heels. “Something just…grabbed me.”

Draco shakes his head and shoves past you. “It’s always drama with you, isn’t it?”

“I’m serious!” you snap. “It almost tripped me!”

“Ah, yes. Do me a favor and twist that pretty little ankle would you? Just secure me a win next match, thanks.”

His words make you pause, forgetting all about the mysterious touch. A smile steals across your face before you can stop it. “So, you admit I need to be taken out for you to have a shot at the Cup, then?”

He spins on the spot, a shadow etched between his brows as he scowls at you under the moonlight. “You’re twisting my words.”

“I am not! Merlin, Malfoy, do you ever just shut up—” Something brushes your shoulder. You freeze. “What was that?”

To your surprise, Draco actually shuts his mouth to listen. There’s nothing. No frogs, no crickets, no owl, no water dripping, no jilly bugs splashing in the pond.

It’s…silent.

Suddenly, something moves above you. Both your gazes jerk up at the same time. A leafy vine—so green it’s almost black—drops down from the wall and brushes Draco’s hair.

He flinches, and as the light catches on the small, glass-like beads growing between the leaves, your stomach drops.

You know exactly what that is.

The Veleroux Vine. Some call it Sirenlace. But it’s best known for another name.

Sex pollen.

You recognize it from your studies. The pollen pods contain a powerful aphrodisiac, said to heighten biological desire to mate in extreme ways. The more you resist, the worse the fever gets, making you wild with lust.

“Draco—don’t touch—” You throw a hand out to stop him.

But it’s too late.

Malfoy rears back and slaps the invading greenery away like he’s swatting a fly.

Shit.

“Dammit, Malfoy, what did I say about not touching anything?” You shriek, surging forward and shoving at his chest. “Get away from th—”

The first bead snaps open in a plume of dust. Fear rushes through your limbs and you try to jerk the both of you away, but you’re not quick enough.

One after another, the pollen pods pop in sequence, traveling down the vine, dusting your hair, your robes, and filling the air.

You jerk back, furiously rubbing at your skin, but it’s no use. It settles on you like a thin glitter, small enough to even to slip into your pores.

“Oh, shit. Fucking—fuck. Fuck!” you holler, but you shouldn’t have opened your mouth. Now the back of your throat feels like when you stuck your head in the sugar jar as a kid.

Draco sends you a withering look, brushing down his robes. “Calm down, will you? Bloody hell—just a little plant dust.”

“Just a plant—” You scoff, throwing your hands up in the air. “Merlin help me, you can’t just fucking listen for one second. I know what I’m talking about! Hurry! We have to get out of here before it—”

The vine slips around your shoulder at the very same moment Draco glances down to find another one winding around his ankle.

“—grabs us,” you finish weakly.

You try to scramble away, but the leaves thread around your arm in a silky vice.

Draco curses loudly at the thing, hopping on one foot, losing his robes in the process of trying to extricate himself.

“You have the wrong…pair,” you tell the inky leaves while you fumble for your wand. “We aren’t—we can’t…do what you want.”

“It wants something?” Draco casts a disbelieving look at the vine now wrapped around his dark slacks, settling around his knee. “Merlin—what?”

“It wants us to have sex,” you say, matter-of-factly.

He looks at you like you’ve grown two heads. Then his gaze darkens, snagging on the way your hard nipples strain against your shirt.

Already? This shit works fast. You finally free your wand and cross your arms over your chest.

“Sex?” he sneers.

“Yes. It’s an aphrodisiac plant, native to rare jungles. Its job is to encourage mating between compatible species.”

“Compatible.” He scoffs. “You and me? Farthest thing from it.”

“It doesn’t know that..." You gasp as your wand is whisked out of your hands by a particularly strong leaf.

“Talk to it again. Tell it!” Draco shouts. He looks down and shakes his leg violently. The vine doesn’t budge. “Shit—just get it off me!”

Whispers of leaves dragging against stone make you turn to face the corner of the room behind you. A cluster of vines has begun to twist together, the husky hush of plants twining and looping filling the air. Vines slide across the floor, retracting into the dark corner, while more gather from the ceiling, shifting the beams of moonlight through the dusty air.

You inhale sharply. “Oh no.”

Draco curses somewhere behind you. “What now?”

“It’s building its nest,” you reply, eyes on the plant.

“It’s…what?”

You turn to see Draco fighting tooth and nail. He’s got his wand out now. Streaks of light bounce across the room, flames erupt in the air but they bounce off the leaves like they’re nothing but a few stray sparks. Across the room, past the pool, some of the other plants wither and shrink away from the light.

Adrenaline surges through you as your mind scrambles for a solution. You’re already beginning to feel it, a tugging deep in your core.

That familiar tight ache that blooms in the dark, alone, in your bed. But unlike then, right now, you can’t give into it. You try not think about how the longer you resist, the worse it will get. From your brief research, sex pollen isn’t fatal, but it certainly isn’t pleasant.

Unless you give in.

Then, of course, it’s rumored to be the best sex of your entire life.

You don’t have the luxury of finding that out.

There is an antidote, of course, but it is completely and totally, one-hundred percent, without a doubt—out of the question.

Sex with Malfoy? Not happening.

There’s only one answer. You have to escape.

Your gaze swings to the stone door, framed in elegant iron bars that allow climbers to reach moonlight.

Maybe if you could get out of the vine’s reach, it wouldn’t be able to chase you.

It only takes a second to form a plan.

Tipping back, you let your weight fall backwards into the vine, hoping to catch it off guard and force it to loosen its hold. Instead, you trip over a stray pot and go tumbling to the ground.

But before you hit the stone, the Veleroux is there.

Your breath catches, heart pounding, suspended in the air. Then the vine pushes gently into your lower back, guiding you forward util your feet find solid ground again. You stare, openmouthed, as the leaves brush along your leg, almost as if checking for injury, before nudging you toward the corner of the room.

“Oh, Merlin. Yes, I see your nest,” you say weakly, watching as the vine curls in on itself to form a sort of ball—more of a fist, really—and uses it to push softly against the heels of your shoes, urging you forward. It uncurls when you take a step, leaves fluttering as if pleased. Then it spins in the air, gesturing as if to say, look, I made this for you. A cozy, safe place to mate. “Very nice. Lovely, really. But you see, we can’t—”

“Blimey! Get back!” Draco’s voice interrupts your one-sided conversation.

You look over your shoulder, wobbling a bit as the plant continues to nudge you towards the silky hammock in the corner. He’s covered in vines, now. His wand has fallen somewhere off to the side, out of both your reach. He’s still flailing, hair mussed, trying and—failing— to break free.

You look down. The vine’s not even holding onto you anymore. Is it because you’re not fighting as hard?

You take a step towards the door. Nothing happens. You take another, and the vine edges closer. On the third, it finds your ankle again. But it doesn’t squeeze you or cinch tight enough to sting. It just curls softly around your leg, firm enough to stop you from running, but gentle enough that you start to suspect it doesn’t want you damaged.

Malfoy, on the other hand, looks almost black and blue.

“Stop!” You call. “The harder you fight, the tighter it tries to hold you. Just—watch. Walk towards me.”

“You’re insane. You know that?” he spits. But his eyes catch on your vineless body anyway.

“Trust me, Malfoy.”

That’s a phrase you never imagined yourself saying to him.

“It doesn’t want to hurt us,” you whisper. “I don’t think.”

He shakes his head. “That’s not good enough for me.”

Despite his words, Draco takes one step towards you. The vine’s hold loosens. Another step and it slips from his chest entirely.

“See?” you say, encouraged. “It’s biological nature is to keep its prey alive and well. It can’t force us to mate. It just…heavily suggests it.”

“Of course it doesn’t force it,” Draco sneers. “A plant can’t make me do anything I don’t want to do.” But even as the words leave his lips, his eyes drop to the edge of your skirt. The hem suddenly feels six inches shorter, though you know it hasn’t shrunk.

Draco moves closer and the vines start to retreat, but he keeps a wary eye on them until they disappear into the Nest.

He glares at it, then at you. “What is that?”

“It’s a hammock,” you answer, eyes darting around for another escape route. “The vine thinks it will make us more comfortable. Since it’s not all over us anymore, I say we try to appease it. Just a little.”

“Appease it?” He gasps. “You want to—I can’t believe this. That—” he gestures towards the jumble of vines. “Could be a swan down comforter with silk sheets. I don’t care, I’m not going near it.”

You roll your eyes. “Merlin, you don’t listen. I’m not saying we go in the Nest. I’m saying we just…pretend. Then we can make a run for it.”

He doesn’t look convinced, so you turn to face him. “This plant spreads pollen to encourage mating, right? But how does it know when it’s worked? It’s not aware like we are.”

His eyes narrow. “Your point?”

“My point is…it’s pheromones, right? With our heightened hormones right now, we might be able to trick it into thinking we're on board, and it will let it's guard down.” Your stomach swoops with the words about to leave your tongue. “So maybe if you—if we—”

Draco’s eyes snap to yours. “If we what?”

His tongue swipes over his lower lip, leaving it glistening in the moonlight.

Stupid fucking pollen.

You swallow hard. “I think we should kiss.”

A beat of silence passes, the only sound your heartbeat kicking up, drumming in your ears.

“Fine,” he agrees.

That surprises you. You thought he’d gag at the very idea.

It must be the pollen, overriding his blatant hate for you and digging into his more urgent needs.

A shiver rolls down your spine at what those needs of his might be. You’re feeling it too, of course. The effect of being so close to him.

It’s only biological. To be drawn to a specimen of the opposite sex.

And why not Draco? He’s tall, healthy, miles of lean muscle. He smells good, and he’s not bad to look at. Especially when his eyes do that—flashing over at you thing, while his mouth quirks into a crooked smirk…

No other reason. Right?

You don’t have time to debate this, however, because Draco’s moving.

You’re vaguely aware of the vine brushing your ankle, keeping you steady as he crowds your space, and then—

Your lips meet his.

Your breath catches at the warmth you weren’t expecting. And that warmth…blooms. Your lashes fall shut as your whole body seems to sigh at the touch, like he’s the cure to the dull ache in your limbs, the antidote to the burning in your core. Just a gentle caress turns the sharp heat into a molten lava that invades your bloodstream.

He groans softly into your mouth, and the sound alone makes you gasp. Next thing you know, you’re pressed against his chest. Whether by his arms around you, or your own feet carrying you, or the stupid fucking vine playing matchmaker, all you know is he smells like green apples and teakwood. Cold luxury, but with a hint of…home.

At the first taste of his tongue, your stomach swoops dangerously. As he slants his mouth further, exploring, kissing you deeper, your heart feels like it’s beating as fast as a Snitch’s wings.

Your hands find his hair. It’s soft as silk between your fingers. A whimper escapes him and he breaks the kiss, head dropping back instinctively.

You watch through half-lidded eyes, taking in the way his wet lips gleam in the moonlight, blond lashes fluttering.

Merlin, he’s gorgeous.

His throat bobs on a swallow, and before you know it, your mouth is on his neck. He lets out a choked sound, something between a gasp and a groan, before jerking suddenly in your hold.

You stumble away, already missing the heat of his hands, lips buzzing like you’ve just downed a shot of fire-whiskey.

It’s him, you realize. He’s your drug. And when he lurches backward, breathing hard, you feel as if he’s just taken your last fix.

His eyes stay pinned on you as he retreats. The vine stops him with a gentle pressure at his back, but he doesn’t even seem to notice. He lets it guide him toward the nest, stopping just beside it, his back hitting the wall.

You scramble back until your heels knock into the stone wall opposite him. The Nest sits between you, off to the right, tucked in the dark corner of the room.

“Brilliant plan,” he grits out. “Bloody brilliant.”

And you’re back to square one.

“Ah!” Draco shouts, pointing at his wand lying on the ground between you. “You crossed the boundary.”

“I did not!” you snap at him, eyes flashing. “I was just adjusting. My foot kicked it accidentally—shit—would you just shut up? Your voice makes it worse.”

Over the last several minutes, you and Draco have tried everything under the sun to escape. The farthest you ever made it was all of ten feet. You did manage to retrieve Draco’s wand, though. Which then started the slew of fire spells, sharp object summoning charms, and so on. An earthquake hex was threatened, but that could’ve brought the whole school down, so you couldn’t risk that.

Although it was considered for one brief—and selfish—moment.

But none of it did a thing.

Turns out, this plant has some sort of magical resistance. It’s so bad that he couldn’t even make a force field or proper line divider between you, so he placed his wand there instead.

You’ve slowly slid down into a heap on the floor, attempting to make yourself smaller, as if that might ease the ache building deep in your core. It’s relentless, hot and gnawing, and you know it’s only going to get worse if you don’t come up with another plan soon.

Draco’s sitting now too, half draped in shadow. His arms crossed over his crisp white button-down, and he’s still glaring at you as if this is all your fault. The one knee strategically placed in front of his groan is the only sign you’ve gotten that the pollen is effecting him at all.

Bastard.

His tie is loose though, and his hair is tousled. Like it always is after a match. There’s no wind in here though, just the whisper of leaves and the steady drip of water.

No. Your hands are the only thing to blame for that.

Shit.

Now all you can think about is how soft his hair felt, how easily your fingers sank into it, and all the ways you could drag him closer by it, yanking his hot, wet mouth to your—

“What did I tell you about thinking those things?” Draco says. You peek up to see his head hit the wall, eyes sliding shut.

“I’m not thinking anything—”

“Stop lying, Nineteen.” His nostrils flare, and his eyes snap open. Somehow, his pupils have grown even larger. “You're so wet I can practically taste it from here.”

Merlin. Your thighs press together instinctively.

“I’m not thinking anything that has to do with you,” you snap. “Except how much I hate you. How much I despise your face, how much I want to steal that Snitch from you every damn day, and how if I had to be here, I would rather it be anyone else other than you!”

Your chest heaves as you catch your breath. But the way he looks at you makes your pulse spike all over again.

“Is that right?”

His cheeks are flushed, the same way they are when he’s hot on the Snitch’s trail. Your slick walls flutter at the sight. You’ve always thought he looked good like that. All sweaty and warm, hair stuck to his forehead, eyes bright with a fire that matches yours.

Not that you would ever tell him, of course.

“Who would you want instead?” he rasps. “Montague? Flint? I see the way you look at them on the pitch.” He looks away for a second and drags his knuckles across his lips before his gaze snaps back to yours.  “Lucky for you, you’re trapped here with someone who can show a little restraint.”

You bark out a laugh. “You think you’re the only one here with restraint? Take one step toward me, Malfoy, and I swear I’ll hex you.”

He grunts. “You don’t have a wand.”

Your head tips back with a quiet groan, your clit aching to be touched. You make another weak attempt to get away, but the vine catches you.

It doesn’t snap, claw, or hold you against your will. Rather it settles around your shoulders, brushing a waxy leaf along your cheek, tucking your hair behind your ear before retreating again, as if to say, Stop fighting. Just look at him. Don’t you want to?

And somehow, that’s worse.

Because you do.

Badly.

You find yourself looking at his hands. Your gaze drifts over the curve of his palms, the long lines of his fingers, the tension there, the veins, the control he’s barely holding onto and—you’re salivating.

Snap out of it.

“It’s so hot in here, f-fuck,” you whine, pawing at the collar of your shirt.

Draco eyes lock on you fingers. “Take that off and I swear—don’t.”

But your tie feels like it’s choking you, and your pulse booms in your ears. Your fingers keep loosening it. Draco curses.

You whimper. “That’s not fair, you took yours off!”

“Stop talking. Merlin, just—” he cuts himself off with a rough breath, his large palm grinding down into his erection beneath his slacks. “Shut up.”

You try to stay quiet. You really do.

But every shift of your body sends heat spiraling lower, making it harder to think. Every brush of your thighs squeezes your swollen clit, and has you gasping into the wall behind you.

Draco’s breathing is uneven now, too, echoing faintly off the stone. He hasn’t been able to keep his hand off his dick, still hidden under his clothes.

Not that you’ve been watching.

“I think—‘ you swallow. “I think I have a plan.”

Draco moans. “Fine. Enlighten me.”

“Remember what I said about the pheromones?” You manage. “It’s clear kissing wa—shit—wasn’t enough. Maybe…” Your eyes drop to his erection.

“No.”

“Draco, we’re going to have to touch ourselves. It’s the only way.”

You expect him to be glaring at you, but when you look up, his eyes are on your legs—that bare skin between your shoe and your skirt.

“Fine.” His throat bobs on a swallow. “You first.”

You barely have time to debate the ramifications of your actions. Your body burns, thick pressure building low and sharp.

You slip your hand under your skirt, straight under your panties. You inhale shakily, trying to steady yourself, but when your fingers meet a slickness like nothing you’ve ever felt before, the breath leaves your lungs.

The sound of of your wetness fills the silence between you and Draco makes a low, strained sound.

You glance over at him and immediately wish you hadn’t.

He’s taken his cock out, and he’s stroking it from base to tip. It’s long. Thick enough to fill up his palm, and veiny. The tip is darker than the rest, and you just know, if you were to take him in your mouth and suck—you’d feel his heartbeat against your tongue.

His jaw is tight, eyes half-lidded, like he tried to close them but his body won’t let him. When he sighs and bucks his hips into his own fist your mouth runs dry.

Whatever cavern of distance used to exist between you is crumbling now. It’s being burned away. There’s no space for it in this heat, this constant pull towards each other. Your skirt rides higher up on your thighs, and the cool air brushes your wet inner thighs.

After a minute, the relief starts to fade. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to focus. But your body won’t cooperate. Your hips jerk back from your own touch, your clit bordering on overstimulation. You frown, plunging two fingers inside yourself to rub the ache away. But they feel like cold pencils in your pulsing channel.

The heat drags through your veins like hot cotton, begging for a deep release. But every brush of your arms against the cold stone behind you makes your elbows start to itch, and your very skin start to feel like a husk.

You need water. No—not water.

You need him.

It’s almost as if your body is punishing you for doing it to yourself.

“It’s not w-working,” you whimper, helpless.

Draco groans, his frustration evident in the bulging vein in his neck. His cock looks so angry in the dim light. He bites his lip in determination, and you watch his fist grip tighter. He only gets to three more strokes before he’s hissing with discomfort.

“There’s got to be another way,” he rasps, his hand dropping away.

You huff, so needy you’re almost on the verge of tears. “I’m thinking!”

“Well, think harder.”

You glare at him, dimly aware of how on display you are right now. Legs open and spread towards him, skirt barely concealing the way your fingers move against yourself. “Maybe I could if you could just shut your mouth for one damn second!”

His voice is not helping. All low and deep, with a hint of a rasp curling around his accent, making your belly tighten.

In fact, none of this is helping. Silence fills the space between you, only broken by uneven breathing and the quiet rustle of the Nest.

When his eyes drop to your dripping cunt and you don’t even have the decency to close your legs, it’s like the pollen has overridden your higher thinking. Your knees widen instinctively, begging for him to look. To touch…

Your composure slips further. And when he licks his lips, your lips actually part in preparation to ask for him.

Merlin, if this keeps up much longer, you’re not above begging if that what it takes. And begging Draco Malfoy for anything is beyond the lowest you’d ever thought you’d go.

You work yourself harder, but your fingertips feel like sandpaper against your soft folds, even as your arousal continues to leak steadily from you, your pussy desperate to be filled.

But that feels impossible.

A tear slips from the corner of your eye, and you’re helpless to stop it. You squeeze your eyes shut and turn your face away from him, still chasing any kind of relief, begging for it to feel like something worth grabbing onto.

Somewhere, distantly, you think Draco might be saying something, but you’re not sure what. Your body’s honed in on the vibrations of his voice, the way he smells—

“Nineteen.”

Hearing your nickname snaps you back to reality.

You open your mouth to answer him, but no words come out. Little gasps punch out of your parted lips, hips twisting  and writhing, searching for friction. For heat. For him.

“Tell me,” he says firmly.

You turn your head. You can barely see him, your eyes refusing to open more than a sliver. He’s leaning forward now, one knee planted on the ground.

“W-what?” you rasp.

“Your plan—the pheromones—shit.” Then, quieter, he adds. “Tell me how to make it stop hurting you.”

Your eyes snap to his. He’s watching you with that sharp focus you’ve always admired about him. The look that says nothing is getting in the way of what he wants.

You’re not sure exactly what makes him give in.

Maybe it’s the way your breaths come in soft pants that make the rise and fall of your breasts visible beneath your loosened tie. Maybe it’s the way your eyes drop to his lips, his neck, your tongue running over your teeth like you’re imagining how he tastes. It might be the ways your hips slant forward, knees falling open, your body begging even if you don’t have the words to.

But he must see it.

Because, he just says, “Fuck.”

His shoulders catch the moonlight as he shrugs out of his shirt in one smooth motion. Lines of lean muscle come into view, and you feel as if you’ve been presented with a feast after almost starving to death.

Malfoy’s always had a very determined walk. A powerful stride, one that commands attention. You’ve seen in in the halls, backed by his loyal little following. You’ve watched him stride towards the Quidditch cup, shoulders back, chest high.

But right now—he’s not walking.

He’s crawling.

Towards you.

“Close your eyes. If it helps,” he says before his hand meets your ankle and he’s bowing in front of you.

Something deep in your mind catches on those words, but he’s yanking your panties the rest of the way down your legs, and the heat of his mouth against your core whisks your thoughts away.

The second his tongue finds your clit you can’t help but cry out. Your head tips back against the stone, the relief so immediate it’s almost staggering. Draco attacks you with warm, lascivious licks that aren’t meant to soothe, despite his words. They’re meant to claim.

Your hands dig into the mossy floor beneath you, arching your hips up for him. His strong, hot tongue parts your folds like it’s his life’s work. The view of his back muscles shifting and stretching in the moonlight as he makes out with your pussy is so seductive to you it’s nearly frightening.

In fact, it is.

Frightening.

“I hate you,” you grit out, not even entirely sure where it came from. Just a need to set things back in order, even as he’s unraveling you.

He groans against your clit, the vibration licking up your spine.

“Say it again.”

You gasp, caught between resisting and wanting more, even as your pelvis shoves forward and you grind into him like you’re in heat. His tongue dives lower and when his nose nudges your clit, you nearly scream. Your orgasm rises like something sharp. It’s so powerful of a burn, of an ache, you find yourself scrambling backwards in an attempt to get away from the promise of such delirious pleasure.

Merlin, you need it. More than you’ve ever needed anything in your entire fucking life—

It scares you how much.

But Draco just hums against the pulls on his hair and follows you anyway, scuffling forward on the stone ground, gripping your hips and spearing his tongue deep inside you.

“Malfoy, I’m gonna—oh, fuckkk—”

“That’s it,” he says, and the sound of him quietly speaking against your slick folds nearly does you in.  “Scream my name, Nineteen. N-need—fuck—wanna hear you say it like that.”

The soft rasp of his voice, and the two long fingers being pushed inside you send you straight over the edge.

The release pulls you under in waves. Dark, pulsing tidal waves that drive deep through your pelvis, erasing through your body until the pleasure nearly blinds you. You feel yourself going rigid in his hands, thighs trembling against his soft hair, but he just hauls you through it, like a lighthouse in a storm. Strong, steady, and never stopping until you’re jolting and gasping, crying out in relief.

But the second your orgasm fades, the heat rushes in again. The fever. It’s back, and with vengeance this time.

Sweat beads your forehead and your vision swims, but you look up just in time to see Malfoy scramble backwards like you burned him.

You frown. “Dra—what?”

He throws a hand out, pressing himself against the opposite wall.  “Don’t come closer.”

A whimper escapes your lips before you can stop it. The heat is different now. Instead of feeling like a thread about to snap, your body has narrowed down to one singular need.

Breed.

Your fingers fly to your shirt without you telling them to, unbuttoning your shirt with ease. You feel the way your breasts move with your harsh breaths, but your gaze is locked on him. And when you drop down to all fours and slink forward, Draco looks like he’s going to have a heart attack.

“Merlin—I can’t.” he chokes out. “I can’t even think about it.”

Your gut feels like it’s been punched. Is he so disgusted by the thought that he can’t even look at you?

Does he truly not want you? Was that some sort of…pity—

You can’t even finish that thought.

You slink backwards until you’re half in shadow. He must see the look on your face because his head falls back against the wall on a groan. You can smell his sweat in the air and it’s making you downright feral even though you can barely look at him from embarrasement.

“I can’t think about it, because if I do, then I’ll do it,” he says. “And if I do it…I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop.”

Control. That’s always been Malfoy’s vice, hasn’t it?

This situation is probably his worst nightmare.

Not for the first time, something plucks on your heart strings deep under your ribs. He’s scared of losing it? You can give it back to him.

Slowly, and with deliberate care, you cross the boundary. The wand clatters somewhere to the side. Draco watches as you crawl to him, his eyes raking over you, a mixture of pain and hunger in his eyes.

You can only imagine what you look like.

Hair mussed, left in just a lace bra and soaked panties, your skirt hanging loose on your hips.

“Then don’t,” you murmur.

Your voice is so quiet in the stillness, but it spears through him all the same. Your gazes click together like magnets.

He shakes his head, chest heaving. “You don’t mean that. It’s just the fucking plant dust—”

He stops short when your hands settle on his knees, gently forcing them apart to make room for yourself. Your breath catches when you drop your gaze to see his cock sitting heavy and hard against his lower stomach. It twitches under your watchful gaze and your mouth waters.

Carefully, you settle into his lap.

He exhales sharply, and his hands find your soft skin, undoing your bra before you can even blink. Testament to a lot of practice, you’re sure. 

You don’t have the strength to be self-conscious. You just need him. Now. Even so, somewhere through the lust-filled haze, you remember his words.

“The plant just lowers—” your breath hitches as his teeth find the soft skin of your neck. “—your inhibitions. It can’t make you fuck someone you don’t…w-want.”

“How do you know so much about this?” he groans into your hair. “Why are you so—”

“What? So smart?”

“You wish.”

The words barely brush your ear before you lean back to get a better look at him. You’ve barely straightened by the time his mouth is on your tits.

You cry out as he swirls his hot, greedy tongue around your nipples, sucking on the hard buds until you’re panting. Your clit swells and you bite your lip, threading your fingers through his hair. The first rock of your hips has you both groaning. 

You grind down on him again and you nearly black out at the feeling of his bare length sliding through your slick folds. You reach between you to tug his slacks down further. His balls are heavy in your hand, and he grunts, shoving himself up into you.

“Merlin—I can’t—” he chokes out, mouth leaving your tits as his palms fly up and dig into his eye sockets.

Without thinking, you lean forward and kiss his fingers one by one. His bare chest stutters against yours at the softness of it, and when you slip his thumb into your mouth and swirl your tongue around it eagerly, he drops his hands.

You look down to find him staring up at you with a familiar expression. You make that face. When you're seconds away from catching the Snitch.

You swear you can feel every vein in his dick, so hot and hard against you as you grind your slick cunt against him. It’s instinct to drop your head and search for his mouth with yours, but you pull back at the last second. That last thread of lucidity coming back to haunt you.

This is your rival.

For a second you just breathe each other in, mouths parted, groaning and writhing into the other, but when the blunt head of his cock catches on your entrance, your hips react on their own—circling, pelvis arching, body begging in a primal, secret language you don’t fully understand.

And he moves with you—meeting you there with the deep urges of his own.

His hips don’t snap into you, brutal and deep. Instead, they slide. Back and forth. His hands clamp onto your hips, holding you still in his lap as he eases the tip in and out, letting your slick coat him until you’re ready to take the whole thing. 

The way his body moves speaks to something primal and powerful in you. How his sweaty muscles bunch and tense, and his hands dig into your skin at your hips, your thighs, your waist— it’s better than anything you could’ve imagined.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” he growls into your ear.

You nod frantically, clenching around him.

In one long thrust, Draco fills you up. The stretch is breathtaking. Literally. He’s so long that his tip kisses your cervix with every thrust, sending you mewing and clawing at his hair, his shoulders, just to stay afloat through the pleasure.

He’s not fairing much better.

He’s growling and moaning, his cock jerking desperately in your slick walls as he pulls back just far enough to yank your hips back down to meet his.

Sounds spill out of you. They might be words, you’re not sure. But the next thing you know, cold stone meets your back, and Draco’s warm body is spread out over you. His thrusts grow heavier and deeper. You can feel the way your body tries to hold onto him, clenching and fluttering desperately, even as your arousal makes it easy for him to slide so deep.

You’ve never been this wet in your life. And now, you’re wondering, if it’s from the pollen, or if it’s just from him. Because you’ve never had sex this good, and that’s saying something.

Your bodies just…move together. Like they’re one of a kind puzzle pieces meant to fit. The give and take is so instinctual it’s almost unbearable how good it is.

“Fuck, you take me so well,” Draco pants, a lock of hair falling over his sweaty brow. “Knew you would.”

You throw your head back, your ankle finding solace in his lower back, sealing him to you and begging for more. Your body gives into the heat, the pleasure cresting and pulling you into something dangerously strong. So strong you’re worried your body might not survive it.

“So pretty on the pitch,” he groans, seemingly unable to stop from talking. “Merlin, I just—I lose the bloody Snitch every time you look at me.”

That does it.

Your orgasm rushes through your body like lightning. Your spine snaps straight, muscles clenching down with a pulse you feel everywhere. A moan leaves your chest, so loud you’ve probably woken the whole damn castle, but you’re too gone to care.

Draco makes a rough sound against the skin of your neck. “Holy—fuck, I’m gonna—where should I—”

“Inside,” you gasp. “Please. Please, Draco. I need it. P-please—”

“Ah, fuck—” His mouth seals against your throat, nose brushing the pulse point below your ear. “Need you.”

He jerks hard, once, twice, and then he’s spilling inside you. Your body seems to understand, back arching, pulling him deeper with your ankle as he stills and lets out a groan that curls low in your belly, and will certainly live on in every wet dream you have from here on out.

The fever fades like a receding tide. You blink, slowly coming back to yourself. Your clit is throbbing, and your pulse is still hammering, but strangely you feel...lighter somehow.

Like maybe the last few years of tension between you and your rival finally needed to snap.

You turn to him. He’s on his knees, breathing hard, buttoning up his pants. He looks up at you, and something in his eyes softens.

“What did you mean?” You find yourself asking. “When you told me to close my eyes earlier?”

He shrugs, reaching for his shirt.

“Well, you said you’d rather be here with anyone else. I just—” he looks away, suddenly seeming very interested in the way the Nest is unraveling like it did its job, and the stray vine that’s currently retrieving his wand for him.

You don’t let him finish.

You lurch forward and grab his face, pulling his lips to yours.

This time, he doesn’t hesitate a second before meeting your mouth. He kisses you back, long and hard, digging his fingers through your hair to pull you closer. You exhale into it, something long unsaid passing between you.  But it’s not enough. You still need to say the words.

So, you break the kiss first. He blinks down at you, eyes dark, hair mussed.

“I only think about you, Malfoy,” you whisper in the shared air between you. “On or off the pitch, it’s only you.”

He leans down and brushes his lips across yours. “I still hate you, Nineteen.”

You reward him by deepening the kiss. He answers it, slower this time, but no less intense. When he finally pulls back, you’re already smiling.

“Say it again.”

dividers by @/bbyg4rlhelps | draco masterlist

taglist: @m00cow2000, @annonymoose, @poopoocacapepr, @witheringwidgetwrites, @stressedoutsteph,

@skankhvnt42, @afterhoursangell, @madimcg14, @virocci, @sprinkles260, @vroomvroom0481

@kimberlyxmalfoy, @aaaaslaaaan, @cthood, @ch0rdsunfl0wer, @hugsforbyler,

[tetitasdelimon]

top 5 horror movies

-having a job

-not having a job

-applying for jobs

-the job market

-the concept of working my whole life

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

everybody say thank you ao3

[fullmindstories]

I need every writer to remember, that there might be someone out there who has been deeply touched by your story - more than you will ever know.

[dolly4stxr]

guys I recently rewatched all the Harry Potter movies.

HEAR ME OUT BRO.

[pr0ngsette]

#need that

[shallowsallow]

i love scorpius malfoy that is my son

[shallowsallow]

fits like a glove

word count: 3.3k tags/warnings: sixth year, hufflepuff reader, hufflepuff/slytherin house relations, female reader-insert, draco learns on his birthday that he loves you and it pisses him (and pansy) off summary: On Draco Malfoy's sixteenth birthday, he receives a gift from someone who cares - and he's panicking. notes: this is not my bestest fic in the world but i had to post becauseee it's my 20th birthday! God bless <3 || ao3

Draco Malfoy was a brilliant young man. Amongst the top of his class, a prefect, a Malfoy. He was destined for greatness. Destined to be better than all of his peers. It was a simple fact that Draco was brilliant – he was raised to be brilliant. He had no choice but to be brilliant.

In all of his brilliance and wit, it was incredibly difficult to find a time in which Draco was left speechless. His father had raised him well, teaching him how to have a comeback for every statement, how to torment those who are below him, to remind them of their place. He was particularly skilled at this when it came to Potter, whose every living breath existed merely to tick Draco off. It wasn’t Potter’s fault, of course. He was destined for greatness, too, but that dumb Sorting Hat had made a terrible choice. He remembered thinking that the Sorting Hat was taking a terribly long time to decide where to place Potter – perhaps, in some other life, he and Potter could have been friends.

Despite all of his practice in witty remarks and backhand compliments, he found himself rendered speechless for the first time in his life. Truly, it left him feeling plain stupid. It had happened on his sixteenth birthday.

On the morning of June 5, 1996, Draco Malfoy was practically stupefied. His birthday had always been a special day in the Malfoy home, as his mother and father were sure to spoil him rotten. He had never felt a shortage of love in his family, and his birthday was no different. His friends were kind enough to offer him gifts on behalf of their families, whose pockets were full of pretty galleons. He had received loads of gifts before – the finest brooms, the freshest jumpers, the sweetest chocolates… the gift itself wasn’t the problem.

No, it wasn’t the gift. It wasn’t even the way it was signed, sealed and delivered. No, it was the way his voice got caught in his throat and his heart was pounding outside of his chest and has the sun always been so bright in the dungeons? The problem, it seemed, was the way you stood waiting outside of the Slytherin dungeons with a small box in your small hands, clad in the cheerful yellow of your Hufflepuff pride, a hopeful smile on your face, bright eyes still carrying the weight of sleep and hair the tiniest bit mussed from your travels here. It was the way you looked at him like he was a treasure and not just some rich prick with a penchant for taking his anger out on the people who deserve it least. No, you were looking at him like he was the sweetest thing you had seen all your life, and it was killing him.

The conversation itself was fine. Draco Malfoy was a perfectionist and a performer, so even when he found himself in a state of irritating mental shock, he could carry a conversation with semi-automatic indifference. “Good morning. Have you gotten lost on your way somewhere? The Slytherin dungeons are no place for you.”

You giggled. Actually giggled. The indifference became harder to uphold. Had you always been this endearing, or was it something about your sleepy gaze? “I’m not lost, silly. I… Happy birthday.”

In her small, angelic hands was a black box, lined with a silver ribbon. Draco felt his jaw drop in sheer surprise. Unmoving, he gave a wry smile. “I don’t understand. Why would you get me a gift?”

Your smile faltered for a fraction of a second and Draco felt his heart come to a complete stop, as if suddenly being cut off by the shattering fragments of your joy. When the hell did he start to care this much?

You shrugged, awkwardly lowering your hands from midair. “Well, Pansy told me your birthday is coming up and I wanted to do something nice. There doesn’t have to be much else to it, does there?”

The question was genuine, or so Draco gathered by the widening of your sleepy eyes and raising of your eyebrows. Choosing to disregard your question, Draco instead chose to focus on a rather essential detail: “Since when are you and Pansy friends?”

Though Pansy was a relatively sociable girl with a penchant for finding the hottest gossip, it was unheard of for her to want to befriend a Hufflepuff. Unless, of course, she was doing it to gain intell to destroy someone’s life. Your smile returned at the question, forcing Draco to believe the reasoning to be the latter and all the while turning the dungeons infinitely brighter. “Oh, right! We were partners in Herbology. She’s brilliant.”

Draco snorted. “Brilliant is one word for it.”

An awkward silence hesitated between the two of you, air charged with a serenely terrifying sense of vulnerability. The Slytherin offered a wry, cagey smile as he reached out to accept the gift. “I, um, thank you. For this.”

His hand brushed yours for a millisecond and he felt blood begin to rush to his face, causing him to clear his throat in a panic. “Well, I ought to go. I’ll see you around.”

As he turned, he felt your eyes lingering on his back as you wished him one last happy birthday. Sulking off to the Great Hall, he found himself fighting off a small, tingling smile.

—-------

It had been a week, and he had yet to open the gift. For some reason, Draco Malfoy had come to believe it was cursed.

Pansy’s voice had found him quickly in the Great Hall the day of his sixteenth birthday. He found his place amongst his friends, receiving extra plates of tarts from Crabbe and Goyle. Blaise patted him on the back as he sat, regarding him with a birthday wish. Across the table, Pansy seemed gloomy and dull. This was a usual look for her, one which Draco had come to abhor recently, but today she looked extra sour. He observed her quietly, waiting for the pen to drop – he knew she would speak without his prompting; she liked the sound of her own voice more than anything.

“Draco, are you alright?” she finally spit out, a look of disdain clear on her face.

His eyebrows knit together in curious confusion. “Fine. Why?”

She rolled her eyes as if he should know he was supposed to be deeply bothered by something. “That Hufflepuff in the corridor? Delivering you a gift? I’d bet ten galleons she’s tried to either poison you or deliver chocolates dosed in Amortentia. Disgusting little rat, that one is.”

Though Draco was used to Pansy’s distaste for anyone other than himself or her, he found himself in shock at the way her words seemed to hit him like daggers. His mask remained, however, as he replied coolly, “She said she got the idea from you. Have you been making friends, Pansy?”

Her eyes went wide before she batted her lashes in his direction, though whether she was trying to send S.O.S. signals or seduce him was completely lost on him. He thought she looked mental. Meanwhile, Crabbe and Goyle laughed dumbly at his side, leaving him to helplessly pray that his birthday wish would bring him new, competent friends.

“Come on, Malfoy, do you even know me?” Pansy sneered. Draco poked at his food boredly, so she continued anyway. “You know I would only ‘befriend’ someone like her to embarrass her. You should have seen the way she was talking about her gift.”

Before Draco could interject, Pansy’s voice was raised by an octave and her hands were waving all frilly in the air. Mockingly, she exclaimed, “Oh, it’s handmade, you know. I knitted it! My muggle mother taught me to waste my time on frilly activities for silly little crushes on boys way too rich and handsome for me!”

It was at this moment that you decided to enter the Great Hall, brilliant smile lighting the room in that special way that only you could. Your eyes were still tired, yet you looked more like life to Draco than his own life had ever seemed. Indeed, on this solemn Wednesday, in the morning light of the Great Hall’s enchanted ceiling, you looked like the essence of living encapsulated in a bottle and sent to sea to survive the waves of a storm. Draco wondered what it would feel like if he were to pick you up and get a taste of all of that light. He couldn’t remember when you had begun to fascinate him like this, but all his mind could focus on in the moment was the shattering of glass as Pansy’s frilly, annoying voice found your ears and her words registered in your heart. Your eyes found him in an instant before turning around and deciding you simply weren’t hungry. Every breath in his lungs, every cell in his body begged him to chase after you – and yet, he sat, listening to the cruel laughter which spilled from Pansy’s lips like a radio.

He wanted to do many stupid things, like get up and kiss your lips or punch Pansy in the face or dive into the Black Lake in hopes it would make him forget about the look on your face. Instead, because Draco is a Malfoy and Malfoys are brilliant, wise wizards, he sat and ate his food and followed his cues and kept his place as the chess piece to society he was. It was foolish to throw away his efforts and alliances over some girl who knit him something for his birthday, just because she wanted to. He tried to pretend he didn’t care, but the guilt found its way into his stomach and made itself at home.

A week had passed, and he felt his fingers trembling guiltily as he slowly caressed the silver ribbon of his birthday gift, now considerably belated. Maybe Pansy was right, and you had somehow poisoned it, and that’s why he hadn’t been able to shake your name from his mind all week. Or maybe, possibly, your caring gesture had revealed to Draco feelings which were previously unbeknownst to him. Or maybe–

His mind continued to spiral as he delicately pulled at the lace as if undressing a lover. The motion felt strangely intimate, causing the guilt in his belly to poke around as if rearranging. It was the middle of the night, and Draco used only the moonlight and a muttered Lumos to aid him in his task. With the ribbon fully removed, he lifted the lid of the box with a breath of great trepidation. Half-expecting to find something dangerous and juvenile, he found himself grateful but not surprised to find a quiet, non-cursed, hand-knit pair of gloves in the most vibrant shade of forest green he had ever seen. Picking them up and trying them on, he found that you had charmed them to be self-heating, and they fit perfectly. A small, uncharacteristic smile found his face in the dark shelter of his dormitory as he noticed a scroll of paper in the box. He unrolled it, reading the neat scrawling of a Hufflepuff infatuated with a Slytherin.

Draco,

Happy birthday! I hope these mittens serve you well. I tried my best! I noticed earlier in the year that your Quidditch gloves had gone without maintenance for a while. I thought these might be helpful for the season to come. I am rooting for you!

Faithfully yours.

Heat as warm as his gloves rushed to his face at the signature. For a Hufflepuff, you certainly appeared to have the proclaimed bravery of a Gryffindor. He tucked the piece of parchment away into his bedside table along with his gloves, finally climbing into bed to contemplate. He was unsure of how to approach you – on one hand, he wanted to thank you for your generosity and commend your brilliant eye. After all, his gloves had just given out on him and torn two matches ago. On the other hand, he was afraid that he would become a babbling baboon should he attempt to express his thoughts. He was entirely unaware of when you had become his undying issue, but he found a greater problem in his lack of distaste for your very existence. Rather, he found himself wanting to give into his selfish desires to taste the sun for once, just to see if it was what he dreamed it would be. To hold the clouds in his hands and feel the wind in his face and not worry about what his fellow Slytherins may think.

He fell asleep to the thought of your lips and that brilliant, bright smile.

—-------

Another week had passed and Draco was still at a cross-roads for what to do in regards to you. Pansy had stopped bringing you up, for she knew from Draco’s silent avoidance that he was not letting on as much as he was thinking. She seemed rather pissy about this fact. Regardless, his thoughts continued their endless berate of his sanity as he questioned whether he should even bring the topic of his birthday gift up to you at all, lest he fall into further demise.

The time unfortunately came for him to make a decision, and he found himself completely unaware of which was the right choice to make. During breakfast the following morning, a note had befallen amongst his fine display of breakfast sausages and fluffy pancakes. Their year at Hogwarts was rapidly approaching an end, and he was thinking that with enough luck he would avoid you for the rest of the term and find a way to make you forget about his existence – perhaps you would find it in your heart to forgive him for the inevitable use of Obliviate on your beautiful, twisted mind.

The Slytherin was quick to realize that luck was not on his side as he opened the letter to see a familiar Hufflepuff’s scrawling.

Draco – I apologize if I embarrassed you. Perhaps Pansy’s words mislead me. Wishing you a great holiday.

Faithfully yours.

It was to his fortune indeed that this note had found him during breakfast among his terribly dull friends. Before they could get the chance to snoop, he rose with a rush to his cheeks. “I’ll be back,” he spoke sternly into the morning air.

He strolled through the Great Hall, meticulously scanning tables in search of your vibrant eyes and luminous smile. Finding your dazzling presence among a table of scorching yellow, he willed you to look up. Right on cue, your eyes met his with a look of – what was it, exactly? Sorrow? Discomfort? Pure angst? He nodded his head in one swift, nearly imperceptible motion, urging you to join him on a stroll. He prayed you understood and continued his walk to his own ruin. Mercifully, he heard soft footfalls from behind him as he exited the corridor. He paused, turning to await the sunshine he knew would inevitably fall on his face.

He was left waiting, as your arrival greeted him not with joy, but rather with a nervous, subdued air. “Did you need something, Draco?”

Caught off guard by your cool distance, he coughed up a weak reply. “I… yes, I did. I received your note.”

“That’s not surprising. My owl is a lovely little thing – quite the charmer down at the Owl Post.”

“Yes, I’m sure. Seemed quite nice from what I could tell.”

A pause. Silence, dripping thick like blood on cobstone. Had he waited too long?

“Did you just beckon me to discuss my owl, or was there more you needed to say?”

Draco sighed, realizing he would have to face his fears and discuss it with you eventually. “There’s more. Walk with me, would you?”

You nodded slowly, falling into step beside him. His breathing was heavy with an unseen weight, leaving you fearful for the berating you were to receive. It stayed like this for a while, until you had arrived in a clearing of open greenery devoid of nosey witches and wizards. His path strayed as he began to pace back and forth, searching for the best way to approach the conversation. Finally, still relentlessly pacing, he took three deep breaths. “My gift. Your mother taught you to knit – is that correct?”

Your eyes widened in shock. Out of all of the things which could have occurred in this conversation, the Draco Malfoy, the pureblooded extraordinaire himself, asking about your muggle mother’s teachings was the last thing you would have guessed. A small smile came to your lips as you spoke, a faint glow beginning to return to your skin. “Yes, my mother taught me when I was young.”

Draco Malfoy was raised to be brilliant. Yet, when this Hufflepuff sat before him bore even the smallest of smiles, he found himself wanting to be found plain stupid. There was no denying it – somehow, along the long and twisted road of Draco’s mind and heart and life, he had fallen for you. Though he wouldn’t admit it, he was terribly smitten, and smitten men do incredibly idiotic things like ask you: “Can you tell me about her?”

The question took you both by surprise, but it was already in the air. Draco had already twisted and torn and tattered so many of his father’s teachings – the least he could do was hold true to his commitment to mean what he said. You blinked twice, searching his face for insincerity. Making fun of you was one thing, but teasing your parents was a whole new offense. Finding no fault in his defenses, you began to slowly peel back your walls before his eyes: “My mother taught me to knit when I was still young. She told me that she wanted me to know how to express myself in ways beyond the magical bounds, so I would always know who I was. She won my father’s heart by her ingenuity. Papa had always called it her ‘artsy grace.’ Momma just called it ‘trying her best.’ I remember him telling me that till the grave he would see my mother in the color yellow and flowers and the smell of paint and feel her in the warmth of the sun. I always hoped someone would love me like that – sorry, I’m completely rambling…”

Draco was stunned – completely, thoroughly, unabashedly stunned. Stunned not by your words, but by their implications. Slowly, the color yellow, and the warmth of the sun, and the feel of soft wool had come to remind him of you. So he smiled, disregarding all he knew to be true in life to take the chance and taste sunshine. “That’s beautiful. I loved the gift.”

Your smile returned ten-fold, and suddenly Draco wondered how something as precious as this could ever be viewed as wrong when it felt so right. He continued with renewed confidence. “I’m sorry I didn’t say something sooner – I didn’t know the right way to approach you.”

You laughed softly, tucking a rogue strand of hair behind your ear. You were shy – was this a good or a bad thing? “It’s alright, Draco. It’s funny that we spoke today, though.”

“Why is that?”

“Because it’s my birthday.”

Oh. Oh fuck. “Bloody hell, I didn’t know. Happy birthday! What can I get you?”

Another laugh. “Oh please, I don’t need anything.”

“I insist! Anything at all.”

Your eyes twinkled with a certain sense of mischief. “How much for a kiss?”

“Cheeky bludger, you are!”

Draco laughed despite himself as he leaned into you. He knew this was insane, but he found it harder and harder to care. After all, who was he to fight the sun?

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

[jijournal]

"Jealous Much?" | D.M

Potter!reader x Draco Malfoy

Summary: You receive a letter with a gift every week, and your brother Harry and his friends won’t stop teasing you about a “mystery admirer.” Little does he know, the sender is the last person he’d ever expect.

A/N: I'm currently in love with potter!reader x draco scenarios. ♡

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

It started about a month ago—a quiet little mystery that became your favorite part of the week.

Every Friday morning, just as the Great Hall buzzed with chatter and clinking silverware, a sleek, pale-gray owl swooped down gracefully and landed in front of you. It was never late. And it always brought something thoughtful—something that made your heart race just a little.

The first gift had been a delicate silver charm bracelet, simple but elegant, with a tiny serpent dangling from the chain. The note attached was written in tidy script:

“Something subtle… to keep me close, even when I’m not there.”

The second week, it was a small box of enchanted chocolates—each one shaped like a star, and when you bit into them, they whispered things like, “You’re beautiful,” and “Thinking of you.” The letter that time said:

“A little sweetness to match yours. Don’t share them with Weasley.”

You had giggled at that one, earning a curious look from Harry across the table.

Week three, it was a pressed flower—some kind of rare, deep purple bloom you’d never seen before—enchanted so it would never wilt. The note was shorter that time, but no less meaningful:

“Even something rare and beautiful pales next to you.”

And today? As the owl landed gracefully in front of you, heads turned, and Harry, who had already caught on to the pattern, raised his eyebrows with exaggerated interest. You untied the small parcel and unfolded the parchment first.

It read:

“Meet me tonight. Same place. P.S. You look stunning when you smile at my letters.”

You couldn’t help the grin that spread across your face as you unwrapped the gift—a silver locket. When you clicked it open, inside was a tiny photo of you (one you didn’t even remember being taken) smiling down at something out of frame. Opposite it was a moving image of Draco, eyes soft and a rare, genuine smile tugging at his lips. Your heart squeezed.

“Alright,” Harry said, setting down his fork and leaning forward on his elbows. “This is getting serious now. A locket? You have to tell me who it is.”

Ron and Hermione both looked up, curious and amused, but Harry was the most relentless.

“I’m guessing—hmm—Ernie Macmillan.”

You rolled your eyes, tucking the locket carefully into your pocket. “Nope.”

“Michael Corner?”

“Wrong again.”

“Hmm…” He tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Zabini? He’s smooth.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Lockhart?!” Harry gasped suddenly, eyes wide with mock horror. “Is it Lockhart? You can tell me!”

“Harry!” you squeaked, swatting at him, your face burning as you laughed.

“Look at her blush!” Harry crowed. “It’s Lockhart. Case closed.”

Ron groaned. “Please, no one wants to think about that.”

That night, you slipped out like usual, heart thudding as you made your way through the secret passage to your hidden meeting spot. And sure enough, there was Draco, already waiting, arms crossed, expression… stormy.

You frowned. “Hey… what’s wrong?”

He didn’t answer at first, just glared down at the ground. His jaw was tight, and he seemed to be brooding even more than usual.

“Draco?” you pressed, stepping closer.

Finally, he huffed and muttered, “If your brother keeps talking about other boys, I swear I’m going to hex him into next week.”

You blinked, startled—then burst out laughing. “That’s why you’re sulking?”

Draco scowled but didn’t deny it. “It’s annoying. All day, it’s been Corner this and Zabini that—and Lockhart?! Are you kidding me? I should’ve hexed Potter right then and there.”

You giggled, sliding your arms around his waist. “Jealous, much?”

“Maybe.” Draco didn’t even try to hide it. His eyes were sharp but softened when you reached up to brush his hair back.

“You know it’s only ever you, right?”

That earned a rare, genuine smile. He leaned down and kissed you, slow and deep, pulling you flush against him like he never wanted to let go.

“Let them guess,” you whispered against his lips. “It’s more fun that way.”

“As long as you remember who you belong to,” Draco murmured, smirking now, possessive but playful.

You laughed, pecking his lips. “Always.”

⸻

The following Friday, you thought maybe things would settle down. But oh, how wrong you were.

The owl swooped in as usual—but this time, it carried a huge box. Bigger than any gift so far. You stared as it dropped the package in front of you with a graceful thud.

“Oh, this is serious now,” Harry announced, eyes lighting up as he grabbed the box before you could. “Come on, let’s see what lover boy sent this time.”

You groaned, but Hermione and Ron were already leaning in curiously, and of course, the Weasley twins—never ones to miss out on teasing—slid onto the bench with identical grins.

Harry opened the box dramatically—and all five of them gasped.

Inside was the most stunning gown you’d ever seen: emerald-green silk, shimmering faintly, clearly enchanted, with intricate embroidery that looked too expensive to even touch. You couldn’t stop staring at it.

“Holy—” Fred began.

“—bloody hell,” George finished.

“Is that designer?” Hermione whispered, eyes wide.

Harry held it up, gaping. “This must’ve cost a fortune! Okay, okay, this is big money. We need to think. Who’s rich enough to pull this off?”

You tried to grab it back, face burning. “Harry, stop—”

“Theodore Nott?” Harry guessed first.

“Nope.”

“Mclaggen?”

“Wrong.”

“Zabini?” Hermione chimed in, clearly entertained now.

“Montague?” Fred suggested, holding the dress up to himself with a wink. “If it is, tell him I want one too.”

“Ohhh,” George added dramatically, “I bet it’s one of those international students. Super rich.”

You groaned, hiding your face. “You guys are ridiculous.”

Fred and George shared a look and started chanting, “She’s getting married! She’s getting married!”

“I am NOT—!"

And then it happened.

A sudden clatter of footsteps, sharp and purposeful, echoed across the Great Hall. Everyone turned—and your stomach dropped.

Draco Malfoy was storming across the room, eyes locked on you, face like thunder.

The table fell dead silent.

“Uh… why’s Malfoy coming over here?” Ron muttered nervously.

Draco didn’t stop until he was standing right behind Harry, towering over him with his arms crossed and that deadly glare fixed in place.

“I’m the one who bought the dress, Potter,” Draco announced, his voice cool but sharp, loud enough for half the hall to hear. “Not the cheap students you’re rattling off like some pathetic guessing game."

Silence.

Harry’s jaw dropped. Fred dropped his fork. Hermione blinked like she couldn’t process what had just happened.

Draco turned to you then, gaze softening ever so slightly. “You’ll look stunning in it, by the way.”

Harry's eyes widen even more, practically bulging out of his eye sockets, as Draco leans in to kiss your forehead.

And with that, he spun on his heel and strode out, his cloak following behind him.

There was a beat of stunned silence… and then chaos.

“MALFOY?!” Harry exploded, whipping around to stare at you. “You’re dating MALFOY?!”

Fred and George howled with laughter, practically falling off the bench.

“Ohhh, this is gold,” George gasped between wheezes.

“Best reveal ever,” Fred agreed, wiping tears from his eyes.

Ron just looked horrified, and Hermione… Hermione slowly closed her book, gave you a look, and said, “I knew it.”

You buried your face in your hands, groaning. “…Well. I guess the mystery’s solved.”

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

masterlist!

[spencersmopbucket]

Soul Ache | Draco Malfoy

Pairing: Draco Malfoy x Reader Summary: You simply can't stay an ex when you're the only one Draco has every truly loved. Plus.. You just don't look as good with a Gryffindor. Themes & Warnings: jealous!Draco, possessive!Draco, yearning, fluff, oh my god so much tension, swearing, SMUT (EATING, fingering, messy stuff, p in v), angst KIND OF with resolution.

It was a dream at first.

So many had been trying to get a chance at Draco for years. He was everything a girl could want. Handsome, rich, respected, talented. But he never looked at the ones that fell at his feet. Oddly, for someone who life came so easily to, he was looking for a challenge. S conquest. Something to achieve and be proud of.

You were it, of course. Your feistiness, your drive, your refusal to flop before a man and beg him to be the one that puts a ring on your finger. You respected yourself, which was one of the key differences between you and the other girls and what made you so appealing to Draco. One would think, looking at Draco Malfoy, that he wouldn't want someone capable of standing up for themself, someone who was stubborn.. But falling for you was so quick. It was effortless.

It was just getting you to fall back that was the hard part.

After months of distanced courting, you finally allowed Draco to hold your hand in the hallways, to scare off whoever bothered you, and to drape his scarves and cloaks over your shoulders when you were stared at a little too hard. You ran your hands through his icy blonde hair in the shimmering moonlight at the Astronomy Tower, lips urgently crashing against his in an attempt to understand how in love you were.

Draco was so much deeper than what others saw. He was capable of love, love so deep that you almost drowned.

You were the one thing Draco Malfoy had ever fought for. But he didn't know how to keep you.

It wasn't cheating, not really. Not in the physical sense. But there were letters, there were promises made to people who could help his family, whispered arrangements you stumbled upon because Draco didn't bother to lock his desk one day.

A favor here, a compromise there, all of it threaded through with flirtation. Not love -- he was firm on that. It was never love. But you didn’t care about the technicalities.

You cared that while you were fighting for him, he was negotiating with other girls like you were an inconvenience.

It ended in his dorm. You were standing by his desk with the crumpled parchment in your hand, breathing hard.

“So this is how you do it, huh?” you spat, voice shaking. “You secure your family’s precious alliances by whoring out your attention to anyone who’ll help you?”

He went pale, grey eyes sharp with something that wasn’t guilt yet, just fear of being caught.

“It isn’t like that, love. You know it isn’t. Don’t be fucking dramatic--”

“Don’t you dare tell me how to feel about this, Draco.”

He reached for you and you stepped back, the paper crumpling tighter in your fist.

“It’s strategy,” he hissed. “My father expects--”

“I don’t give a fuck about your father!”

Your voice broke on the last word. He flinched like you’d slapped him.

“You knew what they were asking me to do,” he said, quieter. Almost desperate. “You knew. And you--you were supposed to understand. I need this. For us. For my family.”

“I was supposed to understand you humiliating me? You promising things to other girls while you’re with me? No.”

Silence filled the space between you like poison.

“Then leave,” he whispered.

“I’m already gone.”

You tossed the letter at him. He didn’t even try to catch it.

You left before you could see if he broke.

The feeling of your absence hit Draco like a ton of bricks to the stomach. In every silence, in everyday's classes, in the nights at the Astronomy Tower that he spent alone when you'd normally be there next to him, keeping his cold skin warm.

He didn’t eat much. Didn’t speak unless spoken to. Even Pansy stopped trying after a while, realizing he wasn’t moody -- he was wrecked.

He cried, but only where no one could hear him. Silent, hoarse sobs with a fist pressed to his mouth to muffle the sound. His voice started to vanish -- raw and strained from nights spent whispering your name into the dark, pleading with a version of you that would never answer.

He still carried your favorite quill in his satchel. Still flinched every time he saw someone wearing a scarf like yours. Still instinctively turned his head when he heard your laugh, only to remember it wasn’t his anymore.

The worst part wasn’t losing you. It was knowing he’d done it to himself. It was knowing that he'd lost a planned future with the only girl he'd ever loved because he couldn't prioritize loyalty.

And you?

You were strong. Just like he knew you'd be. You definitely weren't joyful without him, but you never cried or complained. You sat with a straight face, entire body set in stone, refusing to acknowledge his existence.

You just stopped speaking his name.

You sat in class with your head high and your eyes blank. When the professor called on you, your voice was steady, cold. Even as your heart clenched at the thought of him across the room, trying not to look at you but always failing.

You didn’t cry. Not where anyone could see. Not even when you were alone. It felt like crying would make it real, and you refused to give him that.

You sat in the Great Hall with your friends, ignoring the way he watched you from the other end of the table, silver eyes glassy and furious. You ate meals you could barely swallow.

Your posture was perfect. Your uniform immaculate. You made yourself untouchable. A fortress he could never breach again.

You were like this, never laughing, never expressing an ounce of joy.. Until Oliver Wood sauntered up to you.

The Great Hall's attention was immediately commanded. Whispers spread. Eyes focused onto you and the approaching Gryffindor boy.

“What's the bloody idiot doing?”

“Oh, shite. He's off to speak to Y/N!”

“I pity that poor bloke.”

Draco’s fork stopped halfway to his mouth. He didn’t even blink. Just stared, silver eyes sharpening to knives.

You felt it too, the shift. The sudden heat of so many eyes on you. You kept your spine straight, fingers curling around your goblet, refusing to give them a show.

But Oliver didn’t seem to care about the audience. He grinned at you, easy and genuine.

He cracked a fucking joke.

And you burst into laughter. For the first time in months.

Not polite, tight-lipped laughter, but real, unstoppable laughter that shook your shoulders and made you cover your mouth too late to hide it.

The entire Hall went dead silent for a beat.

Draco’s fork fell from his fingers and clattered onto his plate.

He didn’t pick it up. Didn’t move. Just watched you, frozen, the look in his eyes murderous and wrecked all at once.

And for the first time since you’d left him, you didn’t care.

The following weeks were fantastic, but grueling for Draco. You went to Oliver's games, despite being talked about for “dating” a Gryffindor. You went to Hogsmeade, ignoring Draco and his friends in favor of sipping butterbeer and people watching with Oliver.

Every time Draco saw the two of you, he wound tighter and tighter. The jealousy, the anguish, the rage, it mixed together inside of him, creating a storm. Draco normally felt things strongly, but this? This was something different. He knew it was his fault. But the anger blinded him. It refused to let him rationalize. After years of you being his, he was forced to see you prance around with some stupid fucking Gryffindor jock.

Today, you stood in the hall with Oliver and his friends, giggling. The afternoon sun streamed through the castle windows, catching in your hair, making you look infuriatingly radiant to the boy sulking far down the corridor, fists in his pockets, eyes fixed on you like a curse.

But you didn’t notice Draco right now. Or if you did, you didn’t care.

Oliver’s arm was draped lazily across your shoulders, not possessive but comfortable, like you’d known each other forever. His friends were chuckling about some disastrous practice session.

Oliver turned his head to you, eyes bright with mischief.

“Come on, back me up here, Y/N,” he urged, lips curling. “I told them it wasn’t my fault the Bludger nearly took my head off. Clearly it was Bletchley’s shite aim.”

You snorted. Loudly enough that a couple of younger students turned to look.

“Mhm. Right. Because you’re so good at dodging,” you teased, nudging his side with your elbow.

He gave a wounded gasp, clutching at his chest with over-the-top dramatics.

“You wound me,” he declared. “I ask for backup and I get betrayal. Traitor.”

You just grinned wider.

“I’m not your lawyer, Wood. I only deal in facts.”

Oliver’s friends burst out laughing. One of them clapped you on the shoulder, saying, “She’s got you there, mate.”

Oliver shook his head in mock exasperation, but he was beaming at you. Really looking at you, like you were a person and not a prize.

“Fine. Fine,” he relented, squeezing your shoulders lightly. “But you’re still coming to the next match, yeah? Can’t have my lucky charm backing out now.”

Your lips twitched, warmer now, the fortress cracking just a little.

“I’ll be there,” you said softly, holding his gaze.

He grinned. The whole group cheered and jostled you both, making you laugh even harder.

And down the corridor, Draco Malfoy watched it all.

Eyes black with jealousy.

Teeth grinding.

Heart breaking in slow, unstoppable motion.

Draco stormed into the Slytherin common room, robes billowing behind him like some furious bat. He dropped his bag with a thud and didn’t sit, just prowled in front of the fire, breathing hard.

Crabbe and Goyle exchanged a wary glance. Blaise Zabini lounged in an armchair, one brow raised in silent judgment. Pansy sat cross-legged on the green velvet sofa, pretending to read.

“She was laughing,” Draco snapped, voice clipped and tight. “With him. That fucking git.”

Pansy didn’t even glance up.

“Yes, Draco, we all saw. Whole sodding corridor did.”

Draco’s eyes flashed.

“She’s doing it on purpose, Pans. Parading him around. Acting like she’s over it.”

“Maybe she is,” Blaise drawled lazily, studying his nails. “Who can blame her?”

Draco rounded on him.

“Don’t start, Zabini.”

Blaise smirked, infuriatingly calm.

“Mate, you humiliated her. You expect her to mope forever? She’s got Wood now. Big, dumb Gryffindor with a shiny Quidditch badge. She’s moved on.”

Draco’s jaw worked furiously.

“That’s not what happened, you bloody prick. Watch your mouth before I--”

Pansy snapped her book shut with a crack.

“You wrote letters to other girls. Promises, Draco. She found them. What did you think she’d do?”

Goyle grunted in agreement.

“Yeah, s’not great, mate.”

Draco’s glare could have melted glass.

“He had his arm around her today.”

The words dripped poison.

Silence fell. Even Blaise stopped smirking.

“Like she was his,” Draco spat, voice cracking despite his best efforts. “Like she belonged to him. She's mine. Always has been.”

Crabbe shifted uncomfortably.

“We could... y’know. Sort him out.”

Draco barked a humourless laugh.

“Yeah? Brilliant plan, that. Hexing Wood so she can really hate me. Genius.”

Pansy exhaled in frustration.

“So what are you going to do?”

He didn’t answer straight away. Just stared into the fire, shoulders tense, breath coming short. Then, without another word, he left again, grey eyes hardened and focused.

He knew where he'd find you. Right at the Quidditch field, under the lights, watching that idiotic git and his dumb friends practice Quidditch 24/7. You were going to talk to him. He was done being ignored, done stewing in his own misery. He didn't care if he had to drag you off the field.

The grass could have fried below his feet. Draco was fuming.

He crossed the grounds at a furious pace, cloak snapping in the night wind. The chill didn’t even touch him, he was burning from the inside out.

As the pitch came into view, he could already hear them: shouts, laughter, Wood’s barking orders like he owned the place. He spotted the glint of red and gold circling overhead, Bludgers cracking against bats.

And there you were.

Exactly where he’d known you’d be.

Perched on the stands, arms resting on your knees, chin propped in your hand. Watching them. Watching him.

You laughed at something Oliver yelled from the air. It wasn’t even a good joke. Draco could tell from here. He could feel his blood boil at the sound, your laugh, something he hadn’t heard in weeks except for that humiliating first time in the Hall.

He slowed only once, boots crunching on the grass. Took a deep breath that didn’t help at all.

Then he climbed the stands two at a time.

“Oi! Malfoy!”

A couple of Gryffindor Beaters noticed him first, scowling, voices carrying across the pitch.

Draco ignored them completely. His eyes were locked on you.

“Y/N.”

Your name came out like a snarl, low and tight, all his careful composure finally snapping.

You turned slowly, brows lifting in cool, deliberate surprise.

“What do you want, Malfoy?”

The use of his surname sliced at him worse than any hex.

He didn’t answer immediately. Just stared at you, really looked at you. The curve of your mouth still turned from that stupid laugh, your hair mussed by the wind, the Gryffindor scarf someone had given you wrapped around your neck.

His fists clenched at his sides.

“Get down.”

You blinked once.

“I’m sorry?”

His voice was colder, but it trembled.

“I said get the fuck down here. Now.”

That got the whole team’s attention. Oliver was already landing, broom braced against his shoulder, face thunderous.

“Oi, Malfoy, back off. Get your arse off my pitch.”

Draco didn’t even look at him.

“This isn’t about you, Wood. Piss off.”

He only had eyes for you.

“We’re talking. Now. I don’t give a shit if I have to drag you.”

Your friends shifted beside you, uncertain, glancing between the furious Slytherin and the Gryffindor captain who looked one word away from lunging.

But Draco didn’t move toward Oliver.

He just waited.

Jaw locked.

Chest heaving.

Grey eyes shining with rage, hurt, and something that looked terrifyingly close to begging.

“Draco..” You said, your eyes fighting the urge to soften. You glanced at Oliver, who's fists squeezed together in readiness. “This really isn't the time or place.”

His teeth gritted.

“I don't care.”

Draco’s voice was raw, stripped of all its usual arrogance.

“Five minutes,” he bit out. “That’s all I’m asking.”

You hesitated, glancing at Oliver, who was already stepping forward, his grip tightening on his broom.

“Y/N, you don’t have to--”

“It’s fine,” you said quietly, standing.

Oliver’s jaw tensed. “Like hell it is, lass.”

You shot him a look, let me handle this, and he exhaled sharply but didn’t stop you as you descended the stands.

Draco didn’t move, didn’t even breathe, until you were right in front of him.

Then he grabbed your wrist and yanked you toward the edge of the pitch, away from prying eyes.

You stumbled, hissing, “Draco--stop--”

He didn’t. Not until you were hidden behind the stands, the shadows swallowing you both. Then he whirled on you, his grip on your wrist unrelenting.

His eyes could've set off a grenade.

Cold fingers gripped at the scarf around your neck, immediately unraveling it.

“Get this ugly thing off from you. Christ. Can't even fucking talk while I'm looking at it.” He said, managing to rip the Gryffindor scarf off from you, grimacing in pure disgust. “One could seriously wonder if you were a house traitor.”

Draco’s voice was a low snarl as he tossed the scarlet-and-gold scarf aside like it was cursed.

“There,” he bit out, his fingers flexing at his sides as if resisting the urge to touch you again. “Now you look like yourself again.”

You stared at him, chest rising and falling with unsteady breaths.

“You don’t get to decide what I wear,” you snapped.

Draco stepped closer, his body caging you against the wooden beams of the stands. The scent of him, crisp apples and winter air, flooded your senses, familiar and infuriating. His grey eyes searched yours desperately, looking for a single trace of affection.

“I meant nothing to you then? The years spent with me meant nothing?” He spat.

You swallowed hard, your heart pounding painfully in your chest. The ache of his words cut deeper than you expected.

“I never said that,” you breathed, voice barely steady. “You don’t get to claim my past like that. You--”

His jaw tightened, eyes darkening with frustration and pain.

“Don’t twist my words, Y/N.”

You met his gaze, fierce despite the trembling inside.

“You meant everything. Every-fucking-thing,” you hissed, biting back tears that you'd done so well to fight for months. “But there was nothing left when you decided that family matters were more important.”

Draco flinched like you’d slapped him. His nostrils flared, breath coming in ragged, furious bursts.

“That’s not fair,” he ground out, voice cracking despite the venom. “You think I wanted any of that? You think I liked doing it?”

Your eyes flashed, hot tears finally spilling over, but you didn’t back down an inch.

“You did it anyway.”

His mouth opened, then shut, words failing him. His hands hovered at his sides, fingers curling and uncurling like he was fighting not to grab you and shake you.

“I had no choice,” he growled, voice low and shaking. “You don’t understand what it’s like, what my father,”

You cut him off with a bitter laugh that sounded half-sob.

“Don’t you dare make this about him. Don’t you dare act like you didn’t know exactly what you were doing to me.”

He pressed closer, so close you could feel the heat of his chest against yours, his eyes boring into you like he could carve the truth out of you by force.

“I was trying to keep us safe,” he hissed, voice breaking, something ragged and awful in it. “I was doing it for you.”

Your breath hitched at that, but you shook your head violently, hair whipping across your face.

“I never asked you to sacrifice us for your family’s goddamn pride. You were going behind my back, Draco. A little bit of honesty would've fixed everything!”

Silence fell between you, thick and choking.

Draco’s jaw trembled. For the first time, the fury in his eyes wavered, replaced by something hollow and wounded.

He swallowed hard, voice dropping to a raw whisper.

“I didn’t know what else to do.”

You shut your eyes, tears spilling freely now. Your voice was quiet, broken.

“Then you should’ve just loved me.”

He exhaled like he’d been stabbed.

“I did,” he hissed out, eyebrows furrowed. “I do. Every day I do. More than I love myself. More than I love the stupid fucking family matters.” His voice was like venom, angry, burning velvet.

Your breath hitched at his words, at the way they poured out of him like a confession he’d been dying to make but never dared.

His hands finally lifted, hovering uncertainly near your arms before curling into fists, like he couldn’t bear the thought of touching you if you’d only pull away.

“Then why didn’t you say it?” you whispered, voice cracking under the weight of all the months you’d held yourself together. “Why didn’t you tell me before you ruined us? Tell me what you had to do.”

His eyes were wild, shimmering with unshed tears he refused to let fall.

“Because I’m a fucking coward,” he spat, voice rough. “Because I didn’t want you to know how weak I was. How much I needed you and how I'm just a bloody puppet.”

You shook your head, wiping at your cheeks with the back of your hand, breath hiccupping with grief and fury.

“You didn’t have to be strong, Draco. I would’ve taken you exactly as you were.”

He shook his head.

“Doesn't matter. You have Wood now, yeah?” He laughed bitterly. “Brave and honest, just like a Gryffindor. Sickening.” He commented, like it was the most vile thing in the world. “I’ll beat that filthy blood-traitor within an inch of his fucking life.”

Your fingers curled into fists at your sides, nails biting into your palms.

"Don't you dare threaten him," you hissed. "Oliver's honest with me. He's different."

Draco flinched like you'd struck him, his silver eyes flashing with something wounded and feral.

"Is that what you want?" he snarled. "Some golden-hearted hero who'll never disappoint you? Who'll never have to make the hard choices?" He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "Tell me, does he know you? The way I do? Does he know how you bite your lip when you're trying not to cry? How you hum under your breath when you're brewing? How you whimper when--"

"Stop it." You shoved him back, your breath coming in sharp gasps. "You don't get to do this. You don't get to remember me like that and then -- then throw me away when it's convenient!"

Draco's face twisted. For a second, he looked like he might crumble. Then his mask slammed back into place, colder than ever. A hand came up, finger tips ghosting the sides of your throat.

“Watch your mouth. You are by far the best thing that has ever happened to me, love. I'm sick every day thinking that you don't believe it,” he whispered, his fingers squeezing a bit harder. “Please.”

Your breath caught in your throat. Not from fear, never fear, but from the weight of his words, the pressure of his fingers, the look in his eyes like he was already drowning in everything he couldn't say out loud.

“Let go,” you breathed, voice shaking, not from weakness, but from the storm surging inside you.

But he didn’t. Not right away.

Draco’s grip wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t meant to hurt. But it was desperate, like if he let go of you now, you’d disappear for good. His eyes burned into yours, silver lightning in a dark sky.

“I remember everything,” he said, softer now, his voice breaking at the edges. “Every bloody second with you. I don’t sleep. I don’t eat. I close my eyes and it’s you.”

His hand finally dropped, but his body didn’t move.

“I know I ruined it. I know. But I never stopped loving you. I never stopped. And you standing here... acting like he could ever replace what we had--”

“He didn’t replace it,” you interrupted, voice trembling, but sure. “He respected it. He respected me. Something you forgot how to do.”

Draco flinched like the words knocked the air from his lungs. His mouth opened, but no sound came out.

“You don’t get to demand closeness,” you said, the anger behind your tears rising like a tidal wave. “You lost that."

His chest was rising and falling fast now, panic threading through the rage.

“Y/N…” he whispered. “Don’t walk away. Please. Not again.”

You looked at him -- really looked at him. Pale, furious, unraveling at the seams.

You saw something you'd never seen. Vulnerability. Bare honesty. Desperation. All of the ugly emotions that he kept from you, just like his father had taught. And you broke. For once, you couldn't be strong. You couldn't be honorable. You broke. All of the feelings rushed in. The heartbreak, the love, the yearning for your home back. All of the hurt from what you lacked. And what you lacked was Draco, even if you didn't trust him.

Walking back in three large steps, you grabbed his face and brought it down to your own tear soaked one, your lips colliding in a harsh kiss.

Draco froze for half a second, shocked by the force of you -- by the taste of salt on your lips and the shaking of your breath. Then he broke with you.

His hands flew up, burying themselves in your hair, clutching like he could anchor himself there forever. He kissed you back with something that wasn’t gentle at all, wasn’t sweet. It was frantic. Bruising. A clash of teeth and tongues and desperate sobs you both tried to swallow.

Your fingers dug into his jaw, dragging him closer, needing him to feel everything you’d buried.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he choked between kisses, voice shredded. “I’m so fucking sorry. I’m so--”

“Shut up,” you whispered hoarsely, pressing your mouth back to his before you could start sobbing in earnest.

You didn’t want words anymore. Words had betrayed you both.

He staggered forward, forcing you back against the wooden beams of the stands, but this time you didn’t push him away. Your arms locked around his neck, grounding yourself in the smell of him, the feel of him. The stupid warmth you hated yourself for missing so badly.

“Don’t leave me,” he gasped against your lips, voice cracking in a way you’d never heard before.

You shuddered, tears spilling freely onto his skin.

“I hate you,” you whispered brokenly. “I hate you so much.”

But you kissed him harder.

And he let out something like a sob, clutching you tighter, forehead pressing desperately to yours between rushed, clumsy kisses.

“I know,” he breathed. “I know. But I love you. Merlin, I love you.”

He kissed you again, gentler now but no less desperate, hands trembling as they cupped your face. Like he was terrified you’d vanish if he let go.

Then, from the pitch, he heard Wood's voice. Talking casually with a friend in his too loud tone. He wasn't approaching the two of you -- he was respecting your wishes. However, it was enough to piss Draco off. Enough to remind Draco of who was trying to replace him.

His eyes narrowed into a glare again.

With one hand, he tilted your face, looking into it. He grabbed your hand with the other.

“Come with me.” He said, tugging you off the field.

You didn't argue. You knew this look. The jealousy, the inability to contain himself. You knew what would happen if you kept him too close to who was afflicting him. So, you followed. His steps were fast, legs long and body tall, dragging you behind him with a tight grip.

When you reached the dorm, you immediately hit the wall.

“Bloody waste of space should never have laid a finger on this.” He hissed, his mouth planting sloppy, wet kisses onto your neck. You exhaled, gripping his robes tightly.

“Draco--”

“Enough talk. Gonna show you how much I missed you, then I'm gonna show you everything that Gryffindor half-breed can't do for you.”

“Draco, I--” you tried again, voice cracking with emotion, but he growled low in his throat, cutting you off.

“I said enough.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you. His silver eyes were dark, swirling with that familiar storm of jealousy, anger, and raw need. But beneath it all, you saw the thing that undid you every time: fear.

Fear of losing you.

His hand squeezed yours, painfully tight but grounding, refusing to let you go.

“Look at me,” he demanded, voice low and shaking. “Look at me.”

You did. Chest heaving. Eyes wet.

He dragged his thumb across your cheekbone, smearing away the remnants of tears, before cupping your jaw and forcing your head back against the wall.

“He doesn’t know you,” he spat, his mouth brushing yours with every word. “Not like this. Not like I do.”

You shuddered, fingers curling into his robes, pulling him closer even as you hated yourself for it.

“He can’t make you sound like this,” Draco continued, voice dropping to a husky rasp, his lips trailing down your throat. “Can’t make you feel like this.”

Your breath hitched, a broken moan escaping despite your best efforts.

“Draco, please—”

“Please what, love?” he taunted, kissing you so harshly you thought your lips would bruise. His free hand skimmed your waist, gripping possessively. “Tell me. Beg me.”

Your eyes fluttered shut, teeth sinking into your lip to keep from whimpering, but he wouldn’t allow it. His fingers dug into your hip, dragging you against him so you could feel exactly what he wanted.

“Say it.”

You exhaled shakily, voice cracking under the weight of everything between you.

“I missed you,” you whispered. “Fuck, I missed you.”

That broke him.

He crashed his mouth onto yours with something between a sob and a growl, devouring you, kissing you like he wanted to consume every last memory of Oliver fucking Wood from your mouth.

His grip on you tightened, fingers digging into your hair, your waist, desperate to claim every part of you.

“Mine,” he breathed against your lips. “Always. Say it.”

You couldn’t lie. Not to him. Not to yourself.

“Yours,” you gasped. “Always yours.”

And the last piece of him that had been holding back shattered completely.

“Good. There's my girl. Haven’t really lost you, have I, love?” He chuckled cockily, reaching down to your shirt, tucked into your skirt carefully. He tore it off without a second thought, looking down at your skin.

The cool air made you whimper, squirming.

To placate you, he rubbed a hand along your side, still admiring quietly.

“Stunning. Nothing I’m sharing with Wood, that fucking reject.” He snarled.

Then, he quickly redirected you, pushing you back onto his bed demandingly. You gasped in surprise as he slid a finger under the waistband of your skirt, pulling it off in one swift motion. You were left in just your bra and underwear, the cold air biting at you, making you ache. Draco stared down at you with hot grey eyes.

“Dray.. Please.”

“Please what?”

“Want you.”

Draco smirked, wickedly and snidely, leaning down a bit.

“Me? You’re sure the Gryffindor superstar couldn’t do it better? The lad was--”

You groaned, rubbing your thighs together. They were beginning to get sticky, catching the moisture from the heat between your legs.

“No! Please.”

Without another word, he leant down the rest of the way, running a finger down the front of your soaked panties. Humming at your reaction, the arch of your back and soft moan, he looked at his finger. The dampness glistened.

With another brush, conveniently right in the most sensitive area, he pressed a gentle kiss to your clothed peak. You hissed, threading your fingers through his messy blonde hair. He grinned.

“Patience, patience. I’ll get to it.”

Finally, he pulled your sticky underwear down, and his smile widened.

“Gorgeous. Prettiest pussy in the world, love.”

He kissed it, eliciting a moan from you, the heat of his mouth and his bare skin finally touching where you wanted it. Thickening the spit over his tongue, he gave you one broad lick, your thighs fighting to close around his head and arms.

He tsked against your wet heat, letting his hands fall to pin your legs down. He licked deeper, splitting you completely, hitting every spot that mattered. You moaned, your back leaving the bed, arms coming up to grasp whatever you could reach. His ministrations were lewd, wet and sloppy, like he was taking his time to taste you.

Draco groaned against you, the vibrations making your toes curl.

"Fuck," he muttered, pulling back just enough to speak, his lips glistening with you. "Taste even better than I remember."

You whimpered, hips lifting off the bed, chasing his mouth.

He smirked, dragging his tongue up your slit slowly, teasingly, watching your face twist with frustration.

"Draco--"

"Say it again," he demanded, nipping at your inner thigh. "Say you're mine."

You gasped as his fingers replaced his tongue, two slipping inside you with ease, curling just so.

"Yours," you choked out, back arching. "Only yours--fuck--"

His free hand gripped your hip, holding you down as his fingers worked you ruthlessly, his mouth sealing over your clit again, sucking hard.

You came with a broken cry, thighs shaking around his head, fingers tearing at the sheets.

Draco didn’t let up, licking you through it, drinking down every last shudder, every gasp. Only when you were squirming from oversensitivity did he finally pull back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes dark with satisfaction.

"Good girl," he murmured, crawling up your body, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your stomach, your ribs, the swell of your breasts. "Now let's make sure you never forget who you belong to."

He stood, practiced hands shrugging his cloak off and quickly doing away with his belt buckle.

"Look at me."

Draco's voice was rough, commanding, as he loomed over you, his belt clattering to the floor, his trousers pushed low on his hips. His cock strained against the fabric of his briefs, already leaking for you.

You were dazed, still trembling from your first orgasm, but your eyes locked onto his.

He palmed himself through the fabric, watching the way your breath hitched.

"You're never to let that pathetic blood-traitor touch you again," he said coldly, finally freeing himself, stroking his length slowly. "Do you understand?"

"Yes," you gasped, thighs pressing together. "Draco--"

He didn't make you wait.

In one smooth motion, he dragged your hips to the edge of the bed and filled you, burying himself to the hilt with a satisfied groan.

You cried out, nails raking down his back, legs locking around his waist.

"Fuck-- so tight," he gritted out, hips snapping forward, setting a brutal pace. "You think Wood could fuck you like this? Could ruin you like this?"

You shook your head desperately, pleasure coiling tight again.

"No -- no -- only you--"

Draco’s lips curled into a vicious smirk, his fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bruise.

"Open your mouth," he demanded, thrusts turning punishing, each snap of his hips driving the breath from your lungs.

You responded, your brain foggy from the ruthless pace, the smell of him, the overstimulation. As soon as your lips opened wide enough, Draco spat into your mouth, grabbing your jaw to make you swallow it.

His name broke on your lips as he hit that spot inside you, the one only he knew, the one that made you see stars.

Draco groaned, his forehead dropping to yours, his breath ragged. "That’s it. This is all you needed, hm? A reminder?"

His hand slid between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight circles just the way you liked.

"Give it to me," he ordered, voice rough with need. "Let me feel it."

You shattered.

Your back arched off the bed, a broken whine tearing from your throat as pleasure ripped through you, wave after wave, Draco’s name a prayer on your lips.

He fucked you through it, his own release barreling toward him, his rhythm faltering.

"Fuck--fuck--" His hips stuttered, his grip on you ironclad as he spilled inside you with a groan, his entire body shuddering.

For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of your ragged breaths, the heat of his skin against yours.

Then Draco pulled back just enough to look at you, his silver eyes dark, possessive.

He dragged his thumb over your swollen lips, his voice dangerously soft.

"Next time I see Wood's hands anywhere near you?"

A pause.

A promise.

"I’ll kill him. I know the words." He warned, a finger tracing your jaw. You nodded, leaning into his touch. Draco hummed, pulling you up into his lap. “Resorting to filthy Gryffindors like you don’t know that your place is right beside me.”

You rolled your eyes, pulling yourself tighter to his body. The silence fell upon you easily - and since you’d confronted your issues, for once in the past few months, it was comfortable. His scent wrapped around you like a blanket.

He broke the silence quietly, his voice calm, kind and measured.

“I hope you know how truly sorry I am. And how long I plan to make it up to you for, love.”

You softened, your eyes glistening.

“How long?” You responded.

“Forever. Even that isn’t enough.”

A smile curled onto your lip. You leaned forward to press a soft kiss to his jaw.

“Forever then. It’s settled.” You told him softly, pulling the sheets up around you to settle against his chest. Your eyes were getting heavier by the second - and it had never felt so easy to fall asleep.

After all, you were home. Finally.

“I love you.” Draco quietly admitted. It wasn’t often that he actually said it. He was a man of actions, not words, so he never felt the need to tell you many times. But you treasured the times it did leave his lips.

“I love you too.”

He made it up to you forever. And for Draco, even that wasn’t enough, just as he’d said.

[shallowsallow]

MY GOODNESS THIS WAS AMAZING rah i love draco angst

[bee2124]

How I be looking at 3am on tumblr and Ao3 when I gotta be up at 6am for lectures

[avocad0ess]

I wonder who I would be today if I didn’t develop an obsession with fanficion when I was 11