synopsis: your boyfriend has a problem. he cant stop clinging to you, finding every excuse to cuddle right up next to you, sometimes even on you. but you want to show him you love him too, so you do what you do best.
word count: 836
“draco. youre acting like an actual pest—,” you say, trying to push his head away from where it rests on your chest. he resists, burying his face further into your pyjamas.
“draco.”
“yes, love?” he says, muffled through your clothes. he shifts, peering up at you with those mist-covered grey eyes you can never seem to resist.
“nothing.” you huff, threading your fingers through his hair, shifting his head back again so his face is pressed against your front.
“i can feel your stupid smirk.”
he laughs, palms cool by your waist, riding your shirt up a bit, making you gasp. “youre like a corpse. pale as one too,” you huff, bending your head down to kiss his hair.
he chuckles again, squeezing your waist. “yeah?”
you hum, slightly drifting off to sleep in your now basically shared bed in the single-bed dorm room you requested. “this defeats the purpose of having a single-person bedroom.” you say through a yawn.
“we know damn well you want me to be here.” he says with a half-smug smile. he shifts, starting to lightly kiss your neck, feeling your breathing grow more relaxed.
“good night, draco.”
“night,” he mumbles against your jaw.
“love.” you stir, draco’s gruff morning voice waking you up. “hm? i was asleep,” you mumble, rubbing your eyes once you noticed he wasn’t laying on you anymore.
“i saw that.” he chuckled, pushing your hair out of your face. “i love you,” he says. you blink.
“well? something to say to me after that?”
“huh? oh. i love you, too.” draco rolls his eyes,
“yet you needed to be reminded to say it back?”
you knew he was just joking, but your stomach made that weird feeling—the bad, guilty kind. “just woke up, baby. sorry,” you mumble, squeezing his wrist.
he grins, “i know. im kidding,” he stands up, “gonna shower. in my own bathroom, ive pestered you enough.” he chuckles at his own joke, unlocking and locking the door behind him.
you lean back, mind rushing. what could you do to make it up to him? these past couple of days, he’s been remarkably sweet and clingy with you, both emotionally and especially physically.
you sighed, reaching for your wand on your bedside drawer, blinking when you grasp your quill instead. you blink again, a slow realization coming in.
a couple hours and lessons later, around nine pm, you hear three familiar knocks on your bedroom door. you smile, getting the long, folded piece of parchment from your bedside table drawer and putting it inside your robes’ pocket before opening the door.
“you havent changed yet?” draco frowns. “mm, just put my robes back on. was cold,” he raises a brow, taking the robe off of your shoulders, actions smooth.
the letter falls to the ground, he picks it up. “a love letter, hm?” he fails to bite back a smile as you hang your robes, revealing your short pyjama shorts and his shirt underneath.
“read it, come on.”
he does, opening the parchment, guiding you onto his lap once he sits down on the edge of your bed, eyes traveling and stopping on the page.
dear draco,
i love you, you know that, right? in case you don’t, i’m writing this letter to remind you. i love it when you smirk after making me flustered. i love it when you bite your lip whilst concentrating in potions. i love it when your chuckle turns raspy for no reason.
i love it when you’re tired sometimes, not because i like seeing you suffer but because of the way your breath feels on my skin, like im all you need to feel better. i love it when you whisper praises in my ear at night, i love it when you kiss the one part of my neck that makes me squirm.
i love it when you pretend you can’t find something just so you can ask me for help, and shrug when i complain once finding it in plain sight. i love it when your eyes look like they physically soften when you’re around me or looking at me.
i love it when your hair turns fluffy and soft after a good quiddditch practice. i love it when you enthusiastically talk about quidditch with me, even if i don’t understand half the terms you’re using. i love it when you explain things to me for the umpteenth time and never get bored or annoyed with it.
i love it when you can practically sense when somethings wrong, even if I dont say it outright or even show it. i love it when you sigh while im playing and fidgeting around with your hair. i love it when you say you love me out loud. i love it when you listen to my talks about utter nonsense.
i love it. i love you; always, in all ways.
he finally looks at you, folding the paper with care. he kisses you fervently, pulling away only when your eyes start to flutter.
you catch your breath, arms wrapping around his neck as he kisses you all over.
Draco Malfoy never learned when playtime ends. Raised together in the same pure-blood world, you were inseparable as children—but the teenage Draco still acts like a boy who always gets that he wants, and the line between friendship and possession begins to blur.
content: 18+ mdni, f!reader, smut, childhood friends to lovers, loss of innocence, corruption, possessiveness, emotional manipulation, codependency, alcohol, voyeurism, somno., cheating, coming of age
wc: 37k
status: ongoing
part I
part II
part III
vignette I
part IV
vignette II
part V
part VI
part VII
part VIII
...
MISC.
draco thoughts
...
a/n: I seriously keep forgetting to tag people, please comment on this if you'd like to be on the taglist!
in which — the notorious slytherin group of hogwarts—consisting of draco malfoy, blaise zabini, mattheo riddle, theodore nott, enzo berkshire, and pansy parkinson—take it upon themselves to recruit a new member into their elite group. when their eyes catch on you, an introverted slytherin who wants nothing to do with their antics, they’ll stop at nothing to entice you..
contains — five lovestruck boys, pansy as a girls girl (kind of), introverted!reader, slytherin!reader, a frog attack, hexing, slight profanity and flirting, some italian terms of endearment, a phrase of latin, brief cameo from fred & george and peeves
word count — 2.6k
“Would-you-shove-OFF?” Pansy rasped out through shoves at the five boys surrounding her, their laughter ringing throughout the empty common room at her dramatics.
“Come on, Panse, we’re just teasing,” Theo defended, as Mattheo put his hands up in mock surrender. The sound of Enzo and Blaise struggling to contain their laughs only infuriated the girl more, as Draco scoffed at them through a grin.
“It’s not teasing, it’s plain rude,” she huffed out. The boys had spent the past half-hour engaging in a competitive match of Exploding Snap in the common room, while Pansy had furiously worked on her Potions homework in a neighbouring room of the dimly-lit dungeon. When the sound of an aggressive knock caught her attention, she was greeted with five boys crowding over her, a card thrown directly on top of her finished parchment—exploding and lighting her work on fire.
“You got half of the answers wrong, anyways,” Draco tutted from where he held the crisped parchment up. Pansy snatched it from his grasp.
“You guys are impossible,” she groaned, a frown larger than the one she usually wore crowding over her face.
“Calm down, we’re usually pretty tolerable,” Mattheo said, throwing an arm over the girl’s shoulder. She pushed it off, earning a chorus of mockery from the other boys.
“I can’t—we need another girl friend,” Pansy stated.
“Not a problem,” Theo said, earning him a slap over the head from Enzo. He winced, reaching for the back of his head, rubbing the area that Enzo’s palm had collided with. “She meant all of us, and not a girlfriend,” he said.
It was at that moment that the door to the dungeon creaked open, six heads turning towards the perched stone wall at the sound. In walked a girl in their year, her head down as she held an open book in her hands, oblivious to the group’s stares as she made her way towards the dormitories.
“Her,” Pansy said, her eyes locked on the girl’s figure as she left. She smirked, making her way towards the dormitories, five boys at her heels.
She stopped in front of the door, causing the boys to stop in their tracks. “What are you doing?” she asked indignantly, as she pulled the heavy wooden door open, stepping through. “This is the girl’s dormitories,” she slammed the door shut, leaving the bewildered faces of the boys behind.
The group was quick to realize that recruiting you wouldn’t be as simple as they had anticipated. You had somehow ignored Pansy’s incessant attempts at persuading you the night before, much to her dismay. Now, with six pairs of eyes suddenly searching for you in every place—the entrance hall, the classrooms, the corridors, even every time the common room door swung open—they soon noted that your values contradicted with those of a traditional Slytherin in many ways.
“Bloody hell,” Enzo mumbled halfway through a mouthful of toast, his eyes landing on you down the table. Confused, the others turned to face you. The sight made Mattheo choke on his pumpkin juice, Blaise patting him on the back through his heaves.
You had made your way over to the Gryffindor table, handing Neville Longbottom his Remembrall, which had rolled across the room to under your house table. The boy was obviously startled by the sight of your green robes in front of him, but took the ball from your hand gratefully, a shaky “T-thanks,” leaving his lips. You shot him a small smile, before making your way back to the end of your table—murmurs of astonishment echoing throughout from the Gryffindor table. “She’s in my Herbology class—she once helped me with my Mandrake when the blessed thing bit me,” they overheard a nearby Hufflepuff telling the huddled group around her.
“Great, now everyone thinks we’ve gone soft,” Theo dramatized, as they watched you take your seat back at the Slytherin table, helping a First Year to place an enchantment on their knife and fork to cut their sausages for them.
Almost as quick as they were to realize your compassion, they were reminded why you had been sorted into Slytherin. “Five points will be taken from Slytherin,” Snape said lowly, much to the delightment of the Gryffindors in the class. “She had it coming,” you mumbled curtly, your wand still clenched tightly in your hand, as another Slytherin student escorted a sobbing Millicent Bulstrode to Madam Pomfrey’s.
Your momentary outburst was hurried, yet they had caught it. Your Potions partner, Millicent Bulstrode, had launched her haughty self against you in an attempt of stirring her own potion first, knocking you off your feet. “You bitch,” you shrieked, before green sparks illuminated from the tip of your wand. Suddenly, Bulstrode let out a loud shout as her potion exploded in her face, boils quickly forming over her thick skin.
The attention of the entire class had been caught from her scream, yet the six students of your own house had already been staring at you, watching the moment unfold. Their jaws stayed dropped—Draco sniggering alongside Blaise, Mattheo’s eyes dilating heavily, Theo looking as if he were to court you right then and there. Pansy looked over at them, rolling her eyes. “You guys are so thick,” she said, as she turned her attention back to her potion, Enzo accidentally adding one too many drops of Sopophorous Bean juice from his own distraction.
“I don’t know about this, guys,” Enzo said solemnly.
“Stop worrying,” Mattheo said, clasping a hand on the worried boy’s backside. “Once we ask her, she’ll almost certainly be enamoured.”
The group stared at the enchanted box of chocolate frogs they’d purchased at Hogsmeade on the weekend. After Mattheo casted a simple enchantment on the purple box, the chocolate delicacy inside roared to life—transfiguring into a real frog, brandishing a note in its mouth.
“Get that-that thing away from me,” Blaise muttered, disgusted.
“Oh, come on. It’s cute,” Mattheo cooed, picking up the slimy creature from where it sat perched in the chocolate box.
Suddenly, the amphibian fell from Mattheo’s grip like a bar of soap, falling to the floor of the Entrance Hall.
A yell echoed throughout the halls.
The group stood there, watching as the frog scurried through the halls, leaping onto the hem of a Second Year Gryffindor’s robes, teeth digging into the flesh of her calve where her robe ended.
“Reparifage!” you shouted from where you’d emerged at the sound of the chaos, wand pointed at the frog dangling from the girl’s robe. The frog fell limp, plummeting to the floor and shattering into thousands of brown pieces—it had turned back into chocolate.
You saw the crumpled note laying beneath the crumbs.
“Oh, no,” Enzo said, quickly turning away to avoid facing your reaction.
You bent down, picking up the paper from its corner, dusting off the chocolate crumbs.
Flectere si nequeo superos, Acheronta movebo
You recognized the Latin Slytherin motto that the whole house had familiarized themselves with—“If I cannot bend the heavens above, I will move Hell.”
You looked up to face across the hall, spotting the group of Slytherins looking incredibly guilty, staring right back at you as smugly as they possibly could given the circumstances.
You scoffed, rolling your eyes, before crumpling the note in your hand—throwing it back onto the floor as you escorted the trembling Gryffindor student to the hospital wing.
“Well, that could’ve gone worse,” Mattheo spoke too early, as another one of the frog’s from the pack of chocolates launched itself at Enzo, latching onto his nose.
You walked through the corridors sluggishly, the feeling of eyes boring into your from every which way overwhelming—whether it was due to the news of your outburst in Potions earlier that had spread throughout the school like wildfire, or the fact that it seemed like six faces seemed to be following you at all times.
With your books clutched tightly against your chest, you made your way towards your next class, before colliding with someone’s chest, books toppling to the ground.
“Oh, sorry, didn’t see you there, bella,” a familiar voice called out. You looked up from where you had crouched to retrieve your textbooks, spotting the familiar boy. “Theo,” you sighed in acknowledgement, as he lended you a hand up. “So, you do know me?” he said, flattered. “Of course I do. We’re in the same house, remember?” you asked flatly, before turning away from the boy, who now stood perplexed at your words. “Wait, wait,” he jogged to catch up, his long legs taking him a lot quicker than yours.
“Then, wouldn’t you want some more friends from our house? We’re kind of the most popular of the Slytherins,” he persuaded.
“Not for good reason,” you said, continuing down the corridor speedily.
Theo stared after you, watching as your robes swished behind you as you left once more.
“Did you speak to her?” Mattheo asked eagerly the following morning. As Theo recalled his brief interaction with you to the rest, they had convinced Pansy to attempt to talk to you, too—before you could pretend to be dead asleep, as you had the first night, Pansy recalled bitterly.
The boys huddled around Pansy as she departed from the girl’s dormitories. “She said she ‘isn’t interested in our lot,’” she recited, finger quoting as she spoke.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Mattheo asked.
“She probably saw you fall off your broomstick into the stands the other day,” Draco reminded, the others sniggering.
“Where is she?” Enzo cut off Mattheo before he could retaliate, craning his neck in hopes of a girl opening the dormitory doors just wide enough.
“Already left, said something about needing to read over a Latin book in the library,” Pancy said.
“So, she’s smart, beautiful, and a Slytherin?” Theo wondered aloud.
“Yeah, and she’s not your future first wife,” Pansy remarked.
Incredulously mouthing “first?”, Theo was cut off by Draco. “Brilliant,” he said.
“What?” Mattheo asked.
“Theo, you know Italian, and that’s basically the same thing,” Draco said.
“It’s not-,” he began.
“Oh, who cares? Let’s just go,” Pansy said, already making her way out of the common room to head towards the library.
The five boys stared after her, her determined demeanour unmissable. “Are we sure we want another girl in our group?” Mattheo asked after her.
Every section of the library felt as if a world of eyes lingered on you for far too long. Every corner you turned, every shelf you tiptoed to reach, every window you passed, felt as if your presence was being surveyed.
You had realized why that was when you spotted none other than Mattheo Riddle sitting at one of the wooden desks of the lot, his eyes not-so inconspicuously boring into you over a book he held in front of his face. It was far too easy to recognize his curled hair, you thought bitterly.
Quickly turning away from his line-of-sight, you passed by a student who towered over you, standing in the middle of a row of books, holding one open in his hands, spine cracked down the middle. You did a double-take, noticing Theodore Nott. You quickly clutched the books you held closer to your frame, speeding away once more.
“Why the rush, darling?” a voice called from behind you. You turned, spotting a boy with familiar blonde hair, Pansy Parkinson at his side.
“Shove off, Malfoy,” you said, pushing your way through the wooden doors of the library, leaving before any other words had to be exchanged with the group.
“Well, that one has quite the attitude,” Blaise said, making his way around the corner with Enzo.
“I know,” Theo, Mattheo, and Draco said simultaneously, a shared look of infatuation mirrored in their eyes.
Winter rolled around faster than anyone could’ve expected, the school grounds limned in snow and ice glands.
“Wow, mate, she got you good,” Blaise admitted as he stared at the sight of purple forming on Enzo’s nose. He clutched the tip of his nose, red crimson dripping down onto the white snow from the hex you’d casted at him.
“In my defence, I didn’t think you’d actually do it,” Mattheo said, hunching over to catch his breath through his hysterics at what had happened.
You had been walking through the school grounds, the hood of your robe covering the top of your head to ward against the falling snow overheard. As you walked, the group watched you from their comfort under the cement roof of the castle. “Five galleons if you offer your scarf to her,” Mattheo told Enzo, throwing a few Sickles into the air with a cupped palm. “I don’t know..” he said. “Come on, don’t be a wuss,” Mattheo said, him and Blaise pushing him towards the grounds.
Enzo stumbled, before reluctantly taking his scarf off from around his neck, walking hurriedly behind you to catch up. The sound of Draco sniggering echoed behind him, but his eyes stayed locked on you. As he neared you, directly behind you now, he raised his arms over your head, attempting to place the scarf on your neck. You, who hadn’t seen him from the hood you wore, shrieked, pulling the soft material off of you, immediately drawing your wand and blasting him in the middle of his face—his nose taking the brunt of the impact.
“Oh, shove OFF,” Enzo shivered out, as Mattheo had reached for a fistful of snow, rubbing it against the boy’s bleeding nose to clean off his face.
Mattheo, Draco, Blaise, and Pansy joined in a chorus of laughter. Theo smirked, before striding determinedly across the snowy lawn—following your snow-pathed footsteps.
The four sped to catch up with him, incredulous. “Now what?” Pansy asked. The six of them attracted many lingering stares from other students they passed as they entered the warm castle—the group notorious for mischief, and, judging by their determined strides, they looked to be up to no good.
The six weaved through groups that crowded the corridors—receiving a mischievously encouraging tune from Peeves, and a holler of “Snobby Slytherins on the loose!” from Fred and George Weasley.
They watched as you made your way down towards the dungeons, catching up to you on the steps. Theo threw his arm around you. “You alright there, signorina?” he asked, as Mattheo extended an arm around your other shoulder. “Quite the ordeal you’ve been putting us through, love,” he said. “Very reluctant, yet oddly.. entertaining,” Malfoy admitted from behind the two boys. Pansy ran in front of you, walking backwards as the two boys walked you towards the dungeons—Blaise and Enzo standing to either side of them.
You hunched your shoulders, finally caving. “What do you want?” you asked.
Pansy—ever the self-proclaimed spokesperson of the group, took offence. “We can be quite interesting, you know. We’re not all that bad,” she said.
“You yourself should know how misconstrued these presumptions about our house students are,” Theo chimed in. “I’ve heard the rumour about me hexing four Third-Years in McGonagall’s class. They got it all wrong, through—it was only two, and I didn’t hex them, I turned them into badgers—ever-fitting for their ludicrous house,” he clarified.
“Come on, you’re gonna have to get used to us—we’ve already been bugging you for weeks on-end,” Draco said. “
“You can be our amica—our heiress, if you will”, Theo said, removing his arm from around your shoulder—Mattheo doing the same, bowing in front of you to offer his hand.
“Heiress?” you scoffed. “You guys are ridiculous,” you said, fighting back a grin.
Yet, as they followed you into the common room—Mattheo guiding you through the entrance with his extended hand, the feeling of someone holding onto the small of your back, and Pancy talking your ear off about how you had to join them on their next Hogsmeade visit—you knew they’d won you over.
notes ⋆. 𐙚 ₊˚ guys help me i’m like eighty percent sure there’s already a fanfic with an ending similar to this one — if you know which one, please let me know so i can give credits to the author and make sure that all’s good !!
summary: You and Draco have been yearning for one another for so long but never acted upon it until one of the Malfoy's infamous New Year's Party—and a little nudge from Narcissa and Lucius.
pairing: Draco Malfoy x fem!reader
warnings: Y/N is used, reader's last name is Voss, drinking and getting high, fluff, angst if you squint, pureblood nonsense, lmk if I’m missing any
a/n: based off olivia rodrigo's song :)
The Malfoy’s hosted a New Year’s Party every single year. And every single year, you were expected to attend—courtesy of your pureblood last name. It wasn’t necessarily the worst thing, but the older you got, you realized how easy it was to bypass the boredom of parents bragging about their own treasures and heirlooms.
Under the darkening blue sky, you and the other heirs snuck out for your own New Year's Party in Narcissa's garden. A couple of heirs were smoking blunts by the roses, laughing and jeering at the other heirs who were throwing up from all the supplied firewhiskey.
It truly was all good fun, but something inside you began to bother you.
You were sitting by the fountain and nursing your own cup of firewhiskey, simply watching all the different kinds of couples surrounding you. Some of them were your friends, like Blaise and Pansy, and Theodore and Daphne, but it was weird. Well, at least to you.
If you told them that they were going to get together a year ago, they would curse you out until they lost their voices. Now, they were making out and giggling about random things couples in love would giggle about.
Daphne had told you once that honest love was a cage that makes you feel free, but you weren't sure if you believed that yet. Besides, your eyes couldn't help but wander to the blonde heir that always made time for you.
You've known Draco for as long as you could remember. And with every passing year, the knot in your stomach seemed to tighten progressively whenever you got closer to him. When you were at your lowest, he was your spark in the darkness—the one to keep you sane whenever your parents were controlling your every move. And when he was in need, you were there, supporting him in whatever he needed help in.
But right now, he was the sole heir of the Malfoy riches, the one every family wants their daughter to marry. In fact, he was currently being paraded around inside the manor while his father talked his ear off about potential ladies.
That was the one problem that seemed like you weren't able to help with.
"Of course, the Parkinson family has a very acceptable daughter."
"Nonsense, she's dating the Zabini boy." Narcissa waved Lucius off, eyes shifting around the vast ballroom. "What about the Greengrass family?"
"Both daughters are blood traitors, I think not." He scoffed before turning to Draco, raising a brow when he caught the boy staring outside with a dazed expression. His expression softened by a millimeter, knowing that look all too well from years of staring at his wife.
A small smirk grew on Lucius' lips, voice finally tearing through the bubble Draco had surrounded himself with. "Though, I'm sure the Voss family name would pique someone's interest."
Draco tore his eyes away from your face, meeting his father's. The mention of your name was enough to bring him out of a coma—even if it was merely your family name. He cleared his throat, "Come again?"
"My darling, it seems you already have your heart set on someone." Narcissa smiled softly and cupped her son's cheek, laughing when he meet her eyes with flamed cheeks. "You have three minutes until midnight." She suggested with a tilt of her head. "You should go to her."
He looked between his parents, observing as his father watched his mother lovingly—like she was the only woman standing in the entire room. Draco nodded once and quickly made his way out to the garden, passing all the power hungry girls eyeing him and the drunk guys trying to get him to drink as well.
"Voss." Draco appeared in front of you without warning, slightly breathless. "Do you want to go for a walk?"
"Wha—? Uhm, sure. I have nothing better to do." You agree with little hesitation, surprised by the sudden invitation but still taking his hand he offered you. You tuck your hand in his arm and follow his lead, stepping around a puddle of vomit before speaking a little more freely now that you were away from the fanatic heirs.
"Finally got tired of Lucius and his speech of finding the right woman?" You ask in amusement, staring at the cracked concrete on the pathway.
"Something like that." His lips curled into one of mirth before it quickly faded, the moon highlighting the sudden sheen of sweat on his forehead. Honestly, Draco felt like wax, melting on the spot after pulling you away from the masses that praised the very floor he walked on.
Sure, he was used to being alone with you, but now he had an objective that could make or break his entire world.
And he wasn't sure if any of this was right, or wrong, or if he was just insane for suddenly springing it on to you—but he wanted you to feel how he felt when somebody says your name. Even if it meant risking your entire friendship.
“It must’ve been dreadful if you wanted to go for a walk and not have a shot of firewhiskey with Blaise and Theo—“
"Y/N?" Draco stopped walking, turning to face you.
You look up and meet his eyes, sensing the reluctant tone in his voice. You tilt your head, your own eyes reassuring him—even for a split second. "Yeah?"
His heart was nearly beating out of his chest, and before he could even stop himself, he felt his mouth move—his mind catching up moment later. "Y/N. I love you—I've always loved you. Every night, I swear you're in my dreams. You're the woman I want to fall asleep next to and still wake up to. And I have never wanted somebody as much as I want you. I've tried to shove the feeling down thinking you don't feel the same, but I can't ignore it—not anymore." His chest heaved with every word. "I swear, with my whole heart and being, that I love you. I want to be able to tell everyone there that you're mine and I'm yours—" He cut himself off and tilted his head, staring at the moon.
"Y/N, I want you more than anything my family name has to offer." He whispered and slowly lowered his head again, his gray eyes piercing straight into your soul.
You stare at him, completely at a loss of words.
"Say something… please." He looked between your eyes, watching as they began to glaze over.
A wet smile appeared on your face as tears began to fall, cupping his face and kissing him, the new year fireworks going off. Draco blinked before reciprocating the kiss, his hands moving to pull you closer by the waist to deepen it. You separated just as the fireworks died down, Draco wiping your tears while you leaned into his touch.
"I love you too, you idiot." You laugh and kiss his palm, heart beat finally matching his after ages of not knowing whether or not they would ever sync up. "I've been wanting you for ages."
"We were a bit thick, weren't we?" He chuckled.
You nod before teasing him, nudging his ribs with your elbow. "You were a poet for a second, Malfoy."
He scoffs, "I'm sorry for pouring out my heart for you."
summary: in which, you take care of draco when he gets drunk.
tags/warning: fluff, aged up characters, mentions of alcohol, domestic fluff, marriage, established relationship, indication of semi nudity, grammar.
a/n: my first draco fic! haven’t been online much, i’ve been feeling unwell recently... anyways this is definitely better in my head :’) enjoy xoxo bella
masterlist
“can i come wit’ you?” draco murmured with his face buried in the crook of your neck. his words came muffled against your skin and sent a tingle down your spine.
by the time the both of you stumbled through the front door, one of his shoes was already missing. he probably lost it somewhere between the cobblestone streets where he’d insisted on stopping to kiss you under a flickering streetlamp.
“yes, dray, you can come with me. we’re already here,” you said breathlessly, trying to shove the door shut with your hip whilst holding most of draco’s weight in your arms.
“mhmm, you’re warm” he made a pleased little sound against your skin and dropped his forehead heavily onto your shoulder.
now, it didn’t help that draco malfoy got extra clingy around you whenever he was drunk. and to be completely honest, you were enjoying it more than anything. there was always something about being able to hold him close and taking care of him in a way he would never fully allow when he was fully in control.
you liked how he leaned into you without hesitation and trusting you enough to let his guard drop so that you could see the vulnerable side he kept hidden from everyone else.
he always found his way back to you. every. single. time.
his cold fingers somehow managed to find their way beneath the hem of your shirt to settle at your waist, holding on as though you might vanish if he let go. wrapped around you, the blend of his expensive cologne and firewhisky made everything felt pleasantly lightheaded.
draco made no effort to hold himself up and instead, started rambling incoherently about mattheo owing him money before losing track of his own sentence. he kept on leaning shamelessly against you as you guided him down the hallway with both hands still braced at his waist.
“y’sleepin’ with me t’night?” he slurred as you guided him into your shared bedroom and eased him down onto the bed.
“i am, dray,” you said as you brushed the blond strands away from his forehead. his cheeks were still flushed pink, and his grey eyes had gone visibly heavy with sleep, blinking slower by the second.
he let out a quiet hum at you, shoulders loosening into the mattress. his hand lifted sluggishly and searched blindly for you until his fingers found yours and curled them in his bigger one lazily.
“good,” he mumbled. “hate wakin’ up without you,”
your chest tightened. even in the state of half asleep and drunk, draco could still say things that made your heart start beating rapidly.
“the things you would do,” you muttered, letting go of his fingers and finally tugging off his remaining shoe, setting them aside. “drinking yourself senseless over some ridiculous bet with mattheo,”
draco cracked one eye open, “still won,” he informed as the corner of his lips raised softly.
you shook your head, trying not to smile as you reached to unbutton his linen white shirt. your fingers worked them open one by one while draco watched through half-lidded eyes, not wanting to miss the way the moonlight caught softly along the soft curve of your face.
the white shirt slid off his arms easily, leaving him shivering as the lingering cold clung to his bare pale skin. draco made no move to help and only tipped his head back further against the pillows and let you fuss over his belt and trousers before carefully taking them off.
“comfortable there?” you murmured dryly as you stood.
“mmm,” draco hummed softly as he watched you make your way to the walk-in wardrobe.
after a moment, you came back with a fresh set of comfortable clothes for him.
he gave you the faintest smile as he noticed you had changed into a baby pink pyjama shorts and his white t-shirt that looked way too large for you. still, draco always adored you whenever you wore his clothes—you made them look better, he said.
“c’mere,” you climbed onto the bed next to him and tugged him upright gently. he let you pull him closer until he was finally sitting properly. surprisingly enough, he complied without protest tonight.
you guided him to lift both of his arms and pull the clean shirt down over his head. for a moment, he disappeared beneath it, then re-emerged with pale hair even messier than before. you smoothed the shirt down his chest as he watched your hands the entire time until they settled on his lap.
“up,” you said low enough for him to hear and gave his thigh a light tap.
a crooked smile found its way onto draco’s face at your command, but he still did it anyway. draco wouldn’t admit it loud, but he found it extremely hot when you took charge like that.
he lifted his hips just enough to make it easier for you to slide the new pants into place, and shivered faintly when your fingers brushed against the side of his shin.
“there, feel better now?” you said quietly once his pants were on properly and adjusted the waistband into place while his eyes stayed on you with a steady focus.
“d’you know you’ve got the prettiest face ever?” he murmured, completely ignoring your question.
a soft laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it. “well, it’s a good thing you tell me that every day,”
“i do?” he asked, catching your wrist, before you could even answer and tugged you down to his side on the mattress. draco didn’t waste a second when he finally had you close. though, in truth, he hadn’t left your side just a few hours ago at the reunion party with your friends from hogwarts—not even once.
he loved how easily your face always seemed to settle against his neck like a missing piece finding its place.
you reached to cradle his face in one hand while your other one laced with his. leaning in, you pressed a quick kiss on his lips.
“mm, you promised me that in your vows, baby,” you giggled, peppering more kisses along his jaw.
despite the alcohol, a moment of realization finally struck draco. his gaze dropped to your intertwined fingers; and that’s when he noticed the delicate diamond ring sitting proudly on your fourth finger. the very same one he had chosen with his dear mother a few years ago.
he observed the way the band encircled your finger quietly, reminding him the truth that he had chosen, again and again; that you were his wife. a promise he had made and never once let go of, and never would.
his hand stilled for a moment before his thumb began to move and fiddled with the ring, turning it ever so slightly. draco toyed with it gently. the band shifted slightly beneath his touch until his thumb caught on something carved into the inside of the ring.
Eternally Yours.
his breath hitched softly as he pulled you closer. before you could even settle, draco shifted with ease. he rolled you gently beneath him until your back was pressed against the surface of the warm sheets and hovered over you instead.
merlin, his stormy grey eyes looked even more beautiful from this sight.
draco looked at you for a moment before leaning in and pressing his lips to yours. it was slow and deep. your fingers immediately found their place around his neck, brushing against the platinum curls at his nape.
when he finally pulled back, his forehead pressed on yours and his lips brushed against your mouth.
“means i’ve been doing it right, yeah?” he whispered, kissing your forehead. “but darling, above all things, i want you to know this—even without any promise between us, i’d still look at you and let you know how beautiful you truly are. that’s simply the truth, baby,”
his hand reached up and brushed a couple strands of hair out of your face. what draco said was true. even when he was intoxicated with firewhisky, he always meant it. hell, he would’ve told the entire world how much he loved you and that you were the prettiest thing to be alive.
you smiled softly, before pulling him back in and kissed him again with more passion this time.
Summary: You were taught to never go near a Malfoy, ever. But how could you? He's very much unavoidable.
wc: 1.1k+
cw: potter!reader x draco, reader is twins w harry, au where voldy doesn't exist, jily is alive, kinda unsupportive james, reader and james fight.
A/N: I can't stop with the potter!reader x draco fics.😔
⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰
Your parents only ever gave you and Harry one command before your very first year at Hogwarts. Not “study hard,” not “stay out of trouble,” not even “stick together.” No. It was a singular warning, sharp and unwavering, as you stood on Platform 9¾ with your trunks at your feet and nerves buzzing under your skin.
James Potter crouched in front of you, eyebrows furrowed beneath his messy hair, and pointed at both of you as if branding the rule into your very soul.
“You do not go near a Malfoy,” he said with finality.
“Ever,” Lily echoed, folding her arms across her chest.
You and Harry glanced at each other, unsure whether to laugh or panic. But neither of you asked questions. You didn’t have to. Their faces were carved from stone—resolute, nostalgic, and more than a little haunted.
So you promised.
And for the first few years, you kept that promise.
⸻
You were now heavily making out with Draco Malfoy.
Pressed against the stone wall behind the library, hidden in the shadows, you felt his fingers tangle in your hair as his lips moved hungrily against yours. Your heart pounded like it always did when he touched you—half from the thrill, half from the guilt.
You broke the one rule your parents gave you. And you broke it over and over again.
You didn’t mean to fall for Draco Malfoy. You really didn’t. He was cold and smug, always armed with some sharp-tongued remark. But there was something about him that you couldn’t shake—something that got under your skin.
Maybe it was the way he looked at you when he thought no one was watching. Or the way he softened, just slightly, when you were alone. Maybe it was the fact that he saw you when so few people did.
Whatever it was, you fell. Hard.
The worst part? You didn’t regret it.
Your relationship wasn’t born from passion—it was born from quiet. From shared detentions, lingering glances, sarcastic bickering that slowly melted into warmth.
It started in fifth year, during a late-night prefect patrol, when you caught Draco staring up at the stars through one of the Astronomy Tower windows.
“I thought you didn’t care about anything that wasn’t gold or pureblood,” you had teased.
“I don’t,” he’d replied, smirking. Then, after a pause:
“Except maybe this.”
He never said what “this” meant. But he didn’t have to.
You kept it hidden. For nearly a year, you and Draco became masters of secrecy. Carefully choreographed exits, notes passed in books, fleeting touches under desks. No one suspected a thing. Not your friends. Not Harry. Not your parents.
Until the day the secret fell apart.
It started with a storm.
You and Draco had snuck off to the boathouse, hoping to escape the castle for an hour. The rain came fast, wind howling against the windows. You lit your wand and wrapped yourselves in a conjured blanket, curled together on the old wooden bench. He kissed you, slow and soft, the way he always did when he was trying not to say something out loud.
And then—click.
You both froze.
In the doorway stood Colin Creevey, camera in hand, eyes wide.
“Colin,” you said, your voice weak. “You can’t—please don’t—”
But he was already running. Already shouting your name and Draco’s down the corridor.
By the time you returned to the castle, the damage was done.
You walked into the Great Hall for dinner and the noise immediately dipped into silence. Dozens of heads turned. Murmurs passed like wildfire through the room.
“Potter’s daughter and Malfoy?”
“James Potter’s going to kill him.”
“Bloody hell, are they serious?”
You held Draco’s hand anyway.
Even though Ron gawked at you like you’d lost your mind. Even though Hermione looked at you like she was calculating seventeen different ways your life was about to fall apart.
Even Harry, sitting at the far end of the Gryffindor table, stood up and walked out the moment you sat down.
He didn't talk to you for a month.
You were dreading the Easter holidays.
The moment you stepped off the train at King’s Cross, the pit in your stomach grew heavier. Your parents were waiting by the barrier, smiling—until they saw you walking hand-in-hand with Draco Malfoy.
James’s smile vanished.
Lily blinked like she was sure she was seeing things.
“Draco,” you said carefully, “maybe I’ll see you later—”
But James was already storming forward.
“Is this a joke?” he snapped. “Please tell me this is some Slytherin dare.”
“Dad—”
“No, no, no, don’t Dad me—you promised. You promised us!”
“I didn’t plan this—”
“Damn right you didn’t!” James shouted, voice cracking. “He’s a Malfoy! Do you have any idea what that family stands for?”
Draco, to his credit, didn’t say a word. He just nodded once at James, then looked at you with something unreadable in his eyes.
“I’ll see you later,” he murmured, and disappeared into the crowd.
Back home, the air was thick with silence.
Lily sat across from you at the kitchen table, her hands wrapped around a cooling cup of tea. James paced by the fireplace like a storm cloud.
“I knew you’d rebel eventually,” James muttered. “But I didn’t think you’d break our one rule.”
“I’m not rebelling,” you said. “I’m in love with him.”
The room froze.
Lily’s eyes softened. “Sweetheart…”
“He’s not Lucius,” you said, voice shaking. “He’s not cruel. He’s not obsessed with bloodlines. He’s nothing like the stories you told us.”
“And what if you’re wrong?” James asked, quieter now. “What if he hurts you?”
“Then he hurts me,” you said. “But at least it’s my choice.”
That night, you lay in your old bed, staring up at the enchanted ceiling James had painted for you when you were little—charmed to mirror the sky above Godric’s Hollow. Stars blinked back at you as your heart twisted with everything left unsaid.
You reached under your bed and pulled out the small, rectangular piece of enchanted slate. A matching one sat in Draco’s room at the Manor. You’d created them together last year in secret—a charmed chalkboard where whatever you wrote appeared on the other’s board in real time. Just one more way to stay close without being caught.
You held the chalk in your hand for a long moment, unsure what to say. But then, your fingers moved instinctively.
Are you still there?
A few seconds passed.
Then, slowly, a response appeared, the words etching themselves across the slate in Draco’s neat, angular handwriting:
I’m still here. If you still want me.
Your breath caught.
You smiled softly, heart aching with everything you felt and everything you chose.
You pressed the chalk to the board again.
Always.
You were told to never go near a Malfoy. But you did.
Summary: Turns out, Draco Malfoy’s obsession with blood purity isn’t limited to wizards—his disdain extends to your mangy mutt of a cat, too
A/N: I actually don't know what the fuck i was on when i wrote this. draco is so ooc in this im embarrassed to post this
Credits to @/cursed-carmine for the divider
When you were about ten years old, you became the humble recipient of the cat distribution system.
Your parents had always firmly refused to get you a pet. Neither of them were particularly fond of animals—your mother especially couldn’t stand the idea of fur on the furniture, and your father wanted nothing to do with cleaning out a litterbox. They were convinced that at your age, you wouldn’t be able to take care of a cat on your own anyway.
But the universe, in its infinite generosity and chaotic wisdom, had other plans.
One cool summer day, while playing in your backyard, you heard the strangest warbled wailing coming from the direction of the trash cans. Curious and slightly concerned, you went to investigate—and that’s when you saw it.
Peeking into one of the bins, you found a cat with its head stuck in an empty pickle jar.
Maybe the jar was just that small, or the cat was just that big, but somehow it had managed to wedge itself inside and couldn’t get free. You panicked. You were too short to reach in properly, and too scared to hurt it. So, you did the only thing you could: you ran crying to your father.
Together, you both tried your best. Your dad pulled with all his strength, and you sobbed beside him, begging him not to hurt the poor thing. But no matter how hard he tried, the jar wouldn’t budge. In the end, he loaded you—sniffling and red-eyed—and the filthy, desperate cat into the car and drove straight to the vet.
Somehow, the professionals there managed to safely free the cat from its glass prison. The vet gently explained that the cat had a pretty severe skin infection that would need treatment if it was going to survive. Your dad, reasonably, declined—this wasn’t even your cat, after all.
But then you started crying again. Loudly.
You cried and wailed and begged with your whole heart until your father, completely outmatched by your ten-year-old sorrow, gave in.
And that was how he ended up having to explain to your mother why there was a scabby, flea-ridden stray running around her clean house.
To your credit, you meant every promise you’d made to your dad. You took care of that cat. You bathed him with the medicated shampoo the vet gave you, even when he scratched your arms bloody. Your mom was terrified at first—convinced you were going to catch rabies—but you wouldn’t be swayed. You nursed him back to health, dutiful and loving, until his fur grew thick and glossy and he finally looked like a proper cat again.
And he adored you for it. Absolutely, completely adored you. Followed you everywhere. Slept on your bed. Watched TV with you like a tiny judgmental roommate.
You never wanted him to forget where he came from—or how you found each other. So you named your tomcat the only name that made sense.
Pickles.
When you got your Hogwarts letter, it was a given that Pickles would be coming with you.
There was absolutely no way you were leaving him behind for nine whole months. It simply wouldn’t do.
Your poor baby would die of despair if his favorite person in the world—the one he saw every day, the one who scratched behind his ears just right—suddenly up and disappeared for nearly a year. No. That wouldn’t do at all.
Even your parents, who had once sworn up and down they didn’t want a cat but ended up loving the little guy, admitted he might be a good source of comfort once you inevitably started to feel homesick. After all, you had never spent more than a week away from them. And it wasn’t like Pickles was going to miss them.
In fact, you were fairly confident that if your parents dropped dead in front of him, he’d simply fart in their faces and carry on with his day.
So they helped load the two of you onto the Hogwarts Express—Pickles curled up in his clear backpack carrier, peeking out with the quiet judgment of an old man. They promised to send the rest of his “luggage” once they figured out how magical post worked and got a sense of how big your dorm room would be.
His three-story bed, which he hardly used, his scratching posts, and his aggressively chewed squeaky toy would be shipped out soon. For the first week, he’d have to make do with his favorite bed of all time: your arms.
Which suited him just fine.
Now, six years later, Pickles was living the Hogwarts life better than you. He was practically a celebrity in the Gryffindor common room. He and his best friend Crookshanks, slept in the sun, ate like kings, and took long, fat naps in front of the common room fireplace. Every single one of your dormmates spoiled him rotten, feeding him treats at all hours of the day.
He didn’t even get lost in the castle halls like you did. Somehow, Pickles had mastered the moving staircases better than most seventh-years.
And worst of all?
Pickles was doing better than you in your love life.
“(L/N)!” A sharp voice snapped behind you, yanking you out of your thoughts.
You turned just in time to see Draco Malfoy stomping up, looking like someone had just told him the Malfoy vaults were being taxed. His face was twisted into an expression of absolute disgust, and in his arms… were two cats.
He was holding Pickles with one hand—just dangling him under the belly like a sack of potatoes, all four limbs flopping over like spaghetti. His legs were hanging loose, his expression the epitome of “I just woke up and I don’t know where I am but I trust the process.” Thankfully, he hadn’t made the mistake of scruffing him. In his other arm, cradled like precious cargo, was what could only be described as a giant, fluffy dandelion.
“Get your disgusting mutt away from my cat!”
Your brows furrowed as you immediately took Pickles from him, clutching your boy to your chest and gently scratching the top of his head. Unbothered by Draco’s dramatics, Pickles began to purr loudly.
“His name is Pickles,” Tou said coolly, “And you should know better than anyone that cats don’t typically do as they’re told.”
Draco’s lip curled, face souring further, “Perhaps not your mangy animal. Riddled with disease, that one.”
You rolled your eyes. “I know you’re very ‘mudblood this, mudblood that,’ Draco—but these are cats. They don’t care about blood status.”
“Speak for yourself,” he huffed, lifting his cat higher up his chest like royalty. “Belladonna is a rare breed. A show-winning feline with impeccable genetics, perfectly healthy, thick coat, never sheds. She’s been treated like a queen since the moment she was born. She has a pedigree. That thing—” He gestured to Pickles, who chose that exact moment to yawn directly in his face—“was probably found at the bottom of a dumpster.”
Your eyes widened, surprised at how he managed to get it right on the nose, “So what if he was?” You shot back, “He’s scrappy. He knows how to survive. Your little princess over there wouldn’t last a day without her weekly spa treatments!”
You held Pickles closer, your voice rising, “My angel faced death. He stared it down and came back stronger. He wouldn’t want to be with your stuck-up cat anyway! Her face looks like the backend of an ass! And not even a nice one!”
Draco’s jaw dropped like you’d slapped him, “Excuse me?!” he shouted, already launching into a flurry of extremely colorful obscenities.
You didn’t wait to hear them. You spun around with Pickles in your arms—still purring contentedly, eyes half-lidded, perfectly at peace—and stormed off, muttering about “pureblood delusion” and “privileged puffballs.”
Pickles, naturally, had no idea what just happened. But he was warm, fed, and in your arms.
Life was good.
Draco Malfoy did not “own a cat.”
He curated one.
She was a purebred Ragdoll with a coat like white clouds and eyes the color of the clearest summer ocean. Her name was Belladonna, and she was, without question, the most refined creature in the entire wizarding world—present company very much excluded.
He had acquired her from an exclusive breeder in Wiltshire after months of meticulous research, pedigree scrutiny, and a waiting list that included two minor royals and the head of the French Magical Opera House. Belladonna ate hand-prepared meals (which Draco personally oversaw), sat on velvet cushions charmed to maintain the perfect temperature, and had an entire wing of Malfoy Manor designated for her grooming and relaxation.
Even now, at Hogwarts, she was treated like nobility. She had a gold-embroidered travel bed, a crystal water bowl that refilled with glacier water from Switzerland, and a personal grooming appointment every Hogsmeade weekend. Narcissa sent a box of curated organic treats every Thursday without fail. Draco had collars in twelve different colors—each embroidered with her initials—and a seasonal rotation of enchanted accessories to match.
He couldn't imagine loving his own hypothetical child more than he adored Belladonna.
In his eyes, she was his child. His delicate, aristocratic, high-maintenance firstborn.
Belladonna was, in a word, impeccable.
So you can imagine Draco’s absolute horror—his visceral, soul-deep revulsion—when he saw that cat.
That scruffy, gremlin-looking, mongrel of a cat rubbing against Belladonna like some horny, hormone-fueled street rat in heat.
It was unacceptable.
It was criminal.
It was filth mingling with divinity.
And the worst part?
She didn’t seem to mind.
She purred. She leaned into it. She gave that degenerate alley cat the same slow blink she usually reserved for Draco when he fed her roast chicken off a silver fork.
He felt betrayed on a biblical level.
You were minding your own business—lounging on the grass near the Black Lake, sipping pumpkin juice and soaking in the sunshine—when you heard it:
The rapid, purposeful crunch of approaching footsteps.
You looked up just in time to see Draco Malfoy storming toward you like he was about to duel someone to the death.
His robes were perfectly pressed. His hair was a work of art. And his expression?
Murderous.
Once again, both your cats were cradled in his arms.
Ever since the incident, you’d really tried to keep an eye on Pickles. You didn’t want him bothering Belladonna anymore—after all, she was Draco’s cat, and no matter what your personal opinions were, he technically had a right to decide who she spent time with.
But Pickles?
Pickles was a free spirit.
Short of locking him in your dorm room all day (which was impossible, since your dormmates couldn’t open the door without letting him out), there really wasn’t much you could do. Which led you to your current situation.
Draco stopped in front of you, eyes blazing.
“Control. Your. Beast.”
You blinked, took another casual sip of your juice, and replied, “Good afternoon to you too, Malfoy.”
“I’m serious,” He snapped, holding Pickles out like he was radioactive, “Your disease-ridden rat is trying to court my cat.”
Your eyes lit up instantly, a delighted smile spreading across your face as you stepped closer. “Is that right? Are you in love, boy?” You cooed to Pickles, “Are you in love with little Bella here?”
“Her name is Belladonna,” Draco hissed through his teeth, “And he better not be in love, or I swear, my father is going to hear about this.”
You rolled your eyes, “You can’t control love, Malfoy. Besides, Belladonna seems to like him.”
As if to prove your point, Belladonna—regal, graceful, dignified Belladonna—leaned over and licked Pickles’s ear.
You watched in smug satisfaction as Draco’s soul visibly left his body.
“I’m going to exorcise her,” He muttered darkly, “This is demonic possession. This isn’t her.”
“Malfoy,” You said flatly, “she’s grooming his neck.”
He froze.
Belladonna had nestled into Pickles’s scruffy fur and was now purring.
Purring.
Draco felt bile rise in his throat. One hand clutched his robe lapel like a Victorian widow witnessing her daughter marry the village stable boy.
He was definitely writing to his mother about this.
You stood, shouldering your bag with Pickles now sprawled lazily in your arms, looking more satisfied than ever. “Maybe if you stopped judging him and gave him a chance,” You said, “you’d see he’s got a lot to offer.”
Draco scoffed, “Like fleas, I’m sure.”
You sighed, “Draco, I get it—you want to protect Belladonna, and yeah, she’s got amazing pedigree. But at the end of the day… they’re cats. They don’t care who’s above or below them in social status.”
Your voice turned just a bit more smug, “Because to them? We’re all beneath them anyway. And honestly? I think you could learn something from that.”
Draco looked down at Belladonna, who was now curled up in his arms with one paw lazily touching Pickles’s tail, like the scandal meant nothing to her.
And for once, he didn’t have a snarky response.
Only quiet, seething defeat.
The turning point came exactly two weeks after that lakeside confrontation—two weeks of eye-rolls and casual jabs, of Belladonna purring traitorously in Pickles’s presence, of Draco’s poor weak heart nearly giving out every time he saw them nuzzle together like a couple in love.
It happened when Belladonna didn’t come home for dinner.
It was unthinkable.
Belladonna had done plenty of un-Belladonna things lately—grooming a mutt in public, fraternizing with Gryffindors, sharing her window seat—but missing her dinner?
Never.
She was like clockwork.
9:00 PM sharp, every evening since she was six weeks old.
Draco had built his routine around it.
At first, he waited.
She was probably just late. Distracted. Maybe Pickles had lured her into some dark corner to show her how to chew a sock.
But by 9:10, irritation had given way to full-blown dread.
His friends didn’t get it.
“She’s probably napping somewhere,” Blaise said with a shrug. “Cats do that.”
“Have you checked the tower?” Theo yawned.
But Draco knew.
Belladonna didn’t do tardy. She didn’t get stuck.
And she certainly didn’t miss meals.
So instead of explaining himself to people who clearly didn’t grasp the gravity of the situation, he went to the one person who might.
Which was how Draco Malfoy found himself standing stiffly outside the Gryffindor common room, looking like he’d just wandered into enemy territory.
His dark green robes stood out like oil in water. He adjusted his collar, trying to look composed, but the Fat Lady was already glaring down at him from her portrait frame, lips pursed like she smelled something foul.
“Password?” She asked sharply.
Draco blinked, “Oh. Um— I don’t know. Can you just… call out for (Y/N) (L/N)?”
She sniffed, “I’m a portrait, not a messenger owl. Password?”
“Right. Uh…” He hesitated, “Dumbledore?”
“Wrong.”
“Godric?”
“Incorrect.”
“Gryffindor pride?”
She looked personally insulted, “Absolutely not.”
Draco sighed, dragging a hand down his face, “Look, it’s important. I just—can’t you make an exception?”
The Fat Lady squinted at him, “Are you the boy who said my frame needed ‘restoration work’ two years ago?”
“…Possibly.”
She crossed her arms, “Password.”
“Oh for the love of— (L/N)!” Draco shouted, pounding a fist against the portrait like it had personally wronged him. The Fat Lady shrieked at him for being a rude little git, and the two launched into a full shouting match—one that only ended when, after two solid minutes of banging and arguing, the portrait finally swung open from the inside.
You stood there, confused and tired, Pickles draped around your neck like a lazy, judgmental scarf.
You blinked at the sight of him, “…Malfoy?”
He let out a shaky breath, like he hadn’t properly inhaled since dinner, “Belladonna’s missing.”
Your expression shifted immediately, “What?”
“She didn’t come back for dinner,” He said quickly, the words tumbling out in a rush, “She’s never late. Ever. And I know you’ll probably think I’m overreacting, but I’ve looked everywhere—common room, Astronomy Tower, library—nothing.”
Your brows furrowed, “That’s not like her…”
Draco nodded, clearly trying not to spiral, “I thought—maybe—if anyone would know where she is, it’d be that walking dust bunny of yours.”
At his mention, Pickles stretched languidly across your shoulders and let out a slow yawn, looking entirely unbothered.
You glanced down at him, “…Pickles, do you know where your girlfriend is?”
Pickles blinked.
Then, without warning, he wriggled free of your arms, landed with a soft thud on the stone floor, and trotted off down the hallway with alarming purpose—tail high, strut confident.
You stared after him. Then looked back at Draco.
“…After you.”
The castle was quiet at this hour—eerily so.
Lit only by the occasional floating candle and the faint tap-tap of Pickles’s determined paws echoing down the stone halls, the two of you trailed behind him like anxious parents following a toddler on a mission.
You’d just rounded the corner near the Charms corridor when a grating voice sliced through the silence like a rusty blade.
“Oi! You there!”
You froze.
Filch.
He emerged from the shadows like something out of a horror story, lantern swinging in one hand, the other gripping a battered cane like he fully intended to use it. Behind him, Mrs. Norris slinked close to the wall, her yellow eyes glinting as she honed in on Pickles with twitching suspicion.
Draco stiffened beside you, his whole posture bristling with irritation and nerves. You instinctively stepped in front of him.
“Out after curfew?” Filch growled, eyes narrowing, “You think the rules don’t apply to you just ’cause you’re out on a midnight date?”
“Out of bed, out of bounds, out of line!” He hissed, “Detention, both of you—and your mangy little creature!”
Pickles let out an indignant mrrrow, scandalized.
“Are you kidding me?” Draco snapped, turning on him with a snarl, “We’re in the middle of something important, you moldy old—”
You slapped a hand over Draco’s mouth so fast it nearly knocked him off balance.
He made a muffled growl of protest against your palm.
“Mr. Filch,” you said quickly, stepping forward before Draco could verbally self-destruct, “I know it’s past curfew, and I’m really sorry. But we’re not out here for fun. We’re looking for his cat. She hasn’t come home.”
Filch narrowed his eyes, “So you thought you’d go traipsing through the halls like you own the place?”
“No, sir,” you said, softening your voice, “but she means everything to Draco. And she’s never late for meals. She’s been missing for hours. I know you understand—if Mrs. Norris ever didn’t come home, you’d be out here too. Wouldn’t you?”
Filch looked down at his beloved cat, who had now approached Pickles and was sniffing him with wary curiosity. Pickles, unbothered as ever, sniffed her back like a gentleman who had once eaten a sock but still had his dignity.
Mrs. Norris didn’t hiss.
That alone was a miracle.
Filch’s scowl wavered. His eyes flicked to you, then back to the cats.
“…What’s the cat look like?” He muttered.
Draco opened his mouth, but you beat him to it, “White ragdoll. Blue eyes. Very regal. Very spoiled. Answers to Belladonna.”
Filch grumbled under his breath and gave Mrs. Norris a meaningful look. She meowed softly, then slinked off down a side corridor, tail swaying—like she’d accepted the mission.
Filch sighed, “I haven’t seen her. But if you’re lying, and I catch you sneaking about—”
“We’ll go straight back to our dorms,” You said quickly, “Promise.”
Draco still looked like he wanted to hex something, but you grabbed his wrist and tugged him forward before he could blow it.
As you rounded the next corner, Draco finally exhaled.
“You... handled that well.”
You shrugged, “At the end of the day, aren’t we all just crazy cat ladies?”
Draco let out a soft, reluctant laugh, “I suppose we are.”
You didn’t say anything else—but when you glanced down, you noticed Draco’s hand was still gently brushing yours.
And—perhaps more surprising—he didn’t pull away.
Pickles led you down staircases, across courtyards, and finally out through a side passage beyond the castle walls, nose to the ground like a hound on a mission.
The night air was damp and cool, the scent of rain clinging to the stones. The grass was slick underfoot, and mud squelched beneath your shoes as you followed Pickles out into the overgrown field that skirted the castle’s edge.
Draco muttered something about this being absolutely ridiculous, but he didn’t stop walking.
You passed the greenhouses, the Quidditch pitch in the distance, and then—
Pickles halted.
He sat abruptly at the edge of a shallow dip in the land, where a muddy slope descended toward a narrow drainage hole set into the castle’s outer wall. The earth around it was slick with runoff from the recent storm, and a shallow stream of water trickled through the grass, spilling over the edge and down into the hole.
And just inside it—barely visible—was a familiar puff of white fur.
“Belladonna!” Draco gasped, rushing forward and crouching near the entrance.
You moved beside him, dropping to your knees as you peered inside. Belladonna was crouched deep within the narrow crevice, her fur soaked and muddied, one paw half-lifted like she’d tried to climb out and slipped. Water had pooled at the bottom of the slope, turning the ground into a sludgy mess. Her big blue eyes blinked up at you in distress.
“She’s stuck.” You murmured.
Draco’s breath hitched, “She’s going to catch cold—she can’t stay in there, her fur will mat—she’ll get sick—”
“Draco,” You said gently, “She’s okay. But we’ve gotta get her out.”
You looked at the small opening. It was barely wide enough for your arm, and the earth around it was already saturated—slick, heavy, and cold.
Draco stared at it. His face twitched. His hands hovered.
He hesitated.
Years of being taught to avoid mess, to preserve appearance, to never degrade himself with something as undignified as crawling through mud—it all played behind his eyes in a blink.
He didn't get his hands dirty, he paid others to get their hands dirty.
He stomach bottomed out, feeling utter shame at his reluctance to save his most prized girl.
You didn’t wait.
Without hesitation, you dropped to your belly beside the hole and shoved your arm in, shoulder-deep, wincing as cold mud squelched up your sleeve. You began scooping out handfuls of thick earth, making a channel for the water to drain so Belladonna could climb up.
Draco stared, watching the girl he had been barking at for the last month for not being good enough—for not having a cat that was good enough—now getting her uniform, her skin, her everything covered in mud to save his cat.
Only for a second, before he was on his knees beside you, shoveling at the mud with both hands, trying to make a larger channel for Belladonna to climb out.
And then Belladonna mewed again—soft and uncertain.
You tilted your head toward her, “C’mon, sweetheart. It’s okay. You’ve got to climb. We made you a way out.”
Draco reached out, dipping his fingers into the hole, wiggling them ever so slightly, “Come on, darling. It’s just mud. You’re going to be fine.”
Belladonna took a trembling step forward. Then another.
The water drained slowly through the channel you dug. Finally, she scrabbled forward—and Draco reached in, arms filthy, eyes wide—and caught her.
He cradled her against his chest like a newborn, mud and all, whispering her name.
You sat back on your heels, breathing heavily, covered in muck.
Draco looked at you. Really looked at you.
“…Thank you.” He said, voice hoarse.
You smiled tiredly, pushing a strand of hair out of your face with your muddy hand, “It was my pleasure. Couldn’t leave my daughter-in-law down there now, could I?”
That was the first time since Pickles and Belladonna had fallen in love that Draco released a deep, boisterous laugh.
The trek back up to the castle was slow and quiet.
Belladonna was tucked safely in Draco’s arms, shivering and damp but breathing steadily. Pickles trotted loyally at your feet like a muddy little sentinel, occasionally brushing up against Draco’s leg as if offering silent support.
By the time you reached the front steps, your teeth were chattering, your robes soaked, and your skin itched with drying mud.
“Come on,” Draco said suddenly, nudging you toward a different hallway, “There’s a place we can use.”
You blinked, “Where are we going?”
He didn’t answer—just took a sharp turn down a marble corridor, Belladonna still cradled carefully in one arm. He drew his wand and tapped on a door inlaid with polished gold and pearl.
“The Prefects’ Bathroom?” You asked, eyebrows raising.
Draco gave you a sideways glance, “Don’t make it weird. She needs to be cleaned.”
He swung the door open, and steam rolled out in a fragrant wave, enveloping you in warmth. The bath was massive—practically a swimming pool—its water bubbling gently, already scented with lavender and bergamot. Dozens of knobs lined the tiled edge, each labeled in elegant script: foaming bubbles, eucalyptus mist, warming steam…
“Wow.” You breathed.
Draco, to his credit, looked more distracted than smug. He set Belladonna gently on a cushioned ledge beside the bath, then stared at her like she might shatter.
She was curled in on herself, still trembling slightly. Her fur—usually immaculate—was a sopping, matted mess.
Draco shifted, visibly uncomfortable, “I’ve… never done this before.”
You tilted your head, “Bathed a cat?”
He nodded once, looking faintly ashamed, “She’s always gone to a groomer. My mother used to hire someone. I don’t know how to—”
“Hey,” You interrupted gently, your expression softening, “It’s okay. I’ll show you.”
You knelt by the bath and adjusted the temperature with a flick of your wand, turning the water warm but gentle. Then, carefully, you reached for Belladonna.
She didn’t protest when you took her—tired, cold, and soggy as she was—and you slowly eased her into the shallow basin you’d prepared, cupping water over her back with both hands.
Draco knelt beside you, watching with wide eyes.
“She’s… letting you.” He murmured, almost in disbelief.
“She better,” You said with a tired laugh, “I have mud under my nail beds and a worm probably somewhere in my sweater right now, all for her.”
He almost smiled.
You worked carefully, your fingers patient and steady as you massaged soap into Belladonna’s sodden fur. She looked pitiful—like a wet, deflated pillow—but her big blue eyes stayed calm, occasionally blinking up at you as if to say I trust you.
You showed Draco how to support her little body, how to stroke behind her ears without getting soap in them, how to use a conjured comb to tease out the worst of the tangles.
And he watched. Closely. Quietly.
Then, without needing prompting, he joined you—his hands a little unsure, but gentle. You guided him with soft instructions, and soon he was rinsing her chest and shoulders like he’d done it a hundred times.
“There you go,” You murmured, “See? You’re a quick learner.”
Once Belladonna was clean, you lifted her carefully from the water and conjured a thick, soft towel, wrapping her up like a newborn. With a flick of your wand, you cast a heating charm just warm enough to soothe her, and she immediately burrowed into the fabric, eyes fluttering shut.
Draco stared at her.
Then he looked at you.
“…Thank you.” He said again, quieter than before.
You met his gaze, muddy and tired but steady, “You already said that.”
“I meant it then. I mean it more now.”
You gave him a small smile, “She’s safe. That’s what matters.”
A beat of silence.
Then—gently, without really thinking—Draco reached out and brushed a streak of dried mud from your cheek with his thumb.
“I think you’re a better person than me.” He murmured, voice low.
You laughed softly, eyes warm, “Then maybe one day you’ll learn to pay it forward.”
You were soaked, your robes stiff with dried mud, your knees scuffed, and your sweater still suspiciously worm-squishy. Draco didn’t look much better—his hair was a mess, his pristine robes stained all the way up to the elbows, and there was a distinct patch of dirt on his jaw from when he’d face-planted trying to widen the drainage path.
You shifted uncomfortably as you glanced down at your clothes, “We’re disgusting.”
Draco huffed a tired laugh, “We really are.”
There was a brief pause. Then, almost too casually, he said, “The showers here are private.”
You blinked, “What?”
He gestured vaguely toward a frosted glass partition on the other side of the bathroom, “The prefects’ showers. There’s a few. Individual stalls. Full doors. Soundproofed. Charms for clean clothes after, too.”
You followed his gaze, taking in the polished brass fixtures and enchanted mist wafting from the far end of the bathroom. The space was massive, marble and quiet and very much still shared.
“Oh.” You said.
You considered your options at first. The baths would definitely not be open at this time, so you'd be reduced to sleeping in your bed caked in mud which was not only unappealing but quite frankly impossible to even think of.
Another beat of silence passed. Belladonna shifted slightly in your arms, letting out a soft sigh.
“You should go first,” Draco said, clearing his throat, “I’ll dry her off a bit more. Make sure she’s fully warm before I head in.”
You nodded, clutching the towel bundle a little tighter before setting her down on a velvet cushion nearby.
“Thanks.” You said, already turning toward the showers, trying to ignore the way your heart suddenly sped up.
It wasn’t like you were showering with him. Obviously. You had your own stall. He’d have his. It was no different than when your entire dorm got ready for the Yule Ball at the same time, right?
It wasn’t like you were showering with him.
Obviously.
You had your own stall. He had his. Solid walls. Separate doors. It wasn’t like you were exchanging shampoo or anything.
It was no different than getting ready with your roommates during Yule Ball season. Right?
…Except it was different.
You weren’t really one to shower when the girls' baths were crowded. You liked your space, your quiet. You’d never been flustered about that kind of thing.
But this?
This was different.
He was a boy. And he was just a few mere feet away from you.
Naked.
You physically shook your head as if that would shake the thought loose.
The hot water hit your skin, washing away grime and mud and the bone-deep cold that had settled into your muscles, and for a moment, it felt like the world exhaled.
You let your head fall back under the stream, breathing in the lavender steam and bergamot oils—but your mind didn’t settle.
Because just across the room—on the other side of a few inches of stone and the faint hum of silencing charms—Draco Malfoy was standing under the exact same stream of water.
Maybe leaning back against the wall, eyes closed. Maybe raking a hand through his hair. Maybe—
You clenched your eyes shut.
Nope.
Absolutely not.
You rinsed faster than you normally would.
When you stepped back into the main space with your hair wrapped in a fluffy conjured towel, dressed in your clothes that you had cleaned with a simple 'scourgify', cheeks flushed from the heat—and something more complicated—Draco was there.
He was sitting on a cushioned bench, freshly cleaned. His hair, normally so perfectly styled, was now damp and curling slightly at the ends, a rogue strand falling into his eyes. He held Belladonna like she was made of glass, her towel gently unwrapped now as he ran his fingers carefully through her drying fur.
He looked up when he heard you. And for a moment, his eyes did that thing—flicking down, then back up. Fast. But unmistakable.
His throat bobbed.
“You alright?” He asked, voice low and hoarse.
You smiled, trying to ignore the way your heart skipped a little. “Regretting not trying harder to be a prefect,” You joked, padding toward him, “Can’t believe I’ve been missing out on these showers.”
His mouth twitched, “You can come back anytime.”
You raised a brow, “That an invitation?”
He hesitated. Just a second. Then looked you straight in the eye. “Yeah,” He said, “I owe you.”
You tried to brush it off with a smile, “You don’t owe me anything. I didn’t do it for you, I did it for her.”
He looked down at Belladonna, who was now snuggled up in his lap like a warm little dumpling. Her purring was soft, steady—proof she was safe and content.
In the weeks following the rescue, Draco was utterly incapable of letting Belladonna out of his sight. The poor cat, traumatized by her muddy ordeal, had adopted a new routine of clinging to the safe confines of her daddy’s room like a tiny, furry shadow.
Which meant that Pickles—her devoted, scruffy little boyfriend—had also become a permanent fixture there.
Which meant you—Pickles’ very concerned owner, who had nearly filed a missing cat report the moment her gluttonous furball missed a meal—were now also a regular guest in Draco Malfoy’s room.
It had been like this for about a week.
Despite Draco’s repeated (and exasperated) assurances that all you had to do was send him an owl and he’d gladly confirm Pickles’ whereabouts, you insisted it was easier to just drop by.
And once you confirmed that your boy was safe and sound, you’d make yourself perfectly at home on Draco’s floor—Pickles immediately climbing into your lap, soon followed by Belladonna, who clearly believed she owned the place. The two of them would curl into each other and purr like synchronized engines, while you absentmindedly stroked their fur.
It had gotten to the point where your presence didn’t even require Draco’s.
So when he returned from class one afternoon to find you sprawled across his bed—Pickles draped over your stomach and Belladonna nestled against your shoulder, both cats sound asleep—he simply sighed, slinging his bag onto the floor with a dramatic thud.
“Have we officially abandoned the concept of common courtesy then?” He drawled.
You didn’t even blink, “She sat on me and fell asleep, Draco. What was I supposed to do—move her?”
He rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. Instead, he crossed to his storage chest and pulled out two porcelain dishes—each filled with what looked like five-star gourmet cuisine—and set them gently on the floor. Like clockwork, both cats stirred, stretched, and padded down to their plates like royalty answering the dinner bell.
Draco muttered under his breath, “I still can’t believe I’m wasting perfectly curated, nutritionally balanced, hand-selected ingredients on that mangy mutt…”
“That mangy mutt is your son-in-law, Malfoy.” You said smugly.
He shook his head but softened. After Pickles rubbed against his leg and meowed up at him with those pleading eyes, Draco—deep down a simple cat lover and now a begrudging admirer of Pickles’ role in rescuing his precious Belladonna—gave in.
The cats were busy eating—Pickles scarfing his food like it might disappear any second, Belladonna delicately nibbling at hers like a Michelin critic—and for once, you and Draco were left without furballs sprawled across your lap.
You’d relocated to the floor by his desk, leaning against the foot of his bed while Draco lounged sideways in the armchair nearby, sleeves rolled up, socks mismatched—looking dangerously like someone approachable.
The silence between you wasn’t awkward anymore. If anything, it felt almost… easy.
“So,” Draco began, casually flicking a stray cat hair off his trousers, “how’s Potions going?”
You groaned, flopping your head against the mattress with dramatic flair, “Don’t get me started. No, seriously. If I have to think about the methodology for the Draught of Living Death one more time, I will actually cry.”
Draco snorted, “It’s not that hard.”
You lifted your head to glare at him, “Right. Well, oh intelligent one, not all of us are big, huge nerds. Honestly, you should’ve been in Ravenclaw.”
He smirked, unfazed, “This big, huge nerd just got an ‘O’ on the latest mock finals.”
You perked up instantly, “Wait, really?”
He didn’t seem to catch the trap in your tone, puffing his chest out proudly, “I did.”
“That’s amazing! So you can help me study!”
“…Excuse me?”
“Yeah! Ugh, Draco, you’re brilliant. This is perfect!”
“I wasn’t—”
“You’re a lifesaver! I’ll meet you here tomorrow during your free period!”
And just like that, before he could get a single word in edgewise, you scooped Pickles into your arms—his mouth still glistening from liver pâté—and dashed for the door.
“Sleep well, study buddy!” You called as you disappeared down the hall.
You slowed to a walk once you reached the common room, exhaling in victory. Pickles looked up at you, his expression blank as ever.
You sighed fondly, “Great job, wingman.”
Pickles blinked.
You fist-bumped his paw.
It was a lazy Saturday in the Slytherin common room.
The fire crackled quietly, casting warm shadows against the stone walls. Blaise sprawled across the velvet couch like a bored cat, Theo sat upside down in an armchair for no reason other than chaos, and Pansy twirled her wand with the kind of elegance that suggested she hadn’t read a single word of Witch Weekly in her lap.
Finally, Pansy broke the silence.
“So. Are you shagging her?”
Draco choked on his tea.
“What?” He coughed, nearly dropping the cup. Pickles, curled beside him on the armrest, hissed at the sudden jolt.
Blaise didn’t look up. “(L/N),” He said evenly, “You know. The Gryffindor who’s basically moved into your room. Owner of the mongrel you supposedly hate. Ringing any bells?”
“I—what—no!” Draco snapped, “Absolutely not! Why would you even ask that?!”
Theo flipped upright with a shit-eating grin, “Because you’ve been unreasonably pleasant lately. Smiling. Not threatening first-years. Suspicious behavior.”
“Almost like you enjoy seeing her kitty.” Blaise added smoothly, glancing down at Pickles who had moved himself to Draco's lap but judging by the smirk on his face it was clear he meant something else.
Draco turned bright red, “That’s not—”
“Mm-hm,” Pansy hummed, eyes glinting, “She was in your room for three hours yesterday.”
“She’s there for the cats,” Draco snapped, “Pickles won’t leave Belladonna’s side, and she won’t leave mine. (Y/N) just checks on him. That’s it. You all know this.”
“Sure,” Blaise drawled, “Just cats. That’s why you panic when she doesn’t show up at her usual time, right?”
“I do not—”
Before he could finish, the door to his dorm creaked open.
You stepped out, hair tousled, jumper slightly off one shoulder, Belladonna draped lazily around your neck like a scarf. You were clearly mid-thought, not yet noticing the audience.
“Draco,” You called, casual as ever, “come back in—someone’s missing their daddy.”
The room went silent.
Draco’s soul visibly left his body.
Theo’s mouth dropped open. Pansy squealed into her sleeve. Blaise grinned like he’d won a bet he hadn’t even made.
Draco groaned into his hands, “She meant the cat.”
“Sure she did.” Theo said, practically vibrating with glee.
It started innocently.
Draco was lying across his bed, legs crossed at the ankle, a Transfiguration textbook open in his lap—though he hadn’t actually turned a page in the last ten minutes. Pickles was curled up contentedly on his stomach, rising and falling with every slow breath. Across from him—well, technically on the bed but lying in the opposite direction—you were stretched out with your head by his feet, your own legs propped against his pillows like you lived there.
Which, to be fair, you kind of did lately.
Belladonna was nestled on your chest, queen of her tiny kingdom, batting half-heartedly at your fingers as you played with her paws, making little punching motions.
“And bam! And pow!” You said dramatically, “You’d never hurt me though, right, Bella? Us girls have to stick together.”
She stared up at you with her wide, imperious blue eyes.
You sighed, your fingers going limp in her fur, “Or maybe you’re not a girls’ girl after all. You got yourself a boyfriend first. Traitor. And now you’re no help either…”
Draco raised a brow, glancing down from his book, “Should I book you a trip to St. Mungo's, (L/N)?"
You ignored him, voice going high and sweet as you lifted one of Belladonna’s delicate paws and made her wave, “Not your fault, is it, darling? Your daddy’s so dense he can’t tell when a girl’s flirting with him to save his life. And you can’t knock some sense into him, can you? You’re just a cat.”
That made Draco freeze.
“Excuse me?” He said, sitting up just slightly, the book nearly sliding off his stomach.
Still, you didn’t look at him. You kept your attention on Belladonna, now rubbing her behind the ear like she was your emotional support therapist.
“Honestly, I’ve tried everything,” You sighed, dramatic and long-suffering, "Casual compliments. Gifts. Repeated close physical proximity. But nooo, nothing. He just sits there like a lemon, being oblivious and stupidly attractive.”
Draco blinked.
“I’m sorry,” He said slowly, “are you talking about me?”
You sighed, giving him a single glance before looking back at Belladonna, "He can't even tell when someone's blatantly talking about him either. Your daddy's a lost cause."
He looked like you’d just told him he was half-kneazle.
“You—you like me?”
You tilted your head, “I’ve been hanging out in your dorm for weeks, Draco. Do you think I do that for fun?”
“Well—yes? I thought you liked Pickles being around Belladonna!”
“Oh, I do,” You grinned, lifting Belladonna so you could sit up, “but I happen to like Belladonna’s daddy a lot more.”
A beat of silence.
Draco’s ears turned red. His entire face went warm. And he stared at you with an expression you couldn’t quite name.
Then—
“…Do you want to go to Hogsmeade with me next weekend?” He asked, voice slightly breathless, “Like—on a date?”
You reached out and laced your fingers with Draco’s, casual and easy like you’d done it a thousand times before.
“I’d love to go.” You said softly.
And from the way Draco looked at you then—wide-eyed, a little dazed, absolutely besotted—you had a feeling this was going to be the start of something very good.
Bonus:
“(Y/N) (L/N)!”
You shot upright, heart lurching at the sound of your boyfriend’s furious voice cutting across the room like a curse.
Draco Malfoy never yelled. He condescended. He complained. He drawled insults like an art form.
But this? This was new.
You stared at him from your perch on the couch, blinking.
He stood in the doorway of his dorm room, chest heaving, face pale with horror—and Belladonna tucked gently in one arm like a fragile glass ornament. His other hand was shaking. Literally shaking.
“…What’s wrong with you?” You asked slowly.
He marched across the room, holding Belladonna aloft like a witness to a crime.
“You said that thing was neutered!” He hissed, venom dripping from every syllable, clutching his cat to his chest like he was protecting her from the lump of orange fluff currently rolling around on the rug, trying to eat his own tail.
You stood slowly, voice tight, “I was told he was neutered.”
“Well, clearly you were lied to!” Draco snapped, setting Belladonna down on a velvet pillow with surgical care and clutching his hair like he was about to pull it out in clumps, “Because my daughter is pregnant.”
You stared at him. Then down at Pickles.
Then back at Belladonna, who had begun daintily licking her paw, looking vaguely smug.
There was a long, long pause.
“I’m gonna be a grandma!” You wailed, hands flying up to your face, “Oh my God, I’m gonna be a grandma!”
Draco gaped at you, “I just found out my baby is having babies and this is how you’re reacting?!”
Pickles burped.
Draco made a strangled sound, “That is the father of my grandchildren.”
You were laughing so hard you wheezed.
And somehow… somehow this entire disaster only made you love him more.
To be added to a taglist, please send me an ask! (I might respond to you in comments but I can’t guarantee that I won’t accidentally miss it)
just a very short one shot of dad!Draco set before the cursed child !! You're scorpius' mom now:p ~ (wc: 372)
a/n– needed to write more Draco fics aaa ty for the idea anon <3 will do Tom Riddle hcs soon when I get motivated !! I'll post it after I do the next chap of my Draco seriesss or smth, pls check out my other works in the meantime !!
He groaned as Scorpius turned his head, pouting before running off to follow the family owl. Putting aside the small spoon and bowl, he went to go to your office with tired legs. The doorknob turned, the slit of the doorway opening wider to greet him with the view of you working. Writing on parchment with one hand as the other held another piece of parchment, sleeves rolled up as your hair was messy.
A breath of relief left him as he saw you, forcing his legs to move closer to you. Arms suddenly wrapped around your frame as lips showered your cheek with kisses, until his nose buried itself in the crook of your neck. "He didn't eat his food again?" You asked, eyes still on your papers. He hummed, continuing to kiss you on the neck and making you giggle. Dropping your quill, you turned to face him, putting his face in your hands.
You gave him a small peck on the lips, his mouth following yours as you pulled away. Your hand moved to his and pulled him to the couch of the office, making him lay his head on your chest. His hair was soft, it had become wavy as time passed and you loved it that way. "Ma cherie..." He groaned as your fingers ran themselves through his locks, hands gripping your sides as if you were to go away.
The moment was silently sweet, your break from the world as you both had became so busy. Until crying was nearing your way, little stomps coming from your toddler. You turned your head to Scorpius, letting out a small laugh as your arm opened itself to him. "Come to mama." You said, making Draco let out a tsk. Your head turned with a raised brow, looking at your husband.
The little boy went to you, opening and closing his hands to say he wanted a hug. Draco kept pushing him away, looking at him with a playfully annoyed face. "No. Mama's mine for now." He moved himself to cover your body, having Scorpius try to pull him off of you. You giggled at your two boys, propping yourself up with your elbows to finally comfort your son.
