Off Limits — D.M
Draco Malfoy x reader !!
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It always starts the same way: his eyes find you when they shouldn't.
In the quiet corners of the library, across the courtyard between classes, in the reflection of his goblet at the Great Hall — Draco Malfoy watches you like it's a habit he can't break. He doesn't speak. He doesn't approach.
But he looks.
And you let him.
Because you're not supposed to.
You're Harry Potter's little sister. The Gryffindor princess, as Pansy calls you with a sneer. The one person Draco Malfoy should avoid at all costs if he doesn't want his already-complicated life exploding into full disaster.
But he doesn't avoid you.
Not really.
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It starts small.
A passing glance that lingers too long. A brush of shoulders in the corridor when there was clearly enough space. The kind of smirk that says I know I shouldn't... but I want to.
And you, fool that you are, smirk back.
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Tonight, it's late. The common rooms have gone quiet, and the halls of Hogwarts are cloaked in sleepy shadows. You shouldn't be out.
But neither should he.
You round the corner into the empty corridor behind the library, pulling your cloak tighter—only to freeze when you see him leaning against the far wall, arms crossed, as if he'd been waiting for something.
Or someone.
You.
"Could've sworn this hallway was Gryffindor-free," he drawls, but his voice is low, quiet. Almost careful.
You tilt your head. "And yet here you are."
He watches you for a moment, eyes flicking over your face, the hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. "You shouldn't be here."
"Neither should you," you reply, stepping closer. "Prefect badge not shining as bright tonight?"
He lets out a soft huff of amusement, gaze darkening as you draw nearer. "You know," he says slowly, "your brother would actually kill me."
You shrug. "He's not here."
"That's not the point."
"No, it isn't," you agree, stopping just a few feet from him now. "But I don't see you leaving."
He doesn't.
And neither do you.
The silence between you stretches, heavy with all the things neither of you are supposed to say. The tension is palpable—hot and restless like lightning right before a storm.
"People would talk," he murmurs, almost to himself.
"Let them."
His jaw clenches for a split second, like he's fighting something—his instincts, maybe. Or his conscience. But then his eyes find yours again, and this time, there's no hesitation.
"You're off limits," Draco says quietly, as if repeating it might make it more true.
"And yet," you whisper, stepping even closer, "you still look at me like that."
Like he wants you.
Like he's been wanting you for a while now.
He reaches out before he can stop himself, fingers brushing your wrist, then gliding up your arm slowly, like he's learning you. His touch is light but deliberate.
"I'm going to regret this," he says.
You don't flinch. "Then don't stop."
His eyes flicker down to your lips, and when he leans in, it's not hesitant. It's like giving in to gravity—like he's finally letting himself fall.
His mouth brushes yours—once, twice—and then he kisses you fully. It's not rough, not rushed, but there's a tension threaded through it, like he's been holding back for too long. His hand comes up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek.
And when you melt into him, he sighs against your lips like it's a relief.
He pulls back just slightly, resting his forehead against yours.
"I'm in so much trouble," he mutters, but he's smiling now. Soft and real.
You grin, breathless. "Me too."
But neither of you step away.
Not tonight.
