#post hogwarts

[ddmi-art]

My tomarry postHog au: Harry is DADA professor

Tom and Harry are husbands ❤️

[peachipies]

Beach vacation 🏖️

[rijsamurai]

Today is Harry Potter’s 44th birthday 🥳

[alessialreyes]

The Prophecy

Pairing(s): Sebastian Sallow × Reader (FMC) Words: ~3.7k

Summary: You never believed in prophecies—not really. But when the one written for you ends in loneliness, fate decides to rewrite it. After a night of too much Butterbeer and Firewhisky, a run-in at the Three Broomsticks brings Sebastian Sallow back into your life.

Warnings: SFW · No Smut · Emotional intimacy · Bittersweet reunion · Post-Hogwarts setting (1890s Hogsmeade) · Light angst with comfort · Slow-build romance · Mutual pining · Confession scene · Kissing

A/N: This one-shot was heavily inspired by “The Prophecy” by Taylor Swift—the feeling of love arriving right when it’s meant to. It’s a story about second chances and finding the courage to rewrite your own ending.

You saw it coming. You always did.

Disappointment had become a familiar guest.

Men loved to be bewitched by the wielder of ancient magic. They all did. Until they discovered the truth: you were tired, and you’d long since stopped trying to set the world alight.

The current man—Troy Connor, the charming wizard from Ireland—was no different.

You had believed, foolishly, that he might be. That he wanted you, not the relic of what you once were.

You blamed yourself for not seeing the signs sooner. Ever since your fifth year at Hogwarts, affection had come with conditions, and every gift carried a thread of expectation.

The blue-eyed, dark-haired man stood before you, refusing to meet your gaze. His silence filled the small Hogsmeade cottage as he moved about, collecting the last of his things.

You didn’t cry. You wanted to, but no tears came. It wasn’t even about him leaving. You wanted to cry because you were twenty-five, and it felt like everyone else had figured it out. They were moving forward, moving on, and you were still standing still—waiting for something worthwhile. For someone who might actually stay.

“I’m not reading this,” Troy muttered as he tossed your letter into the fireplace.

It had been a foolish thing, that letter—five pages of desperation. Words begging him to try again, to salvage what was slipping through your fingertips. You’d written it at the start of the unraveling, back when you still believed you’d found your forever.

Now, watching it burn, you understood. This was it. Whatever gods ruled over your life had made their choice, and this was your prophecy.

“You don’t have the decency to at least tell me why you’re leaving?” you whispered.

Troy straightened. When he finally looked at you, his eyes were empty. “You want the truth?” he said.

You nodded.

“The truth is, you’re… fine,” he began. “But you’re not what I thought you were. You’re not as pretty as you think. You’re dull. You used to have all this potential—people said you were extraordinary once—but you’ve settled into something painfully ordinary. And honestly?” His mouth curved. “I’ve met someone who makes me feel alive again. She isn’t afraid to be interesting.”

You stood there with your throat tight but your eyes still dry. Somewhere inside, a smaller version of yourself wanted to crumble But another part simply thought, of course he found a way to make his leaving sound like my fault.

And with that, he left.

The door closed, and you were left with only the sounds of the fireplace and your breathing. You sank to your knees, staring through the window as the first stars began to show. For the first time in a long while, you prayed—not to any one god, but to whoever might be listening. To fate, to the universe, to anything that had ever cared enough to change a story.

Please, you thought. I’m so tired of being alone.

Your reflection caught in the glass . Your eyes were puffy, your hair was a mess, and you still wore the cardigan he said made you look “safe.” You let out a shaky laugh.

“Pathetic,” you muttered to yourself.

Enough.

You stood, straightened your sweater, and stepped out into the evening.

The lights along the street still glowed, and the town carried on. There were fewer students now; mostly locals closing up shop, calling goodnights to one another. You tucked your hands into your coat pockets and convinced yourself a walk would help. It usually did.

When you passed the Three Broomsticks, a familiar voice consumed your thoughts.

“Perhaps we deserve a Butterbeer or two,” Sebastian had said, after the troll incident all those years ago.

You almost smiled.

Sebastian Sallow had long ago joined the list of men who disappointed you, though his absence hurt differently. After Hogwarts, he had completely thrown himself into finding a cure for Anne. You wrote to him, at first. He wrote back. Then less. Then not at all.

One day, the owls simply stopped coming.

You’d heard Anne recovered. You knew, instinctively, that it had been his doing. But he never returned. Never explained. Never said goodbye.

So, with time, Sebastian Sallow became less a person and more a ghost. He was now simply a name you tried not to think about.

Perhaps I deserve a Butterbeer right now, you thought. You turned toward the Three Broomsticks and pushed through the door.

Sirona stood behind the bar, directing floating tankards with her wand. When she spotted you, her expression softened.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite recluse,” she said. “Haven’t seen you in ages, love. Everything all right?”

You slid onto a stool and rested your arms on the counter. “Define all right,” you muttered, managing a small smile. “Can I get a Butterbeer?”

“One Butterbeer coming up,” she said, directing a tankard toward you. “On the house, if you promise not to look like that while you drink it.”

You huffed out a laugh. “Rough day,” you admitted.

“Man trouble?”

You stared into your drink. “Something like that. He left.”

She didn’t ask which he. Everyone in Hogsmeade had seen Troy Connor enough times to know the answer.

“I just…” You trailed off. “I keep ending up here—not just here here, but in this same circle. Someone new, same ending. I’m starting to think maybe the problem is me.”

Sirona shook her head. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re allowed to want someone who stays.”

“I don’t even need grand gestures anymore. Just… company. Someone who doesn’t leave when things stop feeling… shiny.”

Sirona gently smiled. “Then the right one will come when you least expect it. They always do.”

You tried to believe her. You took a slow sip of Butterbeer, and told yourself maybe she was right.

Deserving a Butterbeer turned into deserving two. Then three. Then four. Somewhere in between, a few glasses of Firewhisky had joined.

Now you sat with your chin resting in your hand, watching the tavern tilt ever so slightly. You were drunk.

The Three Broomsticks hadn’t gone quiet yet, but it was winding down. A few tables emptied and the hum of conversation softened to a murmur. Sirona moved between tables, wiping them down.

You were so drunk, in fact, you didn’t notice the tavern thinning out around you—or the man who came down from the upstairs rooms and slipped into the stool beside you.

You catch a whiff of him first—pine and cedarwood layered with vetiver, the scent vaguely familiar but edged with something more mature.

You don’t turn your head right away. You keep tracing the rim of your glass, contemplating whether another drink will fix or worsen the evening. Probably both.

The man beside you orders quietly. His voice has a particular cadence that makes you think you’ve heard it before—though the drunken haze could be playing tricks.

You glance sideways through your unsteady vision.

He leans forward, elbows braced on the counter as he speaks to Sirona. His chestnut-brown hair is neat but tousled, strands falling loosely across his forehead. His face contradicting—boyish freckles scattered across his skin marked by too many sleepless nights. A faint shadow of stubble, the kind left behind from a morning shave, traced the hard line of his jaw.

Sirona slides a drink his way with a smile that says welcome back.

It couldn’t be.

You blinked once, then again, willing the alcohol to stop playing cruel tricks. But when he turned slightly toward the light—the truth was clear.

Sebastian Sallow.

The years had changed him. The boy who once filled every room with noise had become a man who barely seemed to breathe. But he was still unmistakably him.

Your heart lurched.

You must’ve made some small sound—a hitch of breath, the clink of your glass—because he turned.

Neither of you moved when your eyes met. Hazel-brown eyes searched yours. The noise of the tavern seemed to fade on instinct, as though the room itself understood it was no longer needed. For a moment, it was only you and him. His eyes widened—surprise first, then recognition, then something cautious and shy.

“Y/N?” he said, voice roughened by time.

The sound of your name on his lips—after all these years—sent a rush of tangled emotions through you. Part of you felt an almost painful relief at seeing something so familiar, so known. The other part remembered too well the silence he’d left you with.

“Sebastian,” you managed. Your voice came out softer than you intended—slightly slurred from the Butterbeer and Firewhisky. “What are you doing here?”

He hesitated before he offered a small shrug. “Passing through,” he said. “Needed a place to stay for the night.”

It was a lie. You had once known Sebastian Sallow so well that his tells were second nature to you. You caught it instantly—the tick of his jaw, the way his eyes didn’t quite meet yours.

“Passing through, huh?” you hiccuped, swishing the last of your drink.

Sebastian’s mouth twitched—his tell. It always meant he was holding something back. “Something like that.”

You studied his face. “You always were a terrible liar.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “And you’re still insanely meticulous, even after… all this.”

“I’m still a lot of things,” you said, pointing at him with the wobbly motion of someone who’d absolutely had too much. “Just not sober.”

His eyes flicked to the empty glasses in front of you. “You’ve had more than enough,” he murmured. “Where’s your boyfriend? I heard you weren’t drinking alone these days.”

Shit.

“He’s not here.”

He’d heard. Which meant he had asked—or at least cared enough to listen. He knew about Troy Connor, and considering the breakup had barely happened, it was clear Sebastian still thought you were together.

“Well,” he said, narrowing his eyes as he took in your swaying posture. “He should know better than to leave you alone in this state.”

“I can take care of myself, thank you very much,” you said, pushing off the stool and attempting a confident stride.

Your legs had other plans. The world spun, and before you could fall, his hand closed around your arm. When you met his eyes, you found that same look of concern—the one he used to give you whenever you did something reckless with your powers.

“And you’re still stubborn,” he said softly, his gaze flicking to your lips for the briefest moment.

“And you’re still bossy,” you muttered, turning away before he could see the flush creeping up your neck.

“I’ll walk you back. Make sure you get home safe,” he said, setting a few galleons on the table before giving Sirona a nod.

You tightened your grip on his arm as you stepped into the town. He kept his other arm near your waist—just hovering there, ready to steady you if you stumbled.

“Right,” he said after a quiet moment, exhaling as his breath misted in the cold. “Which way is yours?”

You motioned toward the dark outline of the hills on the outskirts of town. “Cottage just a ways up,” you said. “Near the windmill.”

You walked together. Well, Sebastian walked, and you made an attempt at keeping up. You tripped over a stone, muttered something unladylike, and felt him slow his pace. Every movement was so careful—patient. He adjusted for every misstep, carefully matching his stride to yours.

Which was ironic, really. Because years ago, he’d been the one charging ahead—impossible to keep up with. Yet here he was, slowing down just to make sure you didn’t fall.

“Merlin,” he muttered after your fifth stumble. “I ought to have a word with that boyfriend of yours. Leaving you to wander home like this—unbelievable.”

You shot him a sideways look. “He’s not my keeper.”

“No,” Sebastian said softly. “But someone should be, when you can barely stand upright.”

You tried to glare at him, but the effort was ruined by the hiccup that followed. When you reached your cottage door, you lifted your wand, squinting at the lock. “Alohamo—Aloho—ugh.” The spell sputtered uselessly.

Sebastian’s low chuckle stirred the air beside you. “That’s not even close.”

“I had it,” you grumbled.

He murmured the charm himself, and the door clicked open. You stumbled as you tried to hurry in, but before you could steady yourself, his arm circled your waist.

“Easy,” he said quietly. “I’ve got you.”

Sebastian guided you inside, still holding you as if he was afraid you might collapse the moment he let go. The room was dark, the only light coming from the fireplace where Troy had burned your letter.

“See?” he murmured as he shut the door behind you. “Home safe.”

You nodded—well, you thought you did—but the motion only made your head spin faster. Sebastian noticed immediately and guided you toward the sofa. He kept one arm around you until you were settled, carefully propping you upright in case your stomach decided to rebel.

“Where’s your boyfriend?” he asked, watching you try to find a comfortable position. “He needs to be watching you—you could choke on your own vomit or—”

“He’s asleep,” you lied, words slurring together.

Sebastian stilled, disbelief flickering across his face before hardening into irritation. “Asleep?”

You groaned. “Don’t start.”

“No, I’d like to understand,” he said, his voice rising slightly. “He knew you were out, yes?”

“He did.”

“And he’s asleep?” His jaw clenched. “Didn’t bother to stay up, make sure you got home safely?”

You glared at him, though it took effort to keep your eyes open. “I can handle myself, Sebastian. I don’t need someone waiting by the window every time I decide to have a drink.”

He folded his arms, looking entirely unconvinced. “Clearly.”

You huffed, your words coming slower now. “Why do you care so much all of a sudden?” You blinked, trying to fight the weight behind your eyes. “You left, Sebastian. What’s it to you now?”

He opened his mouth, then shut it again. The muscle in his jaw twitched.

“I was trying to look out for you,” he said finally.

You let out a tired laugh that came out more like a sigh. “That’s rich, coming from the man who disappeared without a word.”

He flinched at that. You saw it. But instead of answering, he turned away, dragging a hand through his hair.

“Go to sleep, Y/N,” he muttered. “We can talk in the morning.”

Your head lolled against the couch cushion. “Aren’t you just going to disappear again?”

He didn’t respond. Just stood there for a long moment, watching you with an expression you couldn’t quite read.

“Goodnight, Y/N,” he said quietly.

You tried to say something back—tried to ask him why he’d really come back—but the words tangled in your throat.

And before you could force them out, you fell asleep.

The smell of tea and something warm on the stove was the first thing to draw your eyes open. You blinked slowly, the room coming into focus as you tried to piece together where you were. You groaned softly, the pounding in your head reminding you exactly how much you’d had to drink.

“Good morning.”

Sebastian stood a few feet away, sleeves rolled to his forearms. He was stirring something in a small tin pot over the flames. He looked maddeningly awake.

“It’s miraculous how awake you look right now,” you muttered, pressing your hand to your temple.

He glanced over. “And you’re alive. Miraculous.”

You gave a faint, pained groan. “Don’t.” 

Sebastian poured the contents of the pot into a mug and carried it over. The smell made your stomach turn, but you took it anyway.

“What is it?” you asked, squinting suspiciously.

“Hangover draught. Got the recipe from Sirona years ago. She’s quite used to Hogsmeade’s patrons overindulging.”

You sniffed it. “It smells like boiled socks.”

“It does, but it’ll help.”

You took a sip and nearly gagged. “That’s vile.”

“Good. Means it’s working.”

You glared weakly at him over the rim of the mug. “You didn’t sleep, did you?”

Sebastian didn’t answer immediately. His gaze flicked to the half-drawn curtains, then back to you. “Someone had to make sure you didn’t roll off the sofa.”

You set the mug down on the table beside you. “You could’ve left.”

“Could have,” he said simply. “Didn’t.”

You blinked at him through the haze of your headache. He looked tired—not the sort of tired that came from lack of rest, but from years of it.

“Why not?” you asked.

Sebastian’s eyes drifted around the cottage, taking in the neat little shelves, the books stacked by the window, the single blanket folded over the chair. 

Finally, he looked back at you. “I know you don’t have a boyfriend.”

“Excuse me?” you stuttered.

“I looked around last night. There’s no trace of him here. No clothes. Not even a second pillow on the bed.” He paused. “So, what happened?”

You hesitated, staring down at your hands. “You were always too observant for your own good.”

“We both are.” He shrugged faintly. “Or maybe we still know each other all too well.”

Silence hung between you for a long moment.

You sighed. “He’s gone. We broke up. Yesterday, actually.”

Sebastian’s expression didn’t change much, but realization of your drunkenness last night settled.

“I see,” he said finally.

“You seem terribly calm for someone who was ready to yell at him last night.”

“I was,” he said. “Until I realized there was no one to fight.”

“So what now? You going to scold me for drinking too much?”

His mouth twitched, but he didn’t smile. “No. I think you’ve been through enough.”

“And you?” you asked quietly. “What brings you back, Sebastian?”

“Maybe,” he said after a long pause, “I just got tired of running from ghosts.”

“Ghosts?” you echoed.

He wet his lips. “Anne was healed,” he said softly. “My doing, yes—but when it was done, there was nothing left of me that I trusted. I’d spent so much time sharpening myself against the Dark, but even when the blade finally had no purpose, it kept cutting.” He glanced away. “Nightmares. Rage that came from nowhere. An itch for spells I swore I’d never touch again. I would have ruined anything I stood too close to.”

You sat frozen.

“I left because I loved you,” he said. “Because near you, I am capable of anything—good or terrible—and I did not trust which it would be. I told myself I’d stay away until I could stand in front of you without asking you to save me. I went to curse–healers in London, to a wizard who taught me how to unlearn what I’d made of myself. I took work that kept me moving so I wouldn’t circle back too soon.”

“And the letters?” you asked. “You stopped answering.”

His mouth twisted. “Cowardice, dressed up as kindness. Every reply felt like a promise to return. I kept writing and tearing them up because I thought silence would set you free. I thought if I vanished properly, you’d stop waiting. When I heard you were with someone, I told myself it had worked—that you’d found something–someone–I could never be.” He swallowed. “And still I came to Hogsmeade and slept above the tavern because I could not bear being away from you.”

You couldn’t seem to breathe.

“I saw you in town twice last week,” he admitted. “I told myself it wasn’t my right to talk to you after leaving for so long. Last night, when I found you…” His voice broke. “I thought I was too late. I thought you’d given your heart to someone who would stay, and that I’d forfeited the only good thing I ever wanted by trying to make myself worthy of it first.”

He leaned forward. “I have never not wanted you. Not one hour. Not one minute. I left because my love for you made me ruthless, and I was afraid I’d pull you into the dark with me. I stopped answering because I feared I’d drag you back into my ruin with a single letter. It wasn’t mercy. It was fear.” His eyes found yours. “If there’s anything left—anything—tell me how to deserve you. I will do it. I will stay. I will wait. I will go as slow as you ask. Only don’t send me away believing I came back too late.”

Your heartbeat was everywhere—throat, wrists, the sore place behind your eyes.

“You don’t need saving,” he whispered, “and that is why I love you. But if you’ll let me, I would like to spend the rest of my life making sure you never have to be alone.”

He stopped, chest rising and falling, like he’d run a great distance to reach the end of that sentence—and perhaps he had.

You didn’t move. You didn’t speak. You couldn’t.

His confession lingered between you. It was echoing inside your head—every word he’d said, every word you’d once dreamed of hearing.

Before you could think, before you could talk yourself out of it—you kissed him.

You just reached for him, your fingers fisting in the collar of his shirt afraid he might vanish again. His breath caught for just a moment, and then he was kissing you back with desperation.

Years of restraint, guilt, and almosts all collapsed into that single, perfect collision. His hand came up to cradle your face, his thumb brushing the edge of your jaw. You could feel the faint tremor in him, the hot groan against your lips.

He kissed you like he was trying to make up for every letter he never sent. When your hand slid up his neck, into his hair, his control broke. The kiss deepened. You felt him smile against your lips.

It went from trembling to certain in the span of a breath. From “I missed you” to “I never stopped.” From a goodbye that never came to everything you’d both been too afraid to want.

You finally pulled away, leaving both of you breathless. He closed his eyes and rested his forehead against yours. He laughed softly like he couldn’t believe any of this was real. You could feel it too—that fragile, beautiful disbelief that maybe, finally, this wasn’t a dream you’d have to wake from.

You stayed like that for a while. Two people who had spent too long surviving apart now refusing to part.

In that silence, you understood.

The right things have a way of finding you—after the wrong ones have burned themselves out. Love doesn’t arrive early, and it never comes late. It comes when it’s supposed to.

Beside the fire that once burned your past, he kissed you again—and you knew.

The prophecy had changed.

[tina-belcher1]

Claimed by the Heir Pt. 2

A Tom Riddle x Reader Romance

Summary: Once the devil gets his hands on you, he’ll never let you go. You called your power a curse. He called it a gift. You wanted liberation. He's just burned your old life to ashes and crowned you his queen.

Warnings: (Mature Themes (18+), Explicit Sexual Content (Smut), Dark Romance, Dom Tom Riddle, Power Imbalance, Psychological Manipulation, Possessive & Obsessive Behavior, Kidnapping, Dubious Consent, Degradation, Bondage, Dacryphilia)

Word Count: 5.7k

Click here to read part one!

enjoy ;)

𓆙 𓆙 𓆙

Chapter 8 - Disturbed

The harsh light of morning felt like an accusation. Steam clung to the cool air as morning light illuminated my small bathroom. I pushed myself onto my feet from the bathtub, the briskness causing goosebumps to rise. As the soft cotton towel moved down my inner thigh, my fingers brushed against a patch of skin that was exquisitely tender. I looked down. A perfect mouth-shaped bruise, serving as tangible proof of my night in the cemetery with Tom Riddle.

If not for that mark, I would swear last night was a fever dream, a lurid fantasy concocted in the depths of a mad mind. But it was real. The proof was right there, painted on my skin in shades of blue and purple. And even worse, a secret, shameful part of me never wanted it to fade.

Last night felt like a triumph. Now, in the unforgiving clarity of day, a hot shame warred with cold dread in my gut. What was I thinking? Clearly I wasn’t, because I had not only surrendered to him; I had actively participated in my own ruin, a willing participant in the desecration of a holy place.

The depravity of our actions was quickly eclipsed by the memory of his sweet praises. Never before had someone been so undeniably proud of my abilities. So willing to guide me through my deepest fears. He didn’t see my abilities as a curse; he called it a gift. 

My cheeks turned pink with embarrassment. Had I really been so desperate for validation that I let my self-respect crumble that easily? This was Tom Riddle after all. A cocky know-it-all who looked down on everyone around him. A man who views himself as perfection and accepts nothing less.

I walked to my kitchen to brew some much needed tea. The mundane motions kept my hands busy as my mind wandered back to last night. I found myself latching onto the nickname he had given me, Treasure. The romanticism of it seemed simultaneously foreign on his tongue and as natural as the death surrounding us. But a treasure wasn't just something cherished; it was something owned. An object to be acquired, polished, and locked away for safekeeping.

Going back into the depths of my mind, I tried to recall a time when someone took such an interest in me, but I drew a blank. Tom’s unique teaching style was definitely different than any instruction I had ever received, but surprisingly it worked. I worked.

I had been terrified to enter the cemetery and I left with an entirely new understanding of my own abilities. Part of me wished he had been an incapable instructor. At least then I wouldn’t have questions swirling around my mind. Had it really been that simple all along? Or was Tom the missing factor? 

Either way, I couldn’t remember a time when my mind felt so clear and serene. I had grown accustomed to my brain being more akin to an ever-changing maze than a place of serenity. If this was what power and control felt like, then I feared I was becoming addicted.

The shrill whistle of the kettle sliced through my reverie. As I steeped my tea, I realized my day off was no longer about seeking refuge. It was about contemplating the crown I had just been offered, and deciding if I was willing to bear its weight.

A sudden knock at the door jolted me into reality. With a quick glance out the peephole, I saw the postman on the other side holding a brown paper package.

“Can I help you?”

“Package for you, miss. Signature here please.” My hand trembled as I signed. I shut the door, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. 

The wrapping was neat, the edges crisp and perfect. There was no sender, only my name and location scrawled in his frighteningly familiar handwriting. He knew where I lived. 

My stomach plummeted. Ripping the paper open revealed a new pair of nude stockings, folded perfectly. A replacement for the ones he had savagely ripped from my body. The gesture was so thoughtful and so deeply perverse that a hysterical laugh almost escaped my lips. He breaks me, then provides the means to piece myself back together, all the while reminding me that he is the one with the power to do both.

Setting the stockings aside revealed a dense textbook cloaked in dark leather bindings. The cover possessed an intricate pattern, looping into the title, Secrets of the Darkest Art. 

The thick cover groaned as it opened. My eyes widened when they landed on the inscription, for the one who owns my soul.

The air rushed out of my lungs. It wasn’t a romantic declaration. It was a statement of fact. A claim. We had shared one night of torrid passion, and he was already speaking in absolutes, in the language of possession and eternity.

With a growing sense of dread, I forced myself to open the text. The pages were filled with archaic rituals and obscure, soul-based enchantments. A darkness seemed to emanate from the very ink. My eyes scanned the chapter headings until they landed on a page illustrated with a diagram of a shattered, crystalline heart. The title read: On the Splitting of the Soul for the Preservation of the Self.

Reading the first few lines, my blood ran cold as my mind struggled to comprehend the monstrous theory. It spoke of a spell, an act of supreme evil, that could fracture a wizard’s soul, allowing a piece to be moved into an external host. An object. For safekeeping. For immortality.

I slammed the book shut with a thud that echoed in the sudden, crushing silence of my flat. I felt dizzy. This had nothing to do with my abilities. This wasn't about teaching me control. Was this a test? Had he seen my unique connection to the echoes of souls left on objects, and sought to use them as bait for his sick academic interests? Suddenly, I wasn’t sure if Treasure was such an endearing pet name after all.

The walls of my flat, once a comfort, suddenly felt like they were closing in. I stood abruptly, leaving the book and its terrible secrets on the table. I needed to get out. I needed fresh air, a clear sky. Anything to get my mind off Tom Riddle and the impossible, terrifying weight of his soul.

Chapter 9 - Obsession

The crisp autumnal air bit at my cheeks, a familiar sting that usually brought comfort. Today, it offered no relief, only echoing the chill that had settled deep in my bones since I’d slammed that wretched book shut.

My brain bent over backwards thinking of an excuse for the book he sent to my home. It wasn’t a question of who had sent the book, but the single, gnawing question of why. Part of me hoped it was all some sort of sick joke. All in an elaborate scheme to scare me or send me running. But my own curiosity seemed to be stronger than my fear as I recalled his immensely personal inscription. For the one who owns my soul.

How could he say something so absolute after only a few short meetings? I didn’t know him well enough to own his soul, nor did I want the responsibility. He didn’t seem like a man capable of love, but perhaps what he felt was more akin to obsession.

Every rustle of dead leaves beneath my shoes caused me to glance over my shoulders. The winding path of the park, usually a place of quiet refuge, felt menacing today. Each crack of a twig sounded like a deliberate intrusion, each shadow seemed to stretch and twist into a human form just at the edge of my vision. The prickling sensation on the back of my neck was undeniable, the weight of a persistent, unseen stare.

Stopping dead in my tracks, I spun around. A few witches chattered by a bench, a wizard hurried past with his head down, the wind skittered leaves across the cobblestones. Nothing. No one was looking at me. Shaking my head, I tried to dismiss the feeling. It was just paranoia, a lingering side effect of the cemetery and the terrifying book now sitting on my kitchen table. I was letting him get into my head.

I forced myself to walk on, my hands shoved deep into my pockets, focusing on the familiar sights of Diagon Alley materializing ahead. It was only when the rich, earthy scent of damp soil and dried moon-dew hit me that I realized where my aimless, frantic steps had led me. I was standing at the entrance to the narrow lane where I worked, the familiar green and gold sign of Plevins' Potions & Apothecary hanging just a few doors down.

A wave of relief washed over me. The shop, my greenhouse—my only true sanctuary. The chime of the door brought the familiar comforting smells of potions and parchment. My boss, Barnaby Plevins, a slender old man, fussed over a display in the shop window.

“Ah. Dear girl!” Mr. Plevins shuffled across the worn boards, “I thought today was your day off. Or did I accidentally get into the confusing concoction again?”

“It is. I just…” my voice trailed off. “I wanted to ask you something, sir.” Though my feet had brought me here subconsciously, if there was anyone in the world who might have answers about dark, forbidden texts without casting judgment, it was my boss.

His thick, white brow furrowed with genuine concern. “What’s on your mind, my dear?”

Unsure which question to ask first, I mulled the words over a few times before asking, “Sir, what do you know of soul magic?”

The light, eccentric air that usually surrounded Mr. Plevins vanished in an instant. He set down the bottle of powdered moonstone he was holding, his movements suddenly slow and deliberate. He removed his thick spectacles, and without the magnification, his eyes seemed smaller, sharper, and far more serious.

“That is a dark and treacherous path, my girl. Not a subject for idle curiosity,” he said, his voice low and devoid of its usual whimsy. “It meddles with the very essence of a person, the part of us that is ancient and should remain untouched. Why do you ask?”

I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry. I couldn’t meet his gaze, focusing instead on a crack in the worn floorboards. “I just… I read something about it. I didn’t understand it.” I took a small, hesitant step closer, lowering my voice to a near-whisper. “About… splitting it? Splitting the soul.”

The reaction was immediate and visceral. Mr. Plevins flinched as if I’d struck him, a sharp intake of breath hissing through his teeth. His shock wasn't accusatory; it was pure, unadulterated horror at the concept itself.

“Merlin’s beard,” he whispered, his eyes wide with disbelief. “That’s not magic, my dear. That’s an abomination.” He looked at me then, his expression softening from horror into deep concern. “For such a thing to even cross your mind… what have you been reading?”

I shook my head, unable to tell him about the book or the man who sent it. But I had to know. The question that had been pressing on my mind since I’d first read the chapter title tumbled out. “Why might one do such a thing?”

His usual jovial smile dropped, replaced by a deep, weary sadness. “To defy death,” he answered grimly. “A wizard who fears the natural order of things, who believes their own existence is more important than anything else, might seek such a path.” He paused, his voice dropping even lower. “A wizard capable of such an act values himself over all else. It is the most vile type of arrogance.”

His words painted a perfect, horrifying portrait of Tom Riddle. The pieces clicked into place with sickening clarity.

“My dear girl,” Mr. Plevins said, his voice laced with worry as he stepped closer. “I must ask you again, and I need you to be honest with me. Why is this on your mind?”

I opened my mouth to answer, though no words came. I was trapped by his wise, worried gaze, with no explanation that wouldn't sound like a confession of madness. Before I could string a lie together, the bell above the door chimed sharply, announcing the arrival of a pair of chattering customers.

“I’m sorry, sir, I shouldn’t have asked,” I mumbled, already backing away toward the rear exit, once again desperate for solitude.

I stumbled into the alley and took two frantic steps before crashing into a chest as solid as stone. Before I could even gasp out an apology, a low chuckle rumbled through the chest I was pressed against. "Going somewhere, Treasure?"

Chapter 10 - Proclivity

The smooth, possessive purr of his voice froze the blood in my veins. My mind, still reeling from Barnaby’s grim words, went blank. I was a cornered animal, paralyzed in the sudden, inescapable presence of the predator. Before I could find the breath to scream, his hand shot out, his fingers wrapping around my upper arm in a grip as unyielding as iron, and the world dissolved in an instant.

Apparating against my will was a unique kind of horror. It wasn't just the familiar, nauseating squeeze; it was a terribly violent intrusion. My body was ripped from the cobblestones, sucked into a suffocating vortex of pressure and roaring darkness. It felt like being hit by a lorry and vacuumed into a pinhole at the exact same moment. My soul screamed, tethered to my body by a single, fraying thread.

Just as quickly as it began, the assault ended. The world slammed back into focus with a sickening lurch. We stood on a quiet, tree-lined street, in front of a row of elegant, soot-stained townhouses. The late afternoon sun was beginning its descent, casting long, peaceful shadows across the pavement. The world was serene. I was anything but.

The violent reentry of my atoms sent a wave of violent nausea through me. I doubled over, my hands on my knees, heaving dryly as my stomach tried to claw its way up my throat. A large, warm hand began rubbing slow, soothing circles on my back.

“Breathe,” Tom murmured, his voice a calm, steady presence beside my ear. “Deeply. Through your nose.”

For a horrifying second, my body responded to the gentle touch, the primal urge for comfort overriding the terror. But as the world stopped spinning and the sickness receded, clarity returned with the force of a slap. I straightened up, shrugging his hand off me, and stumbled back a step. The gentle comfort was a lie, a thin veneer over the brutal reality of what he had just done. He hadn't helped me; he had kidnapped me in broad daylight.

“How dare you!” The words tore from my throat, raw and furious. “You can’t just take people off the street!”

Tom didn’t even flinch. A low, dark chuckle rumbled in his chest, a sound that made the nausea return with a vengeance. He looked at me, his eyes gleaming with a cool, detached amusement. “Do keep going,” he said, his voice laced with patronizing indulgence. “I quite like the sound of your annoyance.”

My rage sputtered out, extinguished by the cold water of his condescension. Yelling at him was pointless; it was like screaming at a brick wall, only if the wall enjoyed the sound of it. Taking a ragged breath, I forced my voice into a flat, icy tone. I crossed my arms over my chest, a fragile shield against his overwhelming presence.

“Why did you bring me… here?” I looked around trying to make sense of my surroundings.

“I wanted to discuss your latest reading assignment.” The foul, dark text sent to my private sanctuary had sent shivers down my spine, and he wanted to discuss it?

Though his actions confounded me, his effortlessly calm demeanor and silken voice were making it difficult to stay enraged. “Why did you send me that book, Tom?” I asked, my tone more even and collected.

With a sigh, he ran his hand along his jaw as if stroking a beard. “I thought you might find… some resonance within.”

He thought I would somehow relate to that deranged sorcery? It was becoming abundantly clear that Tom Riddle had gotten the wrong impression from me. But could I truly blame him? I had let him defile me in the graveyard, and even now, after being taken captive, I still didn’t run.

He must have sensed my growing curiosity despite my disgusted expression. “And did you?”

Taking another step back I nearly stumbled over my feet, causing Tom to lunge forward and catch my waist. I found my footing, but he was still impossibly close, his hands gripping my waist tenaciously. “N-no,” I stuttered, his proximity stealing the air from my lungs. “I thought it was revolting, dark magic.”

The devilish smirk that plastered his face only grew. “Hm,” was his only response as he let go of my body and took a step back, allowing me to let out a shaky exhale.

“Where are we?” I asked. Looking around the serene neighborhood gave me no hints to our whereabouts. “Why did you bring me here?”

“I had hoped to catch you at home.” As if that explained everything, he took out his wand and spun on his heel to face the row of townhouses. With a swish, the gap between houses three and four began to grow, revealing a dark, dilapidated narrow home.

“Come.” He held his hand out to me, his big brown eyes deceptively innocent. “Not until you tell me where we are.” My own response surprised me. I should scream, run, and hide, but something kept me there seeking the truth from the devil.

“I’ve been staying here for a few months, It’s perfectly safe.” His still outreached hand opened up again, a silent command. I hesitantly placed mine in his, “Somehow I doubt that.”

Guiding me up the narrow steps, we entered the dark home. The door groaned on its hinges revealing a surprisingly clean, albeit barren sitting room with a single charcoal grey sofa facing the fireplace.

Tom glided over to the fireplace and used his wand to spark the flames. The old sofa groaned under his weight as he took a seat. Patting the cushion for me to join him, I hesitated. My nerves quickly dissipated as he fluttered his long eyelashes. “I won’t bite.”

His tone was serious but the smirk plastered on his face told me everything I needed to know. He had me right where he wanted me. As if pulled in by his orbit I found myself walking towards the sofa and carefully sitting down at the opposite end.

“Closer”

I cautiously inched towards his seat. But he still wasn’t satisfied.

“That’s not good enough.” The air between us charged and I found myself complying, his pupils were blown wide, never leaving mine. With a sigh of disapproval at my distance, he reached forward and pulled me onto his lap, my legs straddling his hips.

“Tom!” I cried out in shock. We were all alone in the dark house, but his flippant display of intimacy still surprised me.

Taking my hand and gently kissing up my arm, the boyish glint in his eyes flickered again. “Yes, my Treasure?”

Having my skin peppered in kisses caused me to melt into him, momentarily losing my resolve. With a jolt the rational part of my brain chastised me. He kidnapped you. Leave. Now.

When I found my voice it was huskier and laced with more arousal than I expected. “Why did you bring me here?”

His touch was intoxicating. Every reverent stroke warmed me in a way the fire could not. When his mouth landed on my throat I couldn’t stop the whimper that escaped my lips. His kisses seared my skin and I found myself clenching my legs in response.

Pulling away from my throat to scan my form, he gathered my hair behind my back and tugged harshly, causing me to gasp. “I’m going to make you mine.”

Chapter 11 - Submission

Before I could refute his claim, his lips were on mine. This kiss was all-consuming, ravenous. His tongue expertly roamed my mouth leaving me breathless and wanting all of him.

With a few swift motions, he unbuttoned my coat and tossed it aside leaving me in my long sleeve, linen dress. I silently wished I had worn trousers because the button closure running down the length of my dress was giving him easy entry as he made quick work of it.

When my dress was on the floor, his eyes roamed my practically-nude body, heavy with intense hunger that flooded my own body with anticipation. Suddenly, I was lifted with ease and placed on my feet before him. My brow furrowed, unsure of my predator’s next move.

Sensing my confusion and the final shreds of my apprehension, he took a step forward. His voice bellowed with his sharp command, “Strip.”

My heart pounded in its cage. I should have known my teacher would expect me to participate in my ruin.

I should have been terrified. I was terrified. But as my eyes met his, I saw something that wasn't just cold command. He was hungry, hungry for me. Tracing the lace of my bra, his chest rose and fell in a rhythm that was anything but calm. My eyes flickered down to the prominent ridge strained against the fine wool of his trousers.

A strange, heady rush of power flooded my veins. He wanted this. He was losing control, even as he commanded me. A slow, deliberate smile touched my lips. Fine.

My hands moved with a newfound, theatrical slowness. I reached behind my back, my fingers finding the clasp of my bra. I held his gaze as I unhooked it, letting the straps slide languidly down my arms. The fabric pooled in my hands before I let it drop to the floor, the sound a soft, defiant thud in the quiet room.

His jaw clenched. He said nothing, but a muscle twitched in his cheek. I savored the small victory. I sat on the edge of the sofa, briefly turning my back to him, and slowly kicked off one of my heels, then the other.

Reaching for the top of my thigh, my fingers found the garter. I unclipped it, and then, with an agonizingly slow pull, I began to roll the silk stocking down my leg. I could feel his eyes burning into my skin. I could hear the sharp, impatient intake of his breath. I relished it, drawing out the moment, rolling the delicate fabric over my calf, my ankle, and finally, my foot. I repeated the process on the other side, the air in the room growing thick and electric with his barely-leashed anticipation.

When the last of the silk was gone, I stood, turning to face him. I was completely bare, exposed to the firelight and, more terrifyingly, to his all-consuming stare.

A low, rough sound escaped his throat, a sound that was half-groan, half-curse. "Perfect," he breathed, the word a ragged, broken whisper. "Merlin's beard... you are... perfect."

He surged to his feet, his own control finally snapping. His hands moved to his throat, and with a single, violent yank, he loosened his tie, pulling the strip of dark silk free from his collar. I braced myself, assuming he was finally removing his own clothes, that he would meet my vulnerability with his own.

But he stopped. He stood there, fully clothed, the tie dangling from his fist. His eyes were impossibly dark.

"Turn around," he commanded, his voice a low, gravelly rasp.

My stomach fluttered with hot, wicked desire. "What?"

"Turn. Around." He stalked closer, his dark necktie in hand. 

I found myself complying, shamelessly eager to surrender to his commands. "Hands behind your back," the clipped demand sent a fresh wave of arousal coursing through my body.

Submitting to him shouldn’t be this thrilling. 

I had barely offered my hands before he captured them. His fingers were brutally efficient, knotting the silken noose that bound me, body and soul, to him.

Once satisfied, he turned me, and I was met with the very features that would be my ruin. Those long, dark lashes, his deceptively warm eyes... they were but the beautiful lure of a monstrous creature. And I was at his mercy.

His eyes never left mine. His hands moved from my wrists to his own waist. His black leather belt hissed as he unthreaded it from the loops of his trousers. He held it, dangling from his fist.

A shameful thought intruded my mind as I fantasized all the ways he could use the leather on me. My skin, already hypersensitive from the cold, prickled with desperate, electric anticipation. The thought alone was enough to make my legs tremble.

His voice was clipped yet thick with a potent combination of lust and unparalleled authority, “On your knees.”

I was rendered speechless, too distracted by the slickness his brazen commands caused between my legs. All I could do was obey.

As I sank down, my bare knees met the cool, wood floor, his hands worked quickly, shoving his trousers down, just enough to free himself.

A small, involuntary gasp escaped me. He was thick and throbbing, a carnal reality that was both appalling and astounding. I looked up, from the crude display of his need to the aristocratic perfection of his face.

The shadows from the firelight carved his sharp cheekbones stunningly, and his dark eyes gleamed with a possessive, predatory hunger. "Have you ever been on your knees for a man, Treasure?"

My cheeks flushed crimson at the low seductive rasp of his voice. All I could manage was a small shake of my head.

A slow, triumphant smile spread across his otherwise stoic face. He relished being the only man to bring me to my knees. Pride coursed through his every vein as he tilted my chin upward, making me look into his eyes as he delivered his next cruel command.

“Open wide.”

Chapter 12 - Liberation

My mouth fell open on a stunned, hitched breath. My eyes, wide and disbelieving, were locked on his. There was no turning back. 

A low chuckle rumbled in his chest, his eyes glinting with dark victory. “That’s the idea.”

My eyes dropped, drawn inexorably to the thick, twitching proof of his desire. He was a creature of such perfect, cold calculation, but his body betrayed him, revealing his desperate, human need. He took himself in hand, his grip firm. He gave one slow, deliberate pump, and then another. A single, glistening bead pearled at his tip, a taunt in the firelight.

I was still taking in the sight, my mind a dizzying mix of terror and fascination, when he moved.

He didn't ease me onto him; he shoved his full length into my mouth in one brutal, conquering motion. My jaw ached, my throat rejecting the sudden, thick intrusion. A choked, panicked gag tore from my chest. My eyes watered instantly, a humiliating sting of severity. With my hands bound behind my back, I had no choice but to let him in.

I had made a choice, though.

“Don’t be useless.” I snapped back to reality, at Tom’s hissed command. “Use your tongue. There. That’s it,” he groaned as I explored his throbbing length with my tongue.

“You like that don’t you, Treasure? Me calling you useless while you choke on my cock.”

My body burned with desire so potent, I could barely breathe. I couldn’t deny the ways his degradation affected me. Neither could he.

Moving with more confidence, my tongue swirled at his tip and I sucked. A low, guttural whimper escaped him.

The sound shot through me like a jolt of lightning. I’d done that. Wicked pride bloomed in my chest. I did it again, this time with more purpose

"Yes," he growled, his hand fisting my hair. The pace changed instantly. He began a brutal, punishing rhythm that stole my breath and smeared tears across my cheeks. I was a mess, a blithering fool on her knees for her master.

He was watching me fall apart. I could feel his gaze burning into me, relishing the sight of the poised, quiet girl from school, being reduced to this.

“This is what you were made for,” he grunted, his hips slamming into my jaw. “Not hiding with your plants, but on your knees... serving me.”

A violent tremble wracked my body. His words were a brand, a possessive, degrading claim that should have appalled me. But I was so lost, so overwhelmed, I could only focus on him.

“Take all of it,” he snarled, his jaw twitching with barely-contained need. “Sloppy, desperate little creature.”

I obeyed, my throat aching as I took him as deep as I possibly could. Just as I thought I couldn't take any more, he ripped himself out.

I collapsed forward, gasping for air, a shaky, desperate sob catching in my throat. I tried to collect myself, to find some shred of dignity, but there was no time.

His hands were on me, yanking me up from the floor. He pushed me onto the sofa so I was on my knees once more. My breasts rested heavily on the sofa’s rough upholstery, my hands still bound behind my arched back. I was completely exposed, a blatant offering.

Then, silence.

It was eerily quiet, save for the crackle of the fire and my own ragged breathing. The anticipation was a new kind of torture. It was unnerving, but it was also working. My blood was electric. Taking him into my mouth had lit a fire in me, a dark, primal need I never knew existed.

A shadow fell over me. He was approaching, slow and deliberate. A hand reached around my body, his fingers grazing my stomach before closing over my breast. He squeezed, his thumb finding my nipple, rolling the already-hard bud until I whimpered.

His other hand trailed downwards and parted my shamefully wet lips without ceremony. He was met with a gushing, humiliating wetness. Plunging two fingers inside, I bucked, a strangled cry ripping from my throat. 

I felt him rub his fingers together, a low, appreciative hum vibrating in his chest. He leaned in, his hot breath a shock against my ear.

"I just had you sobbing on my cock," he whispered, his voice a depraved caress, "and look at you... still drenched for me. What a perfect little whore I'm making."

I found myself nodding, a small, pathetic motion. His words, his dirty, degrading praises, were unraveling me.

He pulled his hand back, and the sudden loss was an ache. I heard him undoing his own clothes, the sound of fabric rustling, a zip being undone. He was behind me, the heat of his body a promise. He lined himself up, the blunt, hot head of his cock pressing against me, a silent, terrible question.

“This is your liberation, Treasure,” he murmured, his voice a low, hypnotic spell. “This is the only truth. All that poise was a lie, but this... this is real.”

He was about to do it, to claim me completely. I turned my cheek to face him, my voice a small, terrified whisper. “Will it hurt?”

A dark smirk twisted his lips.

“Yes.”

He didn't give me another second to prepare. He impaled me.

A raw, agonizing scream tore from my throat as he slammed into me, burying himself to the hilt in one, brutal, violating thrust. The pain was sharp, tearing fire that I thought would split me in two. But beneath it... beneath the pain... was a feeling of being full. Of being stretched and claimed in a way that was almost a relief.

He didn't give me a moment to adjust as he slammed into me at a relentless, punishing pace. He was a creature of pure, selfish need that I was beginning to appreciate. All my life, I had been treated like something fragile, a porcelain doll to be handled with care. Tom treated me like something to be used. He was rough, and in that, I found a freedom I had never known.

I was a mess of whimpers and moans, my body arching back to meet his every brutal thrust. I didn't care that he was probably making me bleed or that I would certainly be sore tomorrow. I only cared about the feeling of being his.

Just when I thought I could take no more, a new, electric shock of pleasure shot through me, ripping a fresh cry from my throat. A hand snaked around my front. His long, deft fingers found the very heart of my pleasure, his thumb pressing down on the hypersensitive bud with a brutal, knowing accuracy.

It was almost too much, the relentless, pounding from behind and the sharp, coiling focus of his touch in front. I was coming apart at the seams, a tangled mess of frantic, desperate gasps. The pressure built, winding tighter and tighter, my hips bucking against his hand in a mindless, desperate plea for release. I was on the very edge, a precipice of agonizing bliss, my body trembling on the verge of collapse.

He felt my body clenching around him and leaned in, his hot breath a searing presence against my ear. "That's it. Scream for me, Treasure. Let me hear how you fall apart.”

At his command, a world burning, soul-splintering orgasm exploded, ripping a guttural scream from my throat. His fingers didn’t stop their brutal pace as I bucked from the aftershocks. “The most exquisite sound in the world, and it's all for me," he grunted out as he finished with a tyrannical roar. 

His body collapsed against mine, and I fell forward, boneless and panting. He pulled out, leaving me hollow and shaking and stalked away. His movements were precise and controlled once more as he picked up my discarded clothing.

For a foolish, naive moment, I thought he was bringing them to me. I turned on the sofa to give him a polite smile, my knees comically unsteady.

Instead, he turned to the fireplace. With a casual, indifferent flick of his wrist, he tossed my bra, dress, stockings—everything—into the roaring flames.

He looked back at me, my naked, bound body still leaking his fluids onto the sofa. His eyes were full of dark victory.

“You won’t be needing these, my queen.”

My stomach dropped, the cold, final realization. I wasn’t going anywhere.

𓆙 𓆙 𓆙 𓆙 𓆙

I hope you're liking the story so far because I'm had so much fun writing it. The final part is out now! Click here to keep reading

All the likes, comments, and reblogs are so appreciated. It’s still wild that there are actual real humans who like my writing :)

Alright, that's all. Love ya, kisses 💋

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[stxrsval]

ALL THIS TIME I DIDN’T KNOW - Draco x Reader

᪤ SUMMARY . . After months of silence, a familiar face appears in the middle of the night ~ Draco Malfoy, older, sharper, and just as difficult to forget. You haven’t spoken since the messy end of a relationship that burned too hot too fast, and now he’s here, claiming he never stopped loving you. ᪤ WORD COUNT . . 5.9k words (crazy for a first story) !! ᪤ WARNINGS . . emotional angst, past cheating (not between main characters), messy breakup, vulnerable reunion, explicit smut, heavy emotions, post-Hogwarts setting, soft!Draco, regret & yearning, crying during kissing, reader has backbone, library scenes, emotional comfort, hotel reunion, slow burn then fast burn. ᪤ A/N . . spent the whole night writing this instead of sleeping 😭 this is my first fic so i’m kinda scared to share it but also like?? i cried writing this?? Draco’s so hot it’s insane. best believe he was gonna get his girl back. Divider Credits - @enchanthings-a 🫶🏽

Another night.

That’s what you told yourself—you’ll get over it.

It’s been a year and a half now, and somehow, you’re still not.

Everywhere you go, you see his face. His smile. His hair—the same hair you used to run your fingers through.

The memories come back in waves, relentless and sharp.

It’s over. It’s fine, you whisper.

You’re happier now. So is he.

He and his girlfriend are thriving in London, while you rot in Sweden.

Love was the most beautiful thing you ever experienced.

Heartbreak? Not so much.

The sun sinks just below the horizon, and the moon rises quietly behind the clouds. You shouldn’t be upset—not really. You don’t even have the right to cry.

You ended it.

So why does it still hurt like this? Why does it feel like you’re unraveling?

Your phone buzzes, pulling you from your thoughts.

Draco.

You freeze.

It stops.

Then rings again.

He wouldn’t call twice unless it was serious… right?

What if he’s hurt? What if it’s worse?

Your thumb hovers before you finally swipe to answer.

“…Hello?”

Silence. Then—

“Hey. Was starting to think I had the wrong number…Sorry for calling so late and out of nowhere. I just… didn’t know who else to call.”

His voice.

You hate how much you missed it—soft, careful, like he’s trying not to break you again.

You shift on the bed. “What’s wrong?”

“Can you let me in first?”

You blink. “What are you talking about?”

“Well, I’d hope I’m not at the wrong address.”

Your heart skips.

You get up slowly, legs stiff from sitting too long in your own misery.

Peeking through the peephole, you nearly drop your phone.

He’s outside.

Here.

Draco Malfoy is standing at your front door.

Your hands are shaking when you unlock it.

And when you open the door, your breath catches.

You open the door to see your ex, your best friend, your everything, standing right there in front of you.

His usual polished look is gone. His blond hair, once so perfectly styled, is a ruffled mess. His eyes look tired—maybe red around the edges. Maybe he was crying. Or maybe not. Draco doesn’t cry.

But everything about him feels unraveled. Like he came apart somewhere between London and here.

“Hi,” you say, barely above a whisper.

“Hi,” he says back with a small smile, hands stuffed in his pockets. “Aren’t you gonna let me in?”

You blink, like that might help you make sense of this. “I’m not sure why I should. Why are you even here? It’s the middle of the night. You’re supposed to be in London.”

He sighs, slow and deep. “You always asked too many questions. That’s what I loved about you.”

Your heart skips.

You cross your arms, trying not to let the words sink in. “What do you want, Malfoy?”

He leans against the doorframe, eyes drifting away for a second before meeting yours again.

“Me and Vanessa broke up.”

You stare.

He lets out a short laugh, dry and tired. “She cheated on me. Can you believe that? The woman who drained my vault on handbags and dinners couldn’t even do me the courtesy of breaking up first.”

You can only blink. What.

“She said I was ‘distant.’” He lifts his hands like he’s done trying to make sense of it. “Maybe I was.” He shrugs.

You narrow your eyes, confused. “When did this happen?”

He pauses. “Four hours ago.”

Your heart stutters.

“I took the first flight here,” he says, voice softening. “Theo’s in Sweden, thought maybe I’d crash at his, but he and his boyfriend are out on some romantic dinner. So I sat in that hotel room, alone, just… thinking. And suddenly, I thought of you.”

Your breath catches.

“What could the girl who broke my heart be up to?” he says with a quiet, bitter laugh. “I really tried not to come here, love.” The nickname makes something in you hitch. “I swear I did. But next thing I know, I’m out the door, phone in my hand, driving way over the speed limit. And now I’m here. Outside your house. Telling you me and my ex broke up. What a night, huh? Feels like a dream. Or a sick joke.”

He looks at you then—really looks.

“And here I am, to ask the one question I never got an answer to.” His voice is lower now, like it’s trying not to break. “Why did you break up with me, hm?”

The question slams into you like a wave.

Everything you’ve worked to rebuild, the peace, the routine, the silence—it all begins to crack. Slowly, painfully.

You don’t speak right away.

The question lingers between you both, heavy and dangerous.

“Why did you break up with me?” he repeats, quieter now.

Your fingers tighten around the doorknob. Your throat burns. You try to form the words, but nothing sounds right. So you look away.

“This house,” you say. “I should’ve sold it. I tried, I really tried. But everything happened here.”

He blinks, confused. You step back into the doorway like the memories are starting to breathe again.

“Your toothbrush is still in the drawer,” you whisper. “There’s still flour on the ceiling from that time you thought you could bake. And every damn time I walk past that couch—” your voice breaks, “I still feel your hands in my hair.”

He doesn’t move.

You look at him, finally.

“You kissed me for the first time in this house, remember? That stupid truth or dare game, after the war, when we were all pretending to be friends and healing and moving on like we didn’t nearly kill each other.” You exhale shakily. “You kissed me and I hated you for it. Then hated myself for not hating it enough.”

A long pause.

You let the silence swallow your next thought before it forces itself out anyway.

“You were everything I didn’t want to love. You were selfish and proud and messy and—”

“And you loved me,” he finishes for you, eyes glassy.

“Exactly,” you whisper. “And that’s why I left.”

He blinks, stunned. “What—?”

“I loved you so much I forgot how to breathe without you. I stopped going out with friends. Stopped painting. Stopped living my own life. I was drowning in you. In us. And you didn’t even notice.” You laugh, but it’s hollow.

“And maybe I didn’t want to admit it,” you continue, “but you weren’t over her, either. Not really. Not Hermione, not Pansy, not any of them. You were trying so hard to be someone else, someone I could build a future with, but I think… I think you were still just trying to survive.”

He doesn’t deny it.

He just looks at you, like you’re the only thing keeping him on earth.

“You broke my heart,” you say, softer now. “But I broke yours first, didn’t I?”

He steps closer.

“What?” His voice is low.

“I couldn’t love myself,” you breathe. “I couldn’t find myself without thinking of you. And yeah, maybe it sounds poetic—‘oh, she lived and breathed for him’—but it wasn’t romantic, Draco. It was suffocating. I stopped being me. I only knew you.”

His jaw tenses, but you don’t stop.

“I did what was healthy. I had to leave. I told myself it was the right thing, and I held onto that until my fingers bled.”

You swallow hard, eyes glassy now.

“And even then, I wasn’t sure. For weeks, I wasn’t sure. I thought maybe I was stupid, maybe I’d made the worst mistake of my life. So I went to your place. I wanted to talk. I wanted to try—”

You laugh.

“But there you were. Tongue-fucking Vanessa on that stupid couch.”

His eyes widen. “You saw—?”

“It broke me a little,” you say, voice trembling. “But it really shouldn’t have, right? We were done. You didn’t cheat on me. You were free to do whatever you wanted.”

“But still—”

“Still!” you snap. “Still, I stood there in your hallway, holding your favorite chocolate like some idiot. And you were already over me. Already inside someone else like I never even existed. So yeah, I left. Quietly..”

Draco swallows hard.

“It’s completely valid,” you go on, voice tight. “You moved on. You were allowed to. But it made me wonder—that fast? Was I that easy to forget? That replaceable?”

He opens his mouth. Closes it.

You wipe your cheek roughly with your sleeve. “And now you’re here. Months later. Telling me she cheated and you thought of me. Like.. like I’m your backup plan.”

“That’s not fair,” he says voice a bit louder. “Don’t you dare reduce what we had to that.”

“Then what is this?” you shout, chest heaving. “You didn’t fight for me, Draco! You let me go. You didn’t show up. You didn’t write. You didn’t even ask why. You just ran into her arms like I never fucking mattered! And yeah, I did break up with you, BUT I needed to find myself. I WAS losing myself.”

“I didn’t know what to do!” he shouts, voice cracking. “I was so tired! I couldn’t fix you, I couldn’t fix me, I was drowning too, and all I saw was the look on your face when you said goodbye.”

You let out a sigh.

“It killed me,” he says, softer now. “That day ruined me. You walked out with no warning, no explanation, and I—I didn’t have the strength to chase you.”

He takes another step, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed closer.

“I thought Vanessa would distract me. I thought I could forget. But every time I kissed her, it tasted like ashes. Every time I touched her, I imagined you flinching away. And I hated myself for it.”

Tears well in your eyes again, but you stand firm.

“Then why are you here?” you whisper. “Why now?”

He swallows. Hard.

“Because even after all the mess, even after the silence and the pain—you’re still the only one who ever made me feel real.”

You can’t breathe.

He looks like he’s about to say more—but you step back.

“I can’t do this, Draco. I can’t be your second chance when I was never your first priority.”

Silence.

And then—slam.

You close the door.

You’re sitting in a tiny café tucked away in a quiet corner of Stockholm, a place you used to visit when homesickness crept in. The smell of cinnamon and cardamom fills the air, but you can’t taste anything. Your tea is barely touched.

Hermione eyes you from across the table, lips pursed over her cup like she’s bracing herself.

“So… he showed up?” she finally says.

You nod, stirring your tea, watching the swirl of milk.

“And?”

You exhale, leaning back in your chair. “He said Vanessa cheated. Called me right after. Showed up to my house. I thought I imagined it.”

Hermione stays quiet, letting you talk.

“He looked awful. Like he hadn’t slept. Hair all over the place. That stupid half-smile he does when he’s trying to act fine.”

“And you let him in?” she asks, softly.

You nod again. “We fought. I cried. I told him the truth… why I ended things. That I couldn’t find myself. That I only knew how to breathe if he told me how.”

Hermione’s eyes drop, like she remembers exactly what that feels like.

She sighs. “When I dated him… it wasn’t pretty. Constantly. He’d show up for me in one moment and push me away the next. I thought maybe he didn’t know how to be soft with anyone.”

You glance up, heart heavy.

“But with you,” she continues, her voice quieter, “I saw something different. You softened him. Not in a weak way—just… more himself. He laughed more. He wasn’t afraid to look stupid in front of you. And he let himself be cared for.”

That ache in your chest twists.

“I think… I think you were the first person he trusted with all of him. Even the ugly parts.” Hermione pauses. “And that terrified him.”

You blink, tears stinging again, but you won’t cry.

“Truth is,” Hermione says, setting her cup down, “he might’ve been happier with you than he’s ever been.”

You whisper, “I was the only one drowning.”

Her smile is sad. “Maybe you both were. Just in different oceans.”

Mm.

After Hermione left, you wandered the cobbled streets for a while, letting the morning breeze clear your head. There’s a strange comfort in Stockholm’s quiet corners—where magic feels distant, like a dream you once had and can’t quite remember.

You open up the library earlier than usual.

No one’s there yet, just the scent of old pages and wood polish. You inhale deeply. This place is your sanctuary. Before anything else, you brew yourself a small pot of coffee—your favorite beans, the ones you hide in the staff cabinet behind the herbal teas.

You take your mug to the back stacks, where no one will bother you, and begin your morning ritual: organizing the returned books, restocking shelves, checking the inventory system, placing a small order for a shipment of new titles you’ve been dying to get your hands on.

Finally, you curl into your reading nook, worn armchair under the skylight, the city just a whisper outside. A new romance novel rests in your lap. It’s cheesy and dramatic and absolutely what you need.

You’re so absorbed you don’t even hear the door until a deep voice says, casually:

“Don’t stop on my account.”

You jump. Hard.

“What the hell?” you say, half scared, half defensive, clutching the book to your chest. “Why are you here?”

Draco Malfoy, fully reclining against the archway like he owns the place—shrugs, completely unbothered. “Scarlett let me in.”

You glance across the room. Sure enough, Mrs. Scarlett, the sweet old Muggle lady who runs community book club nights, is humming softly to herself while sweeping. She doesn’t even look your way.

You squint. “You sure you didn’t… do something to her?”

He raises his hands. “I don’t do that anymore, love.”

Your heart stutters at the nickname again, and you groan. “Stop calling me that.”

He ignores you. “I told her I needed a book badly. Which is true.”

You exhale through your nose. “What book?”

He smirks, steps forward, and plucks your book from your lap without asking. “Apparently… this one.”

You grab for it. “You’re ridiculous.”

He flips a few pages dramatically, skimming. “Oh wow. They’re kissing already? This author doesn’t believe in pacing, do they?”

You lean forward, snatching the book back. “Shut up. This is the good part.”

He sits beside you, knees bumping yours as if that’s normal now. “You really work here?” he asks after a beat.

You nod. “Been here nearly a year. It’s quiet. Smells like paper. That’s hard to come by.”

He lets that settle, watching you for a second. “You always loved books.”

You shrug. “They don’t leave.”

That hangs in the air like a pin dropped in water.

He tries again, lighter. “So, librarian by day. What about at night? Still writing poetry and baking cakes no one gets to eat?”

You glance at him sideways. “I still write. The cakes… not so much.”

“Shame,” he says, nudging you gently. “Your lemon ones could’ve ended wars.”

You let out a reluctant laugh. “You remember that?”

“I remember everything,” he says, voice quieter now.

You look away first. He always made it hard to hold eye contact when he meant something.

There’s a long silence between you, but not uncomfortable. Just… full.

Finally, he mutters, “You gonna kick me out, librarian?”

You roll your eyes and sip your coffee. “If you try anything to my pages, I’ll hex you.”

He grins like it’s the first real smile he’s worn in days.

“Noted.”

He shifts beside you, fidgeting with a paperclip from the desk. You glance over, catching the subtle twitch in his jaw—he’s growing bored, or maybe just restless.

You sigh, pushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “You still never told me why you’re here.”

He looks up.

Not just at you. Through you.

His eyes trace your lips for a second too long before finding yours again. “Missed you,” he says simply. “Couldn’t sleep after last night. I don’t think I slept at all, really.”

Your heart thuds, soft and slow. You smile—just a tiny one. It barely stretches your mouth, but it’s real.

“Mm,” you hum, trying to keep your composure. You close your book, slip it under your arm, and head to the front desk to check it out for yourself. Your hands move by habit—scan, stamp, slide.

Behind you, Draco’s watching.

“I learned something recently,” you say, still facing the desk. “I can show you, if you’re not in a rush to ruin someone else’s peace today.”

He smirks and follows without hesitation. “Lead the way, love.”

You guide him down a quiet hallway behind the staff area. It smells like cedar and printer ink, and the air is cooler here. At the end of the hall is a locked door that leads to a secret room only staff have access to—meant for archiving older, rarer books.

You unlock it with your key, flip on the warm amber lights overhead, and step inside.

Rows of shelves tower around you, dust dancing in sunbeams that slice through the stained-glass skylight. But in the center of the room sits a magic circle—chalked faintly into the wood beneath a glass dome, drawn with careful lines and symbols.

“I learned to enchant the air in here,” you say, stepping into the middle of the circle. “Just a little charm. Makes sound… feel like a hug. Hard to explain.”

He follows you, his eyes moving over the circle, then to you. “You always were strange.”

You grin, stepping close enough to touch his arm. “Takes one to know one.”

You reach out and murmur a soft incantation—something you picked up in a buried old spellbook from the reserve section. Instantly, the space around you changes. Not in temperature or light, but in feeling.

Warmth settles over your shoulders. Like someone draping a blanket across your back.

Draco shivers. “Bloody hell,” he whispers. “That’s…”

“Comforting,” you finish.

He nods, swallowing. His voice is quiet again. “You made this?”

“Yes.”

He stares at you. Not like he’s studying you—but like he remembers you. All at once. All of it.

You don’t look away this time. You’re too wrapped in the moment. The quietness. The proximity.

It just… happens.

His hand brushes yours.

You turn to say something, and your noses almost touch. Your breath hitches.

Then he leans in.

His lips meet yours—soft, slow, like a secret being passed between hearts. The kiss doesn’t ask permission. It just is.

And it aches.

Because it feels like home.

And you miss him.

But you also remember why you left.

You pull away first—gasping lightly, like you forgot how to breathe.

He blinks, stunned. “You okay—?”

“No,” you say quickly, shaking your head. “No. No, I can’t—”

You step back, one hand to your lips, the other to your chest.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” you whisper, turning toward the door, your voice cracking. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Your hands tremble at your sides. “We can’t do this. We’re not dating. It hasn’t even been 24 hours since you and her broke up—Draco, I will not be the one to experience that pain again. Not after everything I went through just watching you be with someone else.”

His brow furrows, eyes darkening. “This isn’t the same.”

You scoff bitterly, wiping under your eye. “No, of course not. This time I’m the other woman—not even the one you chose.”

He steps forward. “That’s not fair.”

“It’s true,” you snap. “And you know it. We did love, Draco. And we loved too fast, too hard, and somewhere in all that chaos we forgot to be people. We forgot to breathe. We didn’t even experience ourselves—we just tried to fix each other.”

“You make it sound like that’s a bad thing.”

You shake your head, heart pounding in your ears. “It is when it burns everything else to the ground.”

You turn to leave. You have to.

But he grabs your hand.

Not roughly. Not like a demand. Like he’s begging without words.

You try to pull away, your voice rising. “Why is it so hard for you to understand that I don’t want to do this again?”

“Why is it so hard for you to understand,” he snaps, eyes flashing, “that I love you?”

The silence hits like a punch.

Your eyes burn, and your throat tightens. “Because you don’t do love, Draco.”

“Yes, I do,” he says through clenched teeth.

“No,” you shake your head, stepping back—but he doesn’t let go. “Last time you tried, it broke both of us. You shut down, you drank too much, you let everything fester. You didn’t talk to me. You didn’t even look at me, not really, not unless it was in the dark, when no one could see.”

He flinches.

You take a shaky breath. “Why are you even here? Why can’t you just—just leave me alone?”

He’s quiet for a moment. Then…

“I am,” he says, so quietly you almost miss it. “Tomorrow.”

You blink. “What?”

“I can’t stay away from London too long,” he mutters.

You freeze, only now realizing his fingers were still wrapped around yours. His hand drops.

“What…” Your voice trembles. “What do you mean?”

He looks away, jaw clenching.

“I lied.”

Your heart skips.

You look at him, confused. “What?”

“I lied,” he says again, eyes finally meeting yours. “Me and Vanessa broke up months ago.”

You stare.

“I’ve been coming to Sweden for weeks now. Months, really. Looking for you. Places you used to go. Scarlett knew. That’s why she let me in without asking. I know what coffee you drink now—after you stopped using that awful vanilla syrup you always had with me. I know your schedule. Not because I’m a stalker, but because I still see you.”

He pauses, breath shaking. “Yes, Vanessa cheated. Yes, it hurt. But nothing hurts like missing you. I tried everything. Drinking, smoking, working nonstop, none of it worked. I kept trying to replace you, but it just made the hole bigger.”

You stare at him, unable to move.

“I miss you,” he says, almost whispering now. “I need you. I’m not asking for anything—I know I hurt you. I know we burned it all down. But what else do I do? Pretend I never knew you? Pretend the best thing that ever happened to me wasn’t you?”

Your hands start to shake again.

“I came here because I needed to say goodbye,” he finishes, backing toward the door. “I think it’s time I end my chapter. My obsession. I love you so much that it makes me sick sometimes. And I can’t bear to keep watching us exist like this—knowing nothing is ever going to change.”

He opens the staff room door.

And walks out.

Leaving you standing in a dim, quiet archive, your chest heaving, heart bleeding through the cracks you thought you’d sealed shut.

You finally leave the room, head spinning, heart gutted, and sink into one of the bean bags. It swallows you whole. A moment passes before Scarlett comes up behind you, startling you again.

“He left you something,” she says, handing you a piece of paper. “That boy really loves you,” she adds softly, then walks away.

“That’s what everyone keeps saying,” you mutter, fingers threading through your hair as you sigh.

You stare at the note. Then you unfold it.

I’m not sure if we’ll talk about everything today, but I really needed to see you and explain before I go back to London. I want to start with how much I love you. Your smile, your eyes, everything from head to toe- makes me smile and feel warm every time I see you. I miss you. So much. And I regret every day I didn’t chase you, didn’t beg harder. Because I’ve realized… I can’t live without you. If we haven’t talked again before you read this, my flight leaves at 10 p.m. I’m staying at a hotel 20 minutes from your house. It’s okay if you don’t come. But if you do… a chapter will close, and a new one will open.

Tears fall before you even realize they’ve escaped.

You glance at the clock. 6 p.m.

If his flight leaves at 10, he could already be back at the hotel. The library isn’t far from your house… right?

You hesitate.

Then you grab your bag, wave goodbye to Scarlett, and pull out your phone. You search for hotels within twenty minutes of your house, about ten minutes from the library.

There were two hotels, twenty minutes from your house, and the first one you found—the nicer one—had glowing yellow lights beaming through the front lobby. You practically fell through the doors, out of breath.

The lady at the front desk blinked at you. “Do you need a room, miss?”

“No, I—” you held up your phone with a shaking hand, pulling up your notes. “I’m looking for someone. Draco Malfoy. He’s staying here, I think.”

Her brow furrowed. “I’m sorry, we don’t give out guest information.”

“Please,” you whispered. “Please, just tell me if he checked in.”

A pause. Her face softened. “Room 306. Left elevator.”

You didn’t even thank her properly. You bolted to the elevator, smacking the “up” button again and again like it would hurry the universe along. When the doors finally opened, your reflection was a wreck.

You made it to the third floor and stood in front of the door.

Room 306.

You raised your hand to knock, but it shook. Then lowered it. Raised it again.

Before you could even touch the door, it opened. Of course he’d heard your steps, your breathing. He always knew when it was you.

Draco stood there in a black shirt and sweats, barefoot, hair messy from running his hand through it too many times. His eyes locked onto yours like he had been waiting..knowing.

“I—” you started, but nothing came out.

He tilted his head slightly. “You came.”

“I didn’t know which hotel it was,” you said, breathless. “I just guessed.”

“And you guessed right.” He stepped aside. “Come in?”

You nodded.

The room smelled like old cologne and tea. You saw a single suitcase by the desk, half-packed. His wand rested beside it, untouched. The window was cracked open, the rain whispering against the glass.

“I almost didn’t come,” you admitted, standing stiffly by the door. “I wanted to. But I didn’t want to be wrong.”

“You weren’t,” he said, sitting on the edge of the couch. “You never are when it comes to me.”

You let out a bitter laugh. “That’s a lie. I’ve been wrong about us before.”

He looked at you like he didn’t believe a single thing you were saying. “What does this mean then? You coming here?”

You stepped closer, the rain still dripping off the hem of your coat. “I don’t know yet. I just—” you swallowed hard. “I needed to see if you meant it. What you wrote.”

He stood now, close. Too close. “Every word.”

Your eyes welled up again. “Then why didn’t you fight for me before?”

“I didn’t know how,” he confessed. “I’ve spent so long being taught how to protect what I have, but never how to chase what I need.”

“And now?”

“Now I know,” he said. “But if it’s too late, say it. I’ll get on that plane and go. I won’t ask again.”

The silence stretched.

You took one breath. Two. Then whispered, “I don’t want you to leave.”

His face cracked open just a little—like he’d been holding himself together too tightly for too long. “Say it again.”

“I don’t want you to leave.”

And then you were in his arms. It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t slow. It was needy, messy, and real. His lips met yours halfway through your sob, and it wasn’t perfect, but it was everything.”

Your fingers clutched at his shirt, wrinkling the fabric as he backed you into the hotel room wall, lips crashing and breaking apart between gasps. His hands cupped your jaw, thumbs brushing your cheeks, but trembling as if trying to memorize every inch he once knew.

“You don’t get to do this to me again,” you murmured against his mouth, even as your hands fisted into his hair, dragging him closer.”

“I know,” he breathed, voice hoarse and low, eyes glazed with something between guilt and desperation. “I’m sorry.”

His mouth found your neck—slow, reverent, like a prayer he forgot how to say, then rougher, sucking just beneath your ear, biting down harder when you let out a quiet moan.

“You missed me?” you whispered, breathless as his hands slipped beneath your shirt.

He pulled back, dark eyes searching. “I’ve been fucking starving.”

He pushed the shirt over your head and tossed it aside, eyes flicking over your bare skin like he was trying to convince himself you were real. His hands were warm, worshipful, but there was something frenzied building underneath, like a dam cracking.

“You’re still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he said lowly, like it hurt to say it. “I used to dream about you like this. Begging me. Falling apart on my cock. Think I went mad once or twice.”

You whimpered, thighs clenching, heat pooling fast between your legs. “Stop talking and touch me.” you whispered.

And Merlin—he did.

He lifted you easily, walking you backwards toward the bed as your legs wrapped around his waist. Your mouths didn’t separate, not for air, not for reason.

You were tugging at his shirt, impatient. He then tugged your jeans down, rough now, desperate. You helped, shimmying out of them with frantic hands.

You reach up to start unbuttoning his pants, but he pushes your hands away gently.

“Missed you so much today, I miss you everyday…” he says pressing sloppy wet kisses onto your inner thighs, sending you small sparks that ignited in your core. His fingers continued to roam on your legs as he continued to lazily separate them off to the side. 

Parted enough for his height, his hand cups under your knee to lock you in place. His finger prodding at your panties which now had a damp spot, causing you to quietly gasp under your breath.

His darken eyes meet with yours asking for your permission, to which you allow his advances. You quickly slip from his grasp to slide down your undergarments and throw them off towards the edge of the bed.

His fingers dipped between your thighs, finding you soaked and aching, and he groaned into your neck.

“Fuck, you’re dripping. All for me?” he muttered, dragging two fingers through your folds and then slipping one inside. “Missed this pussy. Missed how sweet you sound when I ruin you.”

“Draco—” you gasped, hips bucking, one hand gripping the sheets and the other digging into his shoulder.

Swirling around your sensitive cunt with his fingers you can’t help but moan. His eyes fixated on you with each stroke he makes on your slippery clit. Flicking it up and down, then circling around it before he moved further down towards your entrance.

The usual sensation entering your slick hole while the grasp you held onto the sheets loosens to move onto the back of your his head. Your grip on Draco’s head increased as you pushed him further onto you. 

His tongue’s attacking you aggressively while watching you squirm right in front of him, growing more engorged with each whine and whimper that escapes from your mouth.

He added a second finger, curling just right, his thumb brushing your clit as he kissed down your chest. “I’ll take my time with you later. Tonight, I need to feel you,” he growled, voice darker now, his restraint snapping thread by thread.

You were panting, teetering on the edge when he pulled his fingers out and spread your legs wider.

The hands wrapped behind your knees increased in strength when he folded them further, pushing you onto your back as he continued to rip out an orgasm out of you. You’re at a breathless mindless state when he does, painting a vision of white as you cum on his digits. His face, red with a smug look and slightly wet from your release.

Planting a kiss on your lips, you pull back to gaze at him for a moment while his breath tickles the surface of your cheek. His erection, painfully hard, slightly rubbing onto your radiating core. Sharing an intimate kiss once more before he unbuckles his restraining belt that laid on his waist, letting comfort ease over him when he unclasps the button on his pants.

Once you were both stripped, he paused—chest rising and falling, eyes devouring you.

“I need to hear it,” he whispered, leaning in, lips ghosting yours. “Say you want this.”

“I want you,” you breathed. “I never stopped.”

That was it.

He kissed you again—messy, bruising, like he needed to consume every breath you’d ever taken.

“You ready?” he asked, voice like gravel, forehead pressed to yours.

“Please.”

He slid into you in one slow, deep thrust that knocked the breath from your lungs.

He let you adjust to his size for a moment before he further started to rock his hips into you. You're absorbing the feeling of him while he started off at a slow consistent pace, watching his eyes flutter with pleasure.

You gasped, eyes fluttering closed, head falling back into the pillows. “Fuck, you feel so good.”

His hips started slow, grinding deep, kissing your cervix with each stroke, but that softness cracked as you moaned his name like a prayer. His pace quickened—harder, rougher, until the headboard banged softly against the wall.

“I missed this,” he grunted. “Missed the way you grip me so fucking tight.”

Your pussy’s stretching from all the gradually building up pleasure to his length, squeezing down when you felt his dick twitch inside you. His cock is plunging back in and out covered in your glistening fluids, making it easier to continue thrusting.

His eyes his longing for you fill with overwhelming rapture, heightening his experience. 

Heat building up at the bottom of your stomach once more, breathlessly panting throughout moans that resonated in his ears. All the blood is rushing to his tip, feeling all hot and heavy inside you as Draco’s body continues to surge into yours at full speed.

You arched under him, moaning louder now, nails dragging down his back. “Draco—fuck—I’m close.”

“Let go for me, love,” he whispered hot against your ear. “Show me it’s still mine.”

His thumb reaches down to play with your swollen clit to help finish you off. You’re curling your toes while accepting all of the stimulation he’s giving you while you shiver.

And you did.

You shattered beneath him, clenching hard around his cock as your orgasm crashed over you like a wave. He followed moments later with a strangled groan, hips stuttering, collapsing on top of you as your heartbeats thundered together.

For a while, there was only silence and sweat and tangled limbs.

Then, softly—

“I love you,” he whispered, barely audible.

You didn’t say anything.

But you didn’t let go either.

“I love you too.”

[writingsoftarnishedsilver]

Hi! First I just want to say how much I adore your writing style- every time an update pops into my notifications I get so excited! I also really admire how you make a point to write protagonists that aren’t often represented in the fandom. Pool Side is a particular favourite of mine, being a plus size gal myself :)

I was wondering if you would be interested in writing something about an adult protagonist who is in a relationship after Hogwarts with one of the HL guys, and struggling with infertility? Could be for a reason, like PCOS, or unknown reasons (which is unfortunately all too common too!) I personally would enjoy the dynamics of that situation with Ominis, Sebastian or Garreth, but honestly I think you could write for just about any character and it’d turn out great :)

That being said, I know this can be a trigger (and pregnancy can be a trigger too), so if it isn’t your thing that’s completely fine! Thanks for taking the time to read this small essay, and thanks again for all the stories you write!!

Quiet House | Sebastian Sallow x Reader

Thank you so much to the lovely person who sent this request. your message was so kind, and I can’t tell you how much it means that you’d trust me with something this personal and tender to write.

I know it took me a little while to get this finished. Life has been keeping me on my toes lately, and I’m currently pregnant myself, so my writing pace has slowed down.

Anyway, I hope this story feels gentle and honest, and that it captures what you were hoping for. Thank you again for inspiring it.

Words: ~4,000

Tags: One-Shot, Post Hogwarts, Female Reader Insert, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Domestic Angst, Grief

Content Warnings: Pregnancy, Infertility, Miscarriage

The house is quiet in the mornings. It always has been.

You used to think of that as peace, as a kind of gentle lull between sunrise and obligation, when the kettle would hum and the floorboards creaked under bare feet. Now, it feels like the silence itself is listening.

There are two teacups on the counter, the same ones you’ve used since the wedding. Yours is chipped at the rim, and Sebastian's handle is slightly scorched from one of his overenthusiastic charm experiments. They sit side by side as the kettle begins to boil. You reach for them automatically, the rhythm of habit doing what your heart seemingly no longer can: move forward.

You pour, stir, and let the spoon rest against the saucer. A faint clink echoes across the kitchen.

Sunlight spills through the curtains in thin gold strips, cutting across the tidy countertop, the vase of wilted daisies you forgot to replace, and the framed photo on the far wall: your wedding day, captured in motion. You, laughing; Sebastian, looking at you instead of the camera.

You turn away from it.

It’s been two years. Two years of appointments and potions, of long talks with Healers who always sound so gentle, as if their voices could soften the words “unexplained infertility.”

Outside, crows caw beyond the windows. The world keeps on living.

You pick up your tea and move toward the window. From here, you can see the spare bedroom you once painted in pale blue—“for when we’re ready,” Sebastian had said, grinning as he transfigured the curtains.

The room is still empty.

Behind you, the front door opens.

“Morning,” comes Sebastian's voice, rough and still sleep-heavy. He steps inside, closing it gently behind him. He’s wearing his Auror jacket, dark hair mussed by the wind, a few streaks of ink smudged on his fingers. He smells faintly of parchment and cold air.

You smile, small and practiced. “You were gone early.”

“Paperwork,” he explains setting his satchel down with a tired sigh. “O’Donnell sent another file about that smuggling case. Healer’s appointment today?”

The question lands like a pebble dropped into still water.

You nod. “Ten o’clock.”

He crosses the kitchen and presses a kiss to your temple. “We’ll figure it out,” he murmurs, just as he always does.

You manage a faint hum in response, your throat too tight for anything else. He doesn’t notice, or maybe he chooses not to. He’s already moving toward his study, muttering something about a new charm he wants to test later.

When the door clicks shut, the silence returns, heavier now, settling into the corners like dust.

The waiting room smells like antiseptic being smothered with lavender.

You sit with your hands folded in your lap, counting the seconds. Across from you, a young witch cradles a baby wrapped in a wool blanket, the kind they sell in Diagon Alley with the little golden snitch stitched in the corner. The baby hiccups, and she coos softly, tucking the blanket closer.

You glance away.

Healer Morel calls your name, and you rise automatically. The exam room feels smaller than you remember, though it hasn’t changed in the two years you've been coming here: same warm-toned wood, same lanterns, same polite smile on her face when she asks how you’ve been.

You answer the questions. She scribbles a few notes on her parchment, then sets her quill down. “You’re healthy. Your most recent test results all look fine.”

“Right.”

“Sometimes,” she continues gently, “we never find a reason. Magic can only explain so much.”

The Healer gives you another prescription to bring to the potioneer, something to “encourage receptivity.” You thank her, take the folded paper, and leave.

Outside, the morning is now grey. The air smells like rain. You linger on the steps, staring down at the prescription in your hand, the ink already beginning to smudge from the damp. You should head to the pharmacy, but the thought of walking into that little apothecary again makes you want to curl into a ball.

You can already picture it: the potioneer’s sympathetic expression and the way her tone softens when she recognizes you. She’ll take the slip, brew the tonic, and tell you that this one has “worked wonders for others.” You’ll nod, hand over the coins, and walk out clutching another glass vial of diluted hope.

You walk home instead, potion slip tucked into your coat pocket, the drizzle settling into your hair.

By the time you reach the house, Sebastian’s study window glows faintly gold. Through the curtain, you can see him moving, head bent, hands restless, surrounded by papers.

You step inside quietly.

He looks up when you appear in the doorway. “You’re back.” His voice is too light, too casual, as if he’s afraid to ask. “How’d it go?”

You hold out the prescription slip, damp around the edges. “More of the same.”

He takes it, scanning the ink, his brows knitting together. “Another tonic?”

You nod.

He sets it carefully on the desk. “All right. I’ll stop by the apothecary before dinner”

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he says quickly. The firmness in his voice makes you flinch, though it’s meant as comfort. “We’ll find something that works.”

You nod, swallowing the lump in your throat. "Right."

He smiles faintly, like that settles it. Another problem contained, another step forward. He doesn’t see the way your shoulders sink, the way the relief on his face cuts a new wound into your chest.

You stay in the doorway as he returns to his parchment. The quill scratches steadily against the page, his handwriting sharp and deliberate.

He loves you. You know he does. But lately, it feels like he loves you in theory — like an equation he’s still trying to balance, or a man mapping a puzzle he’s certain can be solved if he just looks hard enough.

You take a quiet step back, guilt blooming where the affection used to sit. He’s only trying to help. He’s doing what he’s always done: fighting against the unfairness of the world with both fists.

“I’ll make tea,” you murmur, because it’s something to do with your hands.

He hums in acknowledgment, already lost again in his notes. The scratch of his quill fills the space between you like a heartbeat.

In the kitchen, the kettle sings for the second time that day. You lean against the counter, watching the steam rise, tracing circles in the condensation on the windowpane. You feel tired in a way that sleep doesn’t touch.

You think about the Healer’s voice — ‘Sometimes, we never find a reason’ — and how easily she said it. Like mystery was mercy. You wonder if she knows what it feels like to be the mystery.

When Sebastian joins you a few minutes later, he’s holding another page covered in his handwriting. He places it gently on the table beside the teacups.

“I’ve been reading about magical interference,” he says, excitement creeping into his voice. “Residual curses, old spell residue — things from the repository that might have affected you. Maybe we should—”

“Sebastian.”

He stops. You rarely interrupt him.

You force a small smile, though your throat feels tight. “Can we not talk about it? Just tonight?”

His expression softens immediately, guilt flashing across his features. “Of course. I didn’t mean—”

“I know,” you say quickly. “I know you didn’t.”

He steps closer, his hands finding your arms, warm and steady. “I just want to help.”

“I know,” you whisper again.

You let him pull you close. He kisses your hairline and stays there for a moment, as if proximity could fix what’s broken.

When he lets go, he smiles again, that same tired, hopeful smile. “I’ll get dinner started.”

You nod, letting him shoo you off into the living room with your tea.

The house is quiet again.

By late evening, the rain has softened to mist. It beads against the windows and slides down in crooked trails, catching the last of the daylight before fading into shadow.

After dinner, Sebastian talks about work, about a lead on the smuggling case, about O’Donnell’s impossible filing system, about how he’s thinking of taking a few days off next month. You nod along smile when he looks up, and reply when you should.

When the hour grows late, he pours you a glass of water and sets the small potion vial beside it. The liquid inside glows faintly gold.

You stare at it. The light flickers across your fingers.

“Should probably take it soon,” Sebastian says softly, sitting across from you. “The Healer said absorption’s better after eating.”

You nod again. You already know.

You pull out the cork. The smell is sharp—metallic, herbal, faintly sweet. You’ve tasted this before in too many variations to count. Still, you drink. It burns a little going down, leaving a ghost of warmth that settles low in your stomach.

Sebastian watches, hands clasped loosely on his knees, expression careful. You can tell he wants to say something—encouragement, maybe, or some quiet promise—but he stops himself.

You set the empty vial aside and wipe your mouth. “Done.”

He smiles faintly. “That’s my girl.”

The words should comfort you. They used to. Instead, they land somewhere between tenderness and pity.

He stands, reaches for your hand. “Come on. Let’s go to bed.”

You let him guide you upstairs. The house hums around you—the old pipes, the dripping of the rain, the low whisper of wind. It all sounds louder when you’re this worn down.

In the bedroom, you undress by lamplight. He moves behind you, fingers brushing the back of your neck as he helps with your blouse. His touch is gentle—reverent, even—but your body doesn’t react the way it once did. You wish it did. You wish this still felt like love instead of effort.

He presses a kiss to your shoulder. “You okay?”

You nod, though you aren’t sure you remember what okay feels like.

When he turns you to face him, there’s nothing but tenderness in his eyes. He loves you, you know that with bone-deep certainty, but there’s something in that love that hurts now, something weighted with all the things you can’t give him.

You press your hands to his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart. He leans in, and the kiss is familiar—practiced, patient, a choreography you’ve both perfected through repetition. His fingers trace the curve of your hip, your back, your waist. You know the rhythm by heart.

You try to love him like it used to be, for no reason other than connection, but you can feel the difference. You can feel how both of you are trying.

Guilt blooms like heat in your chest. You want to give him what he deserves: a family, laughter, something more than this endless waiting... but all you have is yourself, and for awhile now, it's felt like that isn’t enough.

You close your eyes and try to remember when it used to be.

Afterward, you lie together in the quiet, his arm heavy across your waist. He murmurs something half asleep, maybe your name, and you stare at the ceiling, watching the lamplight dance across the plaster.

There’s a tightness in your chest. You shift slightly, careful not to wake him. His hand slips away, and you press a palm against your stomach, hoping something might take root so you don't fail again.

Weeks later, you wake just before dawn to an ache. You stir, thinking it’s nothing: just another sleepless night, another restless turn beneath the blankets. But then the pain sharpens, blooming hot and deep, and a quiet, terrible certainty settles over you.

You ease yourself out of bed, careful not to wake Sebastian. The house feels colder than it should, the kind of chill that seeps through your ribs and settles in your stomach.

In the bathroom, you flick on the light with trembling hands. The pale glow spills across the tile, and for a moment you can’t breathe.

There’s blood.

A small, dark stain at first, stark against your nightdress. Then more. Enough to confirm that something had, finally, taken root… and now, it’s gone.

You stand there for a long time, gripping the edge of the sink. The sound of your own breathing fills the room.

You're filled with quiet grief, the kind that doesn’t find its way to tears yet, and move on instinct: steady, mechanical, as though you can manage this if you keep your hands busy. You whisper cleaning charms, gentle ones that erase the evidence from tile and fabric, but not from memory.

When you try to vanish the blood from the towel, the charm fails. A faint stain remains—small, rust-coloured, stubborn. You stare at it until your throat aches.

It’s not the first time this has happened.

You sit on the edge of the tub, the world narrowing to the cold tile beneath your feet, the weight in your chest. You press a hand to your abdomen, not out of hope anymore, but apology.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper to no one.

At some point, the house shifts; the pipes groan, the wind brushes against the windowpanes. Down the hall, Sebastian turns over in his sleep, the sound distant and soft. For one aching heartbeat, you think about calling for him. You imagine the way he’d sit beside you, eyes wide with worry, already thinking of what to do next, what to try next.

You can’t bear it.

You don’t want to see that look again, that quiet determination that always follows disappointment, as if your body’s betrayal were another problem to solve. You can’t stand to watch him gather his parchment and theories, to feel him love you like a project instead of a person.

So you don’t wake him.

You fold the towel and tuck it deep into the laundry basket beneath a stack of linens. You rinse the sink, whisper another charm, and watch the water swirl clear.

When you catch your reflection in the mirror, you almost don’t recognize yourself.

You turn out the light.

When you crawl back into bed, Sebastian stirs. His hand finds yours automatically, warm and steady. You turn your face toward the wall.

“Go back to sleep,” you murmur.

He does.

He finds out three days later.

You’re in the laundry room, sorting through folded sheets, when you feel him behind you. You don’t hear his footsteps, only the stillness—that sharp, unmistakable quiet that means he’s standing there, thinking too hard.

When you turn, he’s holding the towel.

For a heartbeat, you can’t breathe. It hangs from his hand, the faint rust-coloured stain catching the light from the narrow window.

“What is this?” His voice is soft. Too soft.

You swallow, forcing your gaze back to the basket. “It’s nothing.”

He takes a slow step forward. “It’s not nothing.”

“Sebastian—”

He shakes his head. "Did you hurt yourself? Why is this covered in blood?"

“It’s nothing,” you insist. The lie feels thin, fragile.

He studies you, brow furrowing, and for the first time you see something like fear cross his face. “It's obviously not nothing.”

You can’t bring yourself to answer. The words won’t form; they just sit there in your throat, heavy and sour.

“Tell me.” His voice stays quiet, but the edge in it trembles. He steps closer, holding the towel between you like proof of something unspeakable. “Please."

You shake your head. “Just—just drop it.”

He doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. “I can’t,” he says, and his voice cracks on the word. “You’ve been pale for days, you’ve barely eaten—”

“Sebastian.”

Something in your tone makes him stop. The silence stretches, thick and heavy. You can feel him putting the pieces together.

“You were pregnant.” It isn’t a question.

You look down at the floor. “It doesn’t matter now.”

“When?” he asks, voice barely audible.

You grip the counter to steady yourself. “A few nights ago.”

He closes his eyes, jaw tightening. For a moment he doesn’t speak, just stands there breathing unevenly, the towel limp in his hand. When he does find his voice again, it’s rough, quiet. “And you didn’t tell me.”

You shake your head. “No.”

“...Why?"

You swallow hard. “Because it never lasts. Because every time it starts to stick, it’s gone again. And then you start researching and planning and I can’t—” Your voice catches. “I can’t watch you hope when I already know how it ends.”

He takes a step toward you, the floorboard creaking under his weight. “What do you mean 'every time'?"

You force yourself to meet his eyes. He looks frightened, the way people look when they already know the answer but still need to hear it.

“It’s happened before,” you whisper. “Twice.”

Sebastian blinks, once, slowly, as if his mind is catching up to his body. “Twice,” he repeats, and the way he says it makes you want to disappear. “And you didn’t tell me. You didn’t tell me either time. And you wouldn't have told me this time either.”

You open your mouth, but there’s nothing that can possibly make it better. “I—”

He cuts you off, shaking his head, eyes darting from your face to the counter, to the towel, back again. There’s colour rising in his cheeks now, but his voice stays quiet, the way it does when he’s holding back.

“We’re married,” he grits out, the words trembling. “How could you not tell me?”

You flinch. “Sebastian—”

“How could you think I wouldn’t want to know?” His voice breaks on the last word. “They were mine too!"

“Because I’m tired!” The words come out louder than you mean them to, breaking open something you’ve kept sealed for too long. “Because every time I start to think maybe this time it’ll stay, it doesn’t, and I’m the one who loses it! And then I have to see you look at me with that face! That same look every time! Like you’re already trying to work out what went wrong, what to fix next, like I’m something that needs fixing.”

Sebastian’s breath hitches. His knuckles whiten into fists, but he doesn’t interrupt.

You push on, the words tumbling out now that they’ve finally broken free. “I can’t keep watching you do that. I can’t keep being the reason you look at me like that. I can’t keep failing in front of you!"

He shakes his head. “Don't say that.”

“It’s true,” you insist, voice breaking. “It’s my body, Sebastian. Mine. I’m the one who can’t do what I'm supposed to. Every time it happens, every time it doesn’t happen, it’s because of me.”

His jaw tightens, and you can see the grief and anger fighting in his face. When he speaks, his voice is low, trembling, but certain. “You’re not a failure. You’re not broken. You’re my wife, not a problem I have to solve.”

You shake your head, a sob catching in your throat. “Then why does it feel like I am? Why does it feel like that’s all I’ve become?” The words tear out of you, unsteady and hoarse. “Every conversation, every healer, every bloody tonic, it’s all about what my body isn’t doing. What I can't give you. And when you look at me, I can see it. I can see you thinking about it. About me. About what’s missing.”

He takes a slow step forward, his face drawn tight, like he’s holding himself together by sheer will. “That’s not fair,” he says quietly. “You don’t get to tell me what I’m thinking.”

You laugh, sharp and small and painful. “Then tell me what you are thinking.”

“I’m thinking that my wife’s been bleeding alone in our house, hiding it from me because she thinks she’s sparing me pain.” His voice shakes now, the edges of it cracking. “I’m thinking that the woman I love more than anyone in this world doesn’t believe I could love her through this. That she doesn’t trust me with her grief.”

“It’s not about trust,” you whisper. “I do trust you.”

“Then what is it?” he presses.

You turn away, voice shaking uncontrollably. "It's that I know if you’d married someone else, someone normal, you’d have everything you wanted by now. You’d have a family. And you keep trying to fix me, but maybe I can't be fixed. Maybe I can't give you what you want!"

His jaw flexes, eyes glassy with tears. “I married you,” he says fiercely, his voice breaking. “You. Not—Merlin, look at me.”

You do, and it hurts. His eyes are bright, red around the edges, full of something that looks too big for one person to hold.

“I love you,” he says, and it comes out as a plea. “You, as you are. Not the idea of you, not what you might give me someday. You. I would burn down every plan we ever made before I’d let you believe I only stayed because I thought you could give me a child.”

You press your hand to your mouth, trying to keep in the sound that wants to escape.

He takes your hand gently, prying your fingers from your lips. “You’re not broken,” he insists, quieter this time. “And I’m sorry if I ever made you feel like I saw you that way. I was trying to help, to do something, because I didn’t know what else to do. But if that's not what you want, then then I’ll stop."

You blink hard, the tears hot and unrelenting. “I just don't want you to hate me for something I can’t change.”

He exhales shakily, a sound closer to a sob than a sigh. “Hate you?” He steps closer, so close you can feel the heat of him, the tremor running through his hands as he cups your face again. “You think I could ever hate you? It's impossible.”

You shake your head weakly. “You say that now.”

“I’ll say it again tomorrow,” he murmurs. “And the day after that. For as long as it takes for you to believe me.”

Your breath stutters. The world feels painfully still, the air between you too thick to breathe. "I'm so sorry, Sebastian."

“I know.” His voice is barely a whisper. “I’m sorry too."

You cling to him, to the warmth of his shirt, the solidity of him. His chin rests on the top of your head, and for a long time neither of you move. The house is quiet again, but this time it doesn’t feel hollow. It feels like the kind of stillness that means rest, not loss.

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[slightly-more-valid-prongs]

evan: *staring at the third plant he’s killed this week* barty: for someone whose last name is rosier, you sure are fucking useless at keeping plants alive.