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As promised im in your ask for a draco request 😌 I wanna request probably THE most clichéd trope for him; a slow burn enemies to lovers (i want thousands of these for him BHSSJ) with the usual bickering, banter, sexual tension with the reader as stubborn as he is someone who puts him in his place, both wanting each other while also wanna kill the other yknow like imagine after a particular intense argument between them draco lays awake at night thinking about her in a hormonal boy kinda way (bro gets off by the intense bickering LMFAO) but ofc hes in denial but finally comes in terms with his feelings, they both do.

Hopefully this isn't too much and im not annoying you by being too specific so take your time let the idea marinate 😭🙏 hope you have a great day♥️

Footstools, Friction, and Other Afflictions - d.m

w.c: 7.1k (oops)

warnings: mature content, all characters are aged up 18+, Hogwart's university au, language, depictions of sexual acts, masturbation (m), dirty talk, rivals/enemies, mentions of bullying/teasing, a touch of angst, muggleborn reader. let me know if i've missed any!

a/n: lets all pretend this wasn't in my drafts for, *checks watch*, five months? To my darling Vivianette, I hope you like it! I loved your request so much so much i wrote two different versions . I had so much fun writing this, and i'm so sorry it took so long to get to you. Thank you so much for your patience <3

There were very few individuals who could get on your every last nerve and then some— but then again, Draco Malfoy certainly wasn’t just anyone. The Slytherin was every inch the house he was placed in; cunning, ambitious, and most of all successful. His surname carried a weight most could only dream of, one very few would come close to in their lifetime.

The Malfoy family name was one of the sacred twenty-eight, a list compiling the titles of the few considered entirely pure-blooded families left in wizarding Britain. A fact that was both flaunted and revelled in by the young heir himself. And not only did Draco Malfoy have power, the truth was he demanded it.

The first time you had ever encountered him, he’d been eleven years old and much less pointy. His hair had been scraped back with a ludicrous amount of hair gel, combed to glossy perfection. No doubt his mother’s doing in preparation for his first day at Hogwarts.

He’d been exceptionally rude to you in the corridor on the train, sneering as he snatched his hand out and grabbed the door to an empty carriage you’d just reached for yourself. You’d frowned, standing your ground and straightening your spine as you stared back at him.

His eyes were piercing. The shade of a very pale blue— one you could only describe as stormlike, and devoid of warmth. More of a steely grey than cerluean.

Detached, you’d thought. Cold.

His skin had the same porcelain smoothness, equally as fresh and pristine as his hair. His cloak and school robes were ironed and proper, unlike your own slightly rumpled uniform, something which made you shift uneasily as you studied him. And he carried himself how someone with only unsurmisable wealth could, his lingering gaze cutting and his thin mouth drawn tightly shut.

He’d demanded the carriage, not with words but with his stance, glaring at you like you were nothing more than a bothersome fly flitting around his head. It was clear your presence was not welcomed, and so any thought of offering to share the carriage dissipated just as quickly as it had struck. Even at eleven years of age you recognised his demeanour, his entitlement.

You had responded childishly, something along the lines of ‘but I was here first.’ outrage etched into your adolescent features, wholly unaware of what opulence the blonde haired boy had come from— he didn’t play fair, he played to win. And win he would.

He had taken a moment to appraise you, eyes flitting over his perceived inadequacies before he spoke. And while you couldn’t recall the exact words he’d replied with, you remembered it was something cruel. Something ostentatious enough that a laugh had bubbled in your throat, the sound caught between nervousness and offense. It was enough to stop you in your tracks long enough that he was the one who triumphantly slid the door to the compartment shut, claiming the carriage for himself before you could even blink.

Later that evening— once Professor McGonagall had informed you and your peers of the sorting ceremony and each house's brief history— it was no surprise that Draco Malfoy was sorted into Slytherin house.

Nor was it shocking, that when you had clambered onto the very same stool—your fingers clasped politely in your lap, nerves shot— that the sorting hat had taken a mere two seconds before announcing, “Gryffindor!” and a round of cheers sounded from one of the long tables that ran the length of the hall.

As you settled into a spot at the house table, you caught the faintest curl of his lip from across the Great Hall. Those same cold eyes fixed on you like a target was pinned to your forehead. A crease formed between your brows then, wondering why on earth the blonde haired boy was scowling in your direction.

Very quickly you learned of Gryffindor and Slytherin’s exceptional rivalry. Both in academic and extra-curricular activities, the two houses clashed. Whether it was who was best at perfecting tricky charms; you. Or who was the most successful in brewing difficult potions; him. It didn’t matter.

Only one thing was for certain, the rivalry was rife. And somewhere in all that contention, standing right in the centre, was Draco Malfoy— a permanent thorn in your side.

In first year, he was the boy who sneered at your hair and asked if you even knew how to use a wand. You hadn’t understood why he said it like that. Slowly. Deliberately. With a venom that seemed too severe for petty school ground arguments.

Later, you learned what being muggle-born meant. And you learned what he meant by it, too.

By third year, he’d made it something of a sport— seeing how quickly he could make you snap… and vice versa. You’d perfected an eye roll by then, matching his snide comments with an equally dry retort, and that only made him grin wider and probe further.

But come the term after your final summer holidays, a fresh start as young adults in your final year at Hogwarts, something had changed. Particularly, in the way that you saw each other, or rather, the new light in which those exchanged scowls were bathed in.

For a start, you’d never recalled noticing the muscles that ripped across his back before. How, when he donned his Quidditch uniform, the fabric pulled taught around his shoulders and his regrettably athletic thighs. The areas covered by shin guards and chest plates only served to make matters worse, laces knotted tightly to keep them in place whilst simultaneously accentuating every dip and sharp line of his slender frame.

Though he was more pointy with his sharp cheekbones and gaunt eyes, different to the round faced child-like way you remembered him, he was still unmistakably a Malfoy. The chiseled lines of his jaw etched with stubble, skin still pale as snow yet more defined, more mature. And… had his eyes always been such an enticing whirl of stormy grey? You were certain they’d always been cold and beady, though now you weren’t so sure.

Equally, he had done a double take of his own as you passed by him in the corridors that first week back. Unable to tear his unruly gaze away from the way your skirt hugged the curve of your ass, revealing bare skin between its hem and the tops of your knee high socks. Or the way your curls— which had always been long locks of untameable frizz in his eyes— now fell in sleek waves across your robed shoulder. Enticing him to reach out and capture a curl around his fingers, like he hadn’t sneered at the mere thought of your presence for the best part of six years.

But, more than anything aforementioned, he had noticed your face. Different somehow to the way it normally looked, like with age you’d grown into your features— and, rather painfully, he acknowledged that the spattering of freckles he’d once mocked now made you look sun-kissed. So intoxicating that it made him want to bury his nose into the curve of your throat and inhale, if only to be surrounded by the scent of that sweet perfume you wore, which lingered in the air long after you’d swept past.

The day his head snapped up instinctively upon catching a whiff of that very perfume was cemented into his mind. The rush of disappointment upon discovering that some other student had begun wearing your signature scent was still fresh in his memory. Draco had taken to treating himself to a very cold, very uncomfortable shower. With the hope that the icy water might shock his nervous system enough to fix whatever sickness he was coming down with, something severe he assumed, considering he could barely stand to be in the same room as you most days.

Alas, the cold shower did little to alleviate his symptoms. As when he caught a glimpse of your glossy curls in a very routine scan of the Great Hall that evening, he couldn’t resist taking another peek over at the smile plastered across your face.

Draco swallowed hard in that moment, eyes downcast whilst he continued chasing his dinner around the plate with his fork, as an unsettling feeling churned low in his gut. Something he loathed to admit to himself, something that felt an awful lot like jealousy towards whoever put that smile on your face.

“Oh for crying out loud.” You grumbled under your breath, knees bending as you jumped once more, your outstretched fingers straining to grasp at the leather bound tome feebly.

Just typical that the library book you’d been scouring the shelves in search of for the past half hour was stacked firmly out of reach. Taunting you each time the tips of your fingers scuffed the binding. This was all you needed, with an Ancient Ruins deadline fast approaching, you were running out of time to be running up and down amongst the stacks in search of an alternative.

You’d waited all week for the text to become available, considering someone else had checked the book out the same day your assignment had been set, presumably for the same essay. Now was your only chance to grab it, and in some cruel attempt at humour, the universe had decided to place it on the top most shelf— and coincidentally out of your reach.

Your shoulders sagged as you accepted defeat.

Using a spell was out of the question. If Madam Pince caught even a whiff of students using magic to procure their reading material, then she’d surely have them permanently banned from the library for the rest of term— she was awfully protective of Hogwarts’ vast collection and so reluctantly you ignored the urge to reach for your wand.

You grumbled and huffed as you slung your bag down in front of the shelf, head twisting to locate one of the stools that were dotted around the library. Another of Madam Pince’s genius ideas, surely imagined purely for her own amusement. Not only did she prohibit magic within her domain but encouraged students to rely on more traditional, muggle methods in terms of procurement.

As a muggle-born yourself, it was hardly a problem for you on a good day, though desperate times made for desperate measures— and you certainly were desprate. You had to shake yourself out of whispering a summoning charm under your breath, forcing your feet to move as you wandered deeper into the winding shelves, frustration curling in your gut.

“Come on Hogwarts, you’re supposed to be a school of magic.” You muttered to yourself, praying to Godric, Rowena, Helga and Salazar to take pity on your misfortune, just this once. All you needed was that book. A single stool to reach it. It wasn’t much to ask of the four founding conjurors after all.

It seemed the castle must’ve been listening because right as you’d given up hope, you spotted a lone stool near the gates to the restricted section and sprinted forward to grab it, whispering frantic thank you’s into the quiet library. You probably looked mental to anyone else, but the desperation outweighed any worries you might’ve had.

With the stool firmly tucked underneath your arm, you were content with retrieving the book and retreating to your dorm to finish your essay. With any luck you’d manage to enjoy the rest of your weekend unbothered by school work, a rare opportunity indeed now you were a seventh year.

Yet it seemed that your prayers to the founding witches and wizards went unnoticed afterall, your steps faltering as you neared the dreaded shelf once more. Draco Malfoy stood exactly where you’d left your bag, his back to you, an arm casually reaching for the very book that had tormented you for the past half hour.

“Don’t you dare.” you breathed, arm tightening around the stool that hung in your grasp. Feet speeding up as you hurried towards the blond-headed git with a newfound determination. That book was yours, even if you had to jinx him for it.

As you neared, he reached up and plucked it from its spot with insulting ease, barely even stretching to retrieve it. A real fuck-you from the universe as you halted at his side.

“Malfoy, I’ve been looking for that book all week—” you began, slightly out of breath from over exertion, the library dissarmingly labyrinth-like in your tired state.

At the mere sound of your voice his head turned slowly, twisting round to face you, appraising your out of breath pants and the way your hair messily fell around your shoulders.

“You and…” he paused, looking you up and down slowly, “…about half the class.”

His grin remained, turning the book over in his hands as though trying to decide if it was worth his time. “You know, I think I might need this after all.” He mused in that infuriating drawl, wafting the book tauntingly in your direction.

“Seriously? I’ve been trying to get it for the last half hour— look!” You reasoned frustratedly, producing the stool from under your arm as some feeble attempt at proof, your head nodding towards your bag that still sat at the foot of the shelves.

As if the young heir ever listened to reason beyond his own opinion.

“I gathered. All that… hopping.” Draco hummed lazily. His free hand gesturing, gaze flickering between your outraged expression and the stool in your hands, a smug sort of glint in his eyes.

Your mouth dropped open, your own eyes filling with fury at his blatant taunt. Simultaneously, your cheeks flushed with embarrassment as you realised he must’ve been watching you struggle, and well before he even noticed the book at all. Somehow, the thought of his eyes on yours as you struggled made your cheeks turn pinker.

Why did it have to be him of all people?

The two of you staredsilently, assessing the other and waiting to make the next move. A routine you’d come to know all too well, for all the years you’d known eachother, you couldnt remember a time you werent at eachothers throats.

Decisively, your hand snatched out to pry it from his grasp. At the same time, he raised his arm higher, dangling the book just out of reach. Draco let out a disapproving snort, watching you through narrowed eyes as you huffed and dropped your outstretched hand.

“That’s not fair— I was here first.” You hissed, glaring up at his smug expression with your own stubborn frustration. An uncanny feeling of familiarity spiked in your mind, something so inherently him that you had to take a step back.

“That’s my bag right in front of you!” Your free hand gestured down at your belongings in annoyance.

“Merlin.” He sighed, as though you were the one being unreasonable here. The classic Malfoy sneer, dripping with disapproval and disgust. “You are so… predictable.

A pang of desperation burned in your chest, your voice dropping lower when you demanded, “Just give me the book? Please.”

He laughed. A deep, provocative chuckle that dug deep underneath your skin. Something akin to hatred boiling in your veins from a simple sound. Draco had always had that affect on you, something about him made your skin prickle. Every sneer or taunt burned deep in your flesh, like a stain that never fully went away.

“You mean this book?” He tilted it back and forth, the faint candle light catching the embossed title you’d spent the last week trying to track down. Your nostrils flared indignantly as you inhaled deeply, schooling your expression into one of neutrality. Gods, how he infuriated you. Sometimes you wanted to grab him by the throat and strangle him.

“I think I'll take it for a bit of light reading.”

“I need it, Malfoy.” you pleaded earnestly, sincerity weighing heavy in your voice.

“No, you want it.” he retorted smoothly, even though it was painfully evident he was only interested because you were. His lashes fluttered casually as if it weren’t 60% of your final grade on the line. His infuriatingly toned body resting against the shelf, regarding you with mere boredom like a toy he’d grown tired of.

Your eyes trailed the book as he tucked it close to his chest, one of those strong arms you’d never admit to admiring clamping it against the front of his robes. “But then, wanting something and being able to get it are two…” He mused, pausing for effect, “..very different things.”

That familiar urge began to coil in the pit of your stomach once more, he was close enough that you could smell his aftershave— citrusy, expensive, annoyingly nice. Something that inexplicably just drew you towards him and frustrated you to no end. Because, somehow, he always pulled a reaction out of you, even when you didn’t want to give him one.

“You’re being a right git, d’ya know that?” you fumed, teeth gritted together. Lashing out for lack of a better response, the way he made your stomach coil and writhe. His smirk widened at your words, as though frustrating you was the highlight of his day. Like he, too, took joy in winding you up.

“Of course I am,” he mused, winking, “It’s half the fun.”

With a scoff you jabbed the stool leg against him, jaw tightening as he barked another laugh, less aristocratic than normal— like your reaction shattered the illusion of elegance that the Malfoy’s so ardently protected. With one hand, he reached out and grasped the foot of the stool, pushing back with ease.

Beneath his robes you swore you saw his biceps tensing as he moved, the sight so vexatiously alluring, you had to tear your gaze away for a second to compose yourself.

“You could try asking me nicely.” He shrugged, letting out a wistful sigh, still inches from you. Clearly, in the heat of the moment neither of you had thought to back away. His head tilted as he spoke, staring down at you expectantly.

“I did ask you—”

He scoffed. “No. You demanded it. Then, you attacked me with a footstool.” It was impossible for him to hide the smirk on his lips as he spoke. His stormy gaze watching you in amusement.

“Well, perhaps, if you didn’t have a habit of stealing things that aren’t yours.” You argued, voice raising slightly in disbelief. Cheeks tinged red from a mix of embarrassment and frustration.

“Perhaps.” Draco grinned with a distinct lack of shame. “Still doesn’t get you the book.” he tapped the cover for effect, grinning down at your scowling face.

That’s it, you thought— resorting to lunging forward to try and prise the book from his grasp. But his quidditch reflexes must’ve kicked in, his free hand pushing you as far away from the book as possible, chucking under his breath.

“Gods I hate you.” You snapped, brows knitting together angrily as your shoulders sagged in defeat. “Just give me it. For once in your snobby, entitled life— don’t be a prat.”

“Mhm, convincing.” he hummed, leaning down just enough that his breath ghosted across the shell of your ear as he whispered, “But I’ll pass, love.”

Your breath caught, something you didn’t care to admit pooling in the pit of your belly. His eyes flickered across your parted lips before he straightened sharply, clearing his throat as that smirk spread across his face once more.

“Anyways,” he said lightly, that Malfoy mask of modesty snapping back into place as he took a step back, flicking invisible lint from his robes, “I’ll try to return it before term ends. No promises, though.”

“Malfoy— Don’t you dare walk away— Please—”

But he was already sauntering off between the shelves, your book tucked carefully against his side, looking unbearably pleased with himself. Seething, you stared at the space he had just occupied. It was as if the air itself still crackled with the smugness he left behind. Or maybe it was something else entirely. Something warm and humiliating you refused to examine too closely.

Draco lay sprawled out on his mattress, arms folded behind his head as he stared up at the canopy of his bed. The curtains snapped shut, effectively blocking out the rest of the dorm entirely. He had a headache, a dull painful throb that took the shape of you in that ridiculously short skirt. A cruel, merciless ache that burrowed just as deeply in his chest as his skull.

He’d tried to sleep. Merlin knew he tried.

But every time he closed his eyes, there you were— scowling at him in the middle of the library, eyes bright with fury, lips parted as you stood toe-to-toe with him, that stupid footstool in your arms. His head tilted back against the pillows, groaning quietly in frustration. That book he’d pinched from your grasp was stuffed in his bedside drawer, away from his tired eyes.

Out of sight, out of mind, he’d reasoned. Though that proverb wasn’t strictly true— considering how, for the better part of an hour, he’d been replaying what had happened in the library earlier with far too much focus on the way your breath had hitched when he leant closer.

Draco rolled onto his side with a resigned huff, stretching his tired limbs tenderly. A few seconds passed before he twisted onto his stomach, flopping back into his original position when he couldn’t get comfortable.

Nothing helped. Not when his mind kept circulating back to you and those parted lips that for half a second he thought about— No. He should not be thinking about that. And he definitely should not feel hot thinking about that.

Draco scrubbed both hands over his face, groaning quietly into the darkness.

“This is not happening.” He told the canopy of his bed, enunciating each word as though commanding the universe to reverse whatever was stirring beneath his pyjama bottoms. Though it seemed both of his heads were preoccupied with thoughts of you.

And that bloody skirt? Draco had to resist letting his eyes roll into the back of his head at the thought of the short fabric that teased the curve of your ass and treated him to a glimpse of your thighs. Surely it had to be against some sort of school rule, he was in half a mind to raise it to one of the professors, but the risk of never seeing you in it again overruled any rash decisions. He was tired, it was late. He wasn’t in his right mind— all excuses, of course.

Draco groaned again when the image of your skirt flashed across his closed eyes once more. Dragging his pillow across his face, smothering himself with it frustratedly. A last ditch attempt to shock his body out of whatever lustful pit it had succumbed to.

Draco inhaled sharply, then exhaled slower. And failed entirely to calm himself down.

It was like something in his treacherous, backstabbing brain wanted him to suffer. Some cruel way to punish him for all of his transgressions, and yet, as his fingers skimmed past his stomach, threatening to breach the waistband of his pyjama bottoms— he couldn’t bring himself to care.

His thoughts refocused on you, on what you were doing right now in your own dorm. If you were complaining about him to your friends. Whether your cheeks were still flushed with anger— or something else, his inner voice added unhelpfully. Whether you were as sleepless as he was, tossing and turning in your sheets.

Draco’s cock throbbed painfull enjoying the thought of you feeling as helpless as he was. He realised then that he was worse off than he first thought, his slender fingers twitching for the go ahead from his guielful mind.

It took all of ten seconds before he was wrestling his pyjamas and boxers down his thighs with one hand and reaching for his wand with the other. Casting a whispered “muffilato” and letting the hawthorn fall somewhere unknown amongst his sheets.

His chest tightened at the same time as his fingers finally wrapped around the length of his cock. The relief instant, dizzying almost. His hips canting upwards into his fist before he could stop himself. Pathetic, even by his standards.

The shame paled in comparison to the lavicious desire which coursed through his veins, picturing the look on your face if you knew what he was doing to the thought of you. Somewhere, at the very back of his thoughts, he imagined what it would feel like to have your delicate hands wrapped around him— he nearly choked at the mental images that accompanied the thought.

His fingers tightened their grasp, his eyes slipping shut as he pictured that familiar fury that burned bright in your sun-kissed face. Pictured that standoffish glint that burned a hole right through him, and how beautiful you looked when you were seconds from tearing him to shreds. It was probably the reason he provoked you so often, some ridiculous clandestine attempt to win your attention.

Merlin, how you drove him mad.

Draco dragged his fist slowly from base to tip, his breath stuttering out of him as he pictured you again— closer this time. He delighted in crowding your personal space, backing you up against the shelves as he so desperately wished he had done earlier. His imagination sparing no detail, your warm cheeks and your pulse visible in your throat.

He bit back a groan as he squeezed his fingers tighter, his fist working up and down a little quicker, eyes screwing shut as his mind wandered. His hands spreading your legs open so that he could step between them, that short, flimsy excuse for a skirt creeping further up your thighs, exposing the supple skin to his gaze— and his touch.

His thumb swept over the head of his cock, smearing the bead of slick that had gathered at the tip, and his hips jerked again as he imagined your tongue licking against the sensitive skin.

The logical part of his brain was screaming at him, pounding against the side of him that was entirely overcome with desire. But he knew this was so wrong, and he was too used to giving in to his wants to back down now.

“Always have to make everything difficult,” he muttered, half angry, half breathless, remembering the way you’d looked at him when he refused to hand over the book. The way you’d stepped into his space without the faintest hesitation. The way your frustration had cracked into something else for half a second when he leaned down.

Merlin, that sound you made—barely a sound at all. A hitch in your breath, a stuttered inhale. He could feel it under his skin. His strokes quickened.

He surely imagined it, but your thighs had clenched as you argued. That your pink lips, parted and breathless, had quivered as he leaned close and caught the scent of your perfume. His breath ghosting the shell of your ear with that taunting tone he wanted to say filthy, filthy things in.

“Look at you…” he whispered hoarsely into the dark, aware of how pathetic he sounded. His knuckles brushing the soft skin of his stomach with every thrust of his hand, “so fucking stubborn—nghh— always trying to prove something.”

His breath faltered. This was borderline insanity, cooped up in his bed and whispering to your non-existent frame about how much you infuriated him, and how badly he wanted you. Perhaps you had struck him again with that footstool and he was in the hospital wing, hallucinating some sordid fantasy he’d never in his right mind admit to.

And yet he continued, picturing you pressed back against the bookshelves, skirt rucked up by his hands, your glare dissolving into something helpless as his lips trailed kisses and nips against your skin. Imagined your fingers curling into his shirt, your thighs parting for him without thinking, your voice breaking on his name…

A sharp, involuntary moan tore from his throat and he froze for a second, listening for a sign that somehow, even with the spell he’d cast, someone had heard. When no sound came, his hand tightened once more and his stomach clenched as he sped up his movements, on the precipice of an orgasm by just picturing you.

Given half the chance he was certain now he’d act on his desires, practically drooling at the thought of your tight cunt. At the feeling of pushing inside and fucking you on his cock till you could only whimper in pleasure. How he wanted you to feel good, to the same intensity that you seemingly hated him with.

“Fuck—fuck—” he panted, hips bucking up into his fist as heat pooled low and tight, coiling faster, harder with every stroke, “shouldn’t be—thinking about you—”

The image of you flushed, breathless, glaring at him like you’d kill him and pull him closer in the same moment, pushed him to the edge with brutal force.

Draco’s jaw dropped, a broken sound escaping him as he came hard across his stomach, thighs trembling, breath shuddering out in uneven waves. His free hand fisted into the sheets, gripping them like he needed something to hold onto while his release tore through him.

It took several long seconds for the tension to ease, for his chest to stop rising and falling so sharply. Draco stared up at the canopy, heart still hammering, sweat cooling on his skin.

“Brilliant,” he muttered bitterly under his breath, realising what he had just done, how sordid his feelings for you spiraled. “Absolutely brilliant.”

Because somehow—against every rule he had, against every ounce of pride in his body—you were under his skin. And now he’d have to face you with the knowledge that the only way he’d been able to fall asleep tonight, was with your name on his tongue.

Merlin, he was completely, utterly, hopeless.

Almost a week later and Draco had avoided you at all costs, at first it was the shame that kept him away. Unable to trust himself not to crumble at the first sign of conflict, not to recall that very scowl that had morphed into his thoughts in his most intimate moments. Ashamed that somehow, his treacherous mind had taken the intensity that you hated each other with and turned it into something that made his cock harden instantaniously.

Then, it was anger. Pure, molten wrath that was directed at everyone around him, but the moment you were within earshot he fell quiet. Too conflicted inside to risk drawing your attention his way. He snapped more, his patience running thin at the slightest inconvenience, out of character even for him. To the point even his friends were confused about what was wrong with him, Blaise even urging him to visit the hospital wing on one occasion when he’d snapped at Pansy rather bitterly.

Finally, it morphed into hopelessness, refusing to even venture into the Great Hall unless he knew for a fact you’d already left. He supposed it made things easier by ignoring you entirely, by cutting out the chance to even interact with you. A defence mechanism, perhaps— not that Draco would ever admit that to himself, or anyone else.

But a new feeling settled, lodged deep in his chest, that made him want to rip his hair out. A feeling he’d spent years skilfully avoiding; Draco Malfoy felt guilty.

Guilty for being such a git over that stupid library book. Guilty for all the little criticisms and sneers he threw your way. Guilty for tugging one out over your scowl, for Merlin's sake. And, for being such a coward that he was unable to admit out loud that he had feelings for you that couldn’t just boil down to pure hatred.

Draco was coming to terms with it, in his own muddled way, that his intense reaction whenever you were near was not one born of rivalry and hatred, but of jealousy and desire. The guilt swallowed him whole, realising that he’d been acting like a complete fool around you. Riling you up and purposefully inconveniencing you because of something so trivial like a crush. Draco had thought he was wiser than that, that he was above acting so juvenile over a girl, and yet in the past week his contemplation surmised that he was all those things you’d said, and more.

But one thought kept recurring, more often than not; how, in Salazar’s green earth, was he going to return that bloody book without also admitting something far more mortifying— that he, Draco Malfoy, cared about what you thought of him.

He knew he couldnt keep avoiding you, missing the start or end of meals just so he wasn’t forced to see you. Moreover, the guilt he was riddled with over the stunt he’d pulled in the library was beginning to eat away at him. So, when Theo announced he’d be spending his class free morning finishing homework, Draco formulated a plan. Theo had mentioned, in passing, the very complicated essay topic he’d been set in Ancient Ruines over this morning's breakfast. Giving Draco a bright idea as he sulked into his coffee mug at the table.

He’d skipped lunch entirely, hauling up in his dormitory, the curtains pulled close just in case anyone disturbed him— he’d grown a conscience, not an extra head. Merlin forbid anyone would think he was going soft.

He kept his word however, scouring the pages lightly for anything that could be relevant. Skimming through chapters that were useless, and thumbing the corners of any pages that piqued his interest. He’d ended up late to Potions as a result, murmuring a quick apology to Snape as he rushed to his desk. He nudged his schoolbag carefully beneath the table and checked it again—there was something inside he intended to return in one piece…

Your head thuded as it dropped against the table, the quiet corner of the library you’d tucked yourself away in deserted; aside from Madam Pince and a few lone students cramming homework and last minute revision. You stifled a groan as your head lifted from the parchment, peering down at your work with a sour expression, it was due at the end of the week and you were no closer to finding any supporting evidence in the other books you’d spent the weekend scouring.

It was too late now to ask for an extension, and without the textbook Draco had taken you had little hope. Either wait for a bloody miracle, or make do with what you had— even if that now meant you’d given up all of your free time to try and make your line of argument work.

You shrunk back in your chair and let your quill drop from your grip, your hands reaching up to drag across tired eyes, but as you blinked the sleep from them you were met with another sight. Perhaps the very miracle you’d been silently hoping for.

In the shape of Draco Malfoy, hovering awkwardly at the side of the desk, his shadow falling over your parchment as your gaze focused. Part of you suspicious that he was a mere figment of your tiredness and desperation, you’d noticed yourself checking over your shoulder for him lately. Keeping alert in case another opportunity to wipe that smug look from his face arose. Or, at least, that's what you had convinced yourself.

“What do you want?” you said, exhaling as you spoke, settling on something that was neither antagonising nor pleasant. Your arms folded across your chest, teeth toying with your bottom lip absentmindedly.

He stood by the table, ridgid, as if he was holding in a deep breath. His pointy features so composed, you wondered for half a second if it really was him at all. But there was no mistaking the man beside you, the whirl of stormy grey in his eyes unlike anyone elses.

“Here.” he grimanced, glancing left and right to make sure there were no witnesses to what he was about to do.

“What—” you began to question him, the words trailing off as his hand plunged deep into his bag, rummaging for a second before producing the library book he’d stolen from right under your nose the week before.

A soft thud sounded as leather met wood, the textbook landing directly in front of you, half covering the scattered parchment that was sprawled across the workspace.

Baffled, your wide eyes and open mouth stared down at the tome, then up at him with an equally shocked expression. Draco avoided your gaze, opting to glance up and down the library once more, before settling somewhere between you and the floor.

Alarm bells were ringing, Draco Malfoy didn’t play nice—and if this was some new strategy, it was an uncharacteristically cruel one.

But something about the way his vision shifted told you it wasn’t. His eyes darted towards the door, scanning up the nearby shelves, and then finally settling on you. Jumping from place to place like he was actually worried about someone seeing this, seeing him.

If you didn’t know any better, you’d say he was nervous— regretful, at least.

“Is this…” your voice came out hoarse and you paused to clear your throat right as his gaze focused on you again. “Is this your way of apologising?”

Draco stiffened where he stood, his rhythm faltering as his gaze set on the door but abruptly tore back to you. Two thunder clouds gleaming, grey whirls that almost looked silver in the dim lighting. Staring down at you, at your cheeks, your lips— like he was choosing where lightning would strike first.

“I’m returning a book,” he said quietly, speaking out of the corner of his mouth. “Not… debasing myself.” He shifted slightly, tugging at the collar of his shirt unnecessarily, fixing it despite it sitting perfectly in place.

You had to hold yourself back from rolling your eyes, lips pursing as you murmured, “So no apology.”

His jaw flexed. Door. Shelves. You. But when he looked away this time it wasn’t with disdain. It wasn’t even irritation, either. It was something else entirely, something internal that was clawing its way out.

“I’m…” his voice came out rougher, a ringed hand reaching up to scrub at his face, “Acknowledging— there may have been… an incident.”

He cringed.

Door. Shelves. You. Door. Shelves. You.

You stared. Not because his ‘apology’ was horrendous—though it certainly was—but because Draco Malfoy had just performed the emotional equivalent of tearing out his own pride, dropping it onto the desk between you, and pretending he hadn’t done any such thing.

And you didn’t know quite what to do with that.

Draco cleared his throat once more, eyes dipping towards the desk then meeting yours. “Open it.” he said stiffly, nodding once at the thick leather textbook. His foot tapping restlessly against the stone floors, impatient almost. Like he couldn’t wait to get away from you. Your heart sank a little bit when you noticed.

Your brows creased together, tentatively dropping your gaze to the textbook before you. Then back up at him. Your hands still limp at your sides. Draco’s brow arched as he gestured towards the book once more, waiting for you to reach out and flip the cover open. Cautiously your fingers reached, skimming across the leather binding as your gaze traced the embossed lettering, scrutinizing it for any signs that he’d tampered with it.

“It was quite an interesting read.” He said, more Draco-like than he’d been moments ago, “I suspect it’ll be quite useful.” he added, tapping a ringed pinky against your parchment.

Your curiousity got the better of you, and as you flipped open the cover, you froze. Breath catching once more as a surge of relief coursed through your overtired brain. Two pages were folded with neat, precise dog-ears. Then three. Four. Five. All the way through the textbook, highlighting pages with information relevant to your essay topic.

Your eyes flicked up sharply, then back down to the book. “You… How—”

Words failed you as you thumbed through the pages, each corner marking the exact sections of every single reference you needed. Paragraphs upon paragraphs of evidence that would undoubtedly mean you’d finish this essay tonight. Folded quietly by a man who refused to apologise but had clearly gone out of his way to fix what he’d done.

“I don’t know what to say. Draco, this is… Thank—,” You breathed, appreciation heavy in your tone, the words faltering as you looked up from the gift he’d just dropped into your lap, but he was already gone. The space he had just occupied was empty, aside from the lingering scent of his cologne which you recognised instantly. Your head whipped left to right as you half rose from your chair, catching the glint of blonde hair hastily disappearing through the exit to the library.

Your heart thudded loudly in your ears, a disorienting sound that had very little to do with exhaustion anymore. Sinking back slowly in your chair, your fingers brushed carefully against the folded corner of the page, as if it might disappear if you blinked too hard.

A strange warmth crawled up your throat—something soft, unwelcome, disarming. Completely unlike any of the normal feelings you had towards Draco Malfoy. This wasn’t the fury following a petty school ground argument, or the determined rivalry that motivated every late night study session. It was something more, something… gentle.

In one simple act of selflessness— altruism, disguised with a stubbornness that was so inherently him— Draco had managed to rewire a part of you you’d never intended to expose to him. A part that, annoyingly, seemed to soften at the mere thought of him trying.

Your thumb brushed across the folded edges, smoothing them gently as your chest tightened. And just like that, in a way that couldn’t be articulated out loud, something shifted. Quietly, like the ground was suddenly torn from under your feet. Like the strained tension that was always pulled so taut between you both was suddenly pulling you in another direction.

You swallowed, eyes still on the marked pages, and realised with an odd flutter that Draco Malfoy had fled the scene far too quickly for someone who didn’t care at all. What’s worse, the heat radiating off your cheeks in a furious blush, and the smile that tugged at the edge of your lips were almost impossible to get rid off.

Somewhere, a little part of you recognised the truth you’d been avoiding for years— that perhaps you hated Draco Malfoy so viciously because he’d never once really seen you. But now he’d noticed you enough to map out every page you needed, without expecting so much as a thank you.

And, Merlin, help you. It unsettled you more than the hatred ever had.

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