✒ WHOREVOLO is a blog dedicated to creating works of fiction, indulging fellow avid readers' fantasies, where your wildest dreams come true.
ꗃ i'm the blog's moderator - saint. i go by she / her and i am still, unfortunately, in college. thus, this blog will be semi - active, however, i will try to keep up with things as much as i possibly can with my busy schedule.
my requests will always be open and i will try to accommodate each one as soon as i get to it. my guidelines and notes for my blog will be as follows ...
i. i do not write nsfw or smut. that being said, i will be taking a step back and write implications and suggestive themes - although nothing extremely explicit and graphic.
ii. i will not be writing for topics such as r⋆pe, p⋆dophilia, yandere, inc⋆st, and so on and so forth. i will also not be writing a lot of gore, seeing as it's not exactly my strong suit.
iii. i don't plan to write for character x character, but i will occasionally dip my foot into it if i'm into the dynamic of both characters. eg : hermione granger & ron weasley. (but regardless, please feel free to send in an ask about any ship beyond x reader!)
iv. i believe my writing is mediocre at best; so please know that the chances of my writing being 100% accurate and in character will be pretty low. fifty-fifty at most.
v. lastly, please be nice - i am only writing for fun and this is by no means a professional blog. i do not claim to be a professional writer and i do accept civil criticism.
who i write for :
✦ harry potter
harry potter, hermione granger, ron weasley, fred weasley, george weasley, draco malfoy, cedric diggory, tom riddle, tba
✦ twilight
edward cullen, jasper hale, emmett cullen, alice cullen, carlisle cullen, charlie swan, tba
✦ marvel
tony stark, steve rogers, natasha romanoff, doctor strange, wade wilson, stephen strange, peter parker, loki, tba
✦ bridgerton
anthony bridgerton, benedict bridgerton, colin bridgerton, daphne bridgerton, tba
the list will expand as i delve deeper into each series.
in the meantime, check out my work below ...
✦ harry potter
draco (dilemma.) : d. malfoy x reader. fluff.
✦ bridgerton
a wrinkle in time : b. bridgerton x reader; part one of two.
pairing : anthony bridgerton x fem!reader
synopsis : your morning as a viscountess, wife, and mother—featuring your dear son and beloved husband.
warnings : fluffy, but extremely cliché. established baby name already as a nod to canon.
author’s note : took inspiration from the very minimal screen time between kate and anthony and their baby. was super in love with the scene and decided to play around with his character in this piece. furthermore, forgive me if there are any mistakes; this piece was drafted, edited, and posted on mobile—which is arguably more difficult as opposed to the same process done on laptop. but anyway, happy reading !
Mornings, for you and Anthony, started early.
Often, he rose first. The sun was still down, but it was bright enough for the chamber surroundings’ visibility. Anthony’s the first to rise, making a beeline to his son’s crib. Edmund, you’ve both decided to name, was often already half-awake. Solely because your son never slept continuously, save for when he was extremely tired from being paraded around the estate by his father and cooed at by you.
“Oh, hello,” Anthony cooed, before his son could even fully process the vision of his father leaning down into his crib. “Hello there, you.”
Edmund’s eyes flutter open, his body stretching. Anthony picked him up, Edmund falling limp for a moment before beginning to wiggle in excitement. “You’re awake now, aren’t you?” Anthony’s nose nudges against Edmund’s chubby cheek, before melting into a kiss. Edmund squealed happily as a response.
For Anthony, mornings had never felt so soft. It’s been about seven months since you’ve had Edmund, and this child was oh so very loved. So loved by his father, by you, his grandmother, his aunts and uncles.
This had been the routine as of late: Anthony wakes, comes to check on Edmund—if Edmund was fussing, then he ought to fix it; if Edmund was asleep, then he was to be left alone; if Edmund was awake, then he’d be picked up—and the day starts from there.
However, you woke at a later time. Around half an hour, you stirred awake without the feeling of Anthony beside you. Sometimes, he stayed in bed with you until you woke, but since Edmund’s been prone to fuss these days, he’s been checking up on the baby more frequently.
You made your way to the crib, finding Anthony already cradling a small bundle in his arms. “Anthony, darling,” you spoke, a rasp in your voice having just woken up. “It’s still early.” You halted behind him, chin resting on his shoulder.
He sighed, dreamy. “Oh, I know, I know,” he rocked Edmund in his arms. “But he was fussing.” He reasoned, keeping his glistening eyes on the baby. A moment passed and only then did he glance over his shoulder at you, pressing a kiss to your temple.
You both stood there for a moment, letting Edmund babble and gurgle—that was the only sound constant in the room for about five minutes. “Aren’t you just the most adorable?” you cooed, your hand brushing his hair back. Edmund, in response, excitedly squealed.
Anthony huffed a quiet laugh. “You encourage him,” he murmured, though there was no real reprimand in his tone. “He believes himself terribly amusing.”
“He is terribly amusing,” you countered, leaning around his shoulder so Edmund could see you properly. The moment your son’s gaze found yours, his entire face transformed—eyes widening, lips parting in a gummy, triumphant grin.
There it is, you thought. The look.
The one that reduced the Viscount Bridgerton into something entirely undone. Anthony’s breath caught audibly. “He reserves that smile for you,” he accused softly.
“Oh?” you teased. “And what do you suppose that says about you, my dear?”
“That I am grievously outmatched.” He countered.
Edmund babbled again, a stream of nonsensical syllables that Anthony received as though they were a speech delivered in Parliament. He nodded solemnly at his son.
“Yes, quite right,” he agreed. “I share your concerns entirely.”
You laughed, the sound still laced with sleep. “What grave matters is he discussing at this ungodly hour?”
Anthony adjusted Edmund higher against his shoulder. “He informs me that he has been awake for centuries and that his parents are grossly neglectful.”
You played into it, “How dreadful of us.” Though your smile never faltered. It didn’t dare to, not when your chest warmed and your heart threatened to burst.
“Indeed. We must do better.” He solemnly nodded.
You slipped your arms around Anthony’s waist from behind, pressing your cheek against his back. The warmth of both of them seeped into you—your husband solid and steady, your son soft and impossibly small. This, you thought, must be what contentment feels like. Not grand balls or perfect dinner parties or managing accounts and tenants.
This.
“Shall we?” you asked gently.
Anthony nodded, and together you moved back toward the bed. He sat first, carefully settling Edmund between you both, propped safely against pillows. The morning light had grown warmer now, spilling across the floor in pale gold streaks.
Edmund immediately grabbed for Anthony’s night shirt. “Ah,” Anthony sighed, already resigned. “I see my efforts in presentation are futile.”
You gently pried Edmund’s fist away before he succeeded in strangling his father with cotton. “He simply has expensive taste.”
Anthony raised a brow. “Is that what we are calling destruction now?”
Your son squealed again, arms flailing as though thrilled by the chaos he created. You leaned forward, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “You must not terrorize your father so early,” you whispered.
“He is already conspiring,” Anthony said gravely. “I can see it in his eyes.”
“Anthony,” you chided, though fondly. “He is seven months old.”
“And already formidable.” Edmund chose that exact moment to smack his palm squarely against Anthony’s cheek.
You gasped. Anthony blinked slowly. Then, after a pause, he smiled. “I stand corrected.”
You dissolved into laughter, leaning against Anthony’s shoulder now. He turned his head slightly, brushing his lips against your hair. There were moments—small, fleeting ones—when you caught him staring at Edmund with something deeper than amusement. Something softer. Almost reverent.
“Anthony,” you murmured quietly.
He hummed in response, still tracing absent patterns along Edmund’s back.
“You are thinking too loudly.” You glanced at his face—closely, clearly.
He exhaled through his nose. “Am I?”
“You are.” You confirmed.
He hesitated only briefly before admitting, “I was thinking how extraordinary it is. That he is ours. That we… made him.”
You smiled gently. “I do recall being present.”
Anthony shot you a look. “You know what I mean.”
His hand cupped Edmund’s head, thumb brushing carefully through the soft curls beginning to form. “I spent so many years believing that love was something that must be endured. Managed. Survived.” His gaze flicked to you. “And now I wake before the sun because I cannot bear the thought of missing even a moment of this.”
Your throat tightened.
“Of him,” he clarified, then softer, “of you.”
You reached for his hand, intertwining your fingers with his. “You do not have to endure love anymore, Anthony.”
He pressed your joined hands briefly to his lips.
Edmund, feeling momentarily excluded, let out a loud indignant squawk. “Oh,” Anthony said at once, shifting his attention entirely. “Forgive me. You are, of course, the center of all things.”
“Clearly,” you agreed.
A knock sounded lightly at the chamber door—your lady’s maid, no doubt, awaiting instruction for the day. The household would begin stirring soon. Duties would call. Estate matters would require Anthony’s presence. Correspondence would stack upon your desk.
But for now, you leaned your head against Anthony’s shoulder once more. Edmund nestled between you, warm and wiggly and content.
“Dearest,” Anthony said suddenly, lowering his voice as though confiding in the child. “Do you suppose she will allow us to remain here forever?”
You smiled against his shoulder. “If you both behave.”
Anthony considered this gravely. “That may prove difficult.” Edmund gurgled, as if in agreement. The sun climbed higher, painting your little family in light. And for a Viscountess, a wife, and a mother—
I’d love to read about AU about Ben or Fem character traveling back in time or to the future (in case of Ben) and meeting their second half there
A WRINKLE IN TIME.
pairing : benedict bridgerton x fem!reader
synopsis : you’ve always had an interest, albeit a quiet one, for antiques. visiting an antique shop on a thursday was one thing, but a leap in time was another.
warnings : very wordy（ around 2.7k words ）, be warned. slow, slow, sloooow burn. mentions of execution and implication of being exiled. no romance yet - might consider a part two.
author’s notes : i feel very proud of the shop name i created, hahaha. forgive me if i lack too much knowledge about london, all my knowledge comes from british artists and pop culture so i don’t know if it’s totally accurate. especially the currency.
thank you for the request, anon ! i was super hyped to get into this.
（ plot inspired by anon & a post from @ivanttier < 3 ）
Birds flew overhead your apartment, the sun shining brightly upon London. A rare, almost suspicious gift from the city, you thought—London did not often allow itself to be this generous. Upon moving to London, you’ve come to terms with the rather unpredictable weather windows. The first few days were novel, fresh in a way; everything was new, unfamiliar. First came excitement—the feeling of anticipation for new experiences, new people, new food… that was the life.
Then came dread—the quiet, creeping kind—the realization that you had willingly dismantled the version of yourself you once knew. You had packed her into boxes and left her across an ocean. It was a big move after all; it wasn’t just cross-country. It was continental. It was irreversible.
You woke at 7:04AM to the sound of your upstairs neighbors’ kitchen utensils clanking. Metal striking ceramic. A chair scraping above tile. It was domestic. Alive. It was still quite dark, courtesy of your blinds you installed the day prior. Your hand reached for your phone, patting every surface it could possibly be placed on, before finding it resting on your nightstand.
You squinted your eyes, the screen lighting up. A few notifications—Pinterest bombarding you with ‘new pins,’ a few texts from your new SIM carrier, Twitter notifications, and texts from your friends asking you how London is treating you.
You stared at it longer than necessary.
All of which you choose to ignore.
An exhale pushes itself out of your lungs as you sat up, rubbing your eyes. Debating on what to do today, you mentally browsed your options. You’ve yet to explore the city, but have no friends—at least none that you’d like to ask and make plans with today. You’d love to lay in bed, but felt the need to be productive; you convince yourself you cannot just sit and do nothing until two in the afternoon. As if productivity and movement would make you feel like you belonged in this new city.
And so you decided to move.
Standing up, you shuffled to the kitchen. These days, you were only ever greeted by the mundane humming sound of your refrigerator. London mornings felt softer, grayer, than those back home. Opening the fridge, you blankly stared at its contents. The items were mostly groceries thrown in for the sake of filling the space. The egg carton. Strawberries you sworn you’d finished. An oat milk carton. Butter. Vegetables you’ve barely touched.
Making do, you settled on toast, coffee, and eggs. Just enough to boost the mood, but you suspect it would be insufficient until at least noon.
You sat on the window nook, the place you’ve been lounging in these past few days. You placed your plate and mug nearby. You finally open your phone, still dismissing the notifications, and open Google Maps. You’ve already mentally convinced yourself to go out, explore. It would be a shame if you didn’t; London was—is—a beautiful city, not adventuring in it would be a shame.
You chewed on your food, zooming in on your location pinpointed on the digital map. Your finger hovered on the search bar, before deciding to type the only words that felt like belonged to you in all of London’s geography.
Antique Shops near me.
Patiently, you waited for it to load. And when it did, you zoomed in—eagerly, giddily. The first surge of remote happiness you’ve felt since the initial move here.
There were many shops near you.
One was named “Time & Time Again.” It was fifteen to twenty minutes away. You could use the walk, you thought—you haven’t gone beyond the local bakery a few blocks down. But it didn’t look like the type of shop you want to visit. Reviews say it’s constantly crowded, lots of clutter—more than acceptable, more than you’d tolerate. That’s a pass, you decide.
You scrolled, then saw another named “Ware and Wander.” Your brows creased; this seemed like a trendy place. Scrolling down, the exterior seemed charming. Exposed brick, florals. A chalkboard with the words “VINTAGE FINDS” written on it. You hesitated. As trendy as it was, it felt performative in a way, curated even. Not quite what you were looking for.
The closest one was called “The Artist’s Ambrose Archive.” It was about seven minutes away, given that you weren’t about to be run over by a Lime bike. Damn those bikers. You click on the shop, browsing the pictures attached. A few reviews were there, most dated around a year or two ago, but it seemed well liked by the locals. Most of them praised the owner—which you learned was named Mister Ambrose. Weird name, you thought, but you assumed he was an elderly man, hence the name.
And you concluded that you would go there, to The Artist’s Ambrose Archive. Whatever that name meant, really.
You pulled together an outfit you deemed half decent. Enough that you seemed presentable. You grab your things, fumbling with your necessities: your phone, wallet, keys, and earphones. You considered an umbrella, reasoning that it might drizzle or even rain harshly, but ultimately decided that you’d be quick and come home before noon. Enough time for you to sprint home before it rained.
You walked down to the lobby, nodding to the doorman. You liked him. He was nice, polite enough to acknowledge your existence when barely anybody did in the apartment complex. As you made your walk to the shop, your fingers fiddled to untangle your earphones. Then gave up, promising yourself you would fix it someday, not today, but someday.
This was when you began to appreciate London. The noise, the gloom and shine, the city.
It was a brief, beautiful walk.
You arrived at the shop shortly after two and a half songs that had been blasting in your tangled, otherwise working, earphones. You looked up, the dark, polished oak sign hung above you. It was slightly crooked, the edges worn down from years of weathering.
You took a moment to admire the exterior before stepping inside.
A bell rang out in the shop—it was fairly sized for an antique store. You looked around, eyes beaming at the items displayed before you.
“Anything specific you’re looking for, dear?”
You jumped, just slightly, at the sudden sound that had disrupted your daze.
You looked ahead, and behind the counter was an elderly man, gray haired, glasses, mustache. His voice was soft, welcoming, despite the rasp that age had laid on him. A thick accent as well, which was likely from the years of remaining in London.
You smiled awkwardly, pressing your lips together. “Nothing specific, sir. Just looking,” you briefly gestured to your surroundings. That answer seemed to satisfy him as he nodded, going back to what you assumed was dusting things off behind the counter.
There were many things to be discovered, all of them decorated by the trace of time—rust, patina, faint scratches and dents. Your eyes graze over each item.
The first item you picked up was a teacup. It seemed to be made out of delicate porcelain, with floral designs on the sides. There was a chip on the rim, and the saucer had a slight crack. The paper price tag was tied on the handle, £20. “Pricey,” you muttered to yourself. “But pretty.”
You set it aside as a potential purchase. A ‘just incase’ if you find nothing else to buy from here.
You continued browsing the small aisles, finding a leather journal tucked between a jar and a book. You reached above, grabbing the spine of the journal. Successfully wiggling it out from between the items, you examined it. It was dusty, worn out. You gently blew on the cover, dust particles coming to life.
Excitedly, you opened it.
And was met with absolutely nothing.
Aside from the stained, almost brown pages, there was no traces of writing. None that showed wear or tear, unfortunately.
Frowning, you sighed and shoved it back to where you had taken it from. You liked when items had shown history. When it showed that there was a past, a previous owner, some sort of story that had existed way before you did.
You surrendered, walking up to the counter where the owner stood. “Sorry, Mister Ambrose, was it?” You asked, eyes flickering to anywhere but his eyes.
He nodded, returning a question. “Perhaps what you are looking for is in the section to your right? I reckon you’re one of the… artistic types.”
You weren’t, but since he so kindly redirected you, you decided to follow along. You walk to the aisles to your right, mainly filled with sketchbooks and portraits. None of them piqued your interest, partially because you wouldn’t like a potentially haunted painting of a person from the olden days lurking in the shadows of your already lonely apartment.
As you sift through the sketchbooks, one painting—framed, landscape, slightly bigger than the others—that hung on the wall caught your attention. Right below it, in script: Property of the Bridgertons, 1815. You stared at the painting, seeing the strokes of oil slightly faded from time, the wear of the canvas itself. You tell yourself you were just intrigued of the history, nothing more—despite the feeling of your stomach dropping and your gut instinct telling you something was amiss.
How could anything be possibly amiss when the only people in the shop were you and Mister Ambrose, who has shown no reason for you to doubt him?
You continue looking through piles of objects, before settling on a few items that you carried in your arms. Namely: a silver brass key you plan to make a keychain or necklace of sorts, a wooden trinket box with some letters written inside, a vintage ink bottle and quill set, and a miniature picture frame about the size of your palm.
Walking to the counter, it felt as though the air had shifted in a manner you were unsure how to describe. Nor have you had any proof that the air did change. You chalked it down to the combination of the lack of air conditioning and the outside weather.
“Good finds you have ‘ere,” Mister Ambrose praised shortly.
You nodded, placing the goods on the counter as he rounded the total. You stood there, shifting your weight from one foot to another. From where you were, you could still see a good bit of the antique shop.
You squint, noticing that the painting—the family one, the one that was named under the Bridgerton residence—wasn’t where you had initially seen it. Rationally, you assumed that Mister Ambrose had taken it down while you were in another section of the store. Although it would’ve made much more ruckus and noise, which you barely heard at all.
You brush it off, deciding that it was best not to question or speculate such things. It’s not like you wanted to buy it, it was tagged for £250, for Heaven’s sake.
Mister Ambrose finished ringing up your items, placing them in paper bags, stapling them shut. Your total came up to about £67.90. You pull out your wallet, fishing out your bills, then handing them over. He took them with no fuss, handing you back your exact change.
”Thank you, Mister Ambrose,” you nodded politely at the elderly man.
For a moment, he stared. You met his eyes, something knowing hiding behind them. But you scratch it off as some… old person thing. Something old people just do, as they claim to be all wise and know everything about life and beyond.
“Have a good day.” He said, nodding his head back and turning away.
Odd. You decided to move on about your day, clutching your goods in your arms. You shuffle between the aisles, careful not to break anything—God bless your bank account—to exit the building.
You watched your step as you pull the door, anticipating the breeze, the honking of vehicles, the buzzing of bikes, the chaos and loud of the city. You patted down your pockets, ensuring everything was there—phone, wallet, keys, earphones. You nodded to yourself when you felt all four, then looked up.
This certainly was not London.
Well, not the London you know. Clutching your paper bags, you look around. Your heart dropped to your stomach, and you suddenly feel the anxiety creeping in. The heat crawls through your neck, feeling as though you were wearing ten layers of clothing in the raging summer.
“What the fuck?” you murmured. This was not the city, nor did it even feel like the 21st century. Just when you moved to a city where you felt like you didn’t belong, the universe decides to stick you in a time where you really didn’t belong.
You did not dare take a step forward, as people busk and crowd the streets in their… absurdly thick dresses. And absurdly layered tops. And absurdly styled hair. At least some of them. The others just seemed like they had somewhere to be.
Your heart pounded, hammering at your ribs as you tried to figure out what was going on. Was this a sick joke that someone had played? Do you wait for the cameras to pop up from some corner of the street while everyone laughs at your demise? Is this perhaps a flash mob you didn’t know of? Some sort of London tradition you haven’t heard of at all?
As questions flood your head, a carriage trotted by in front of you, in the middle of the street. Your eyebrows furrowed. This was definitely not a prank, you realized. This was not a sick joke.
You crane your head around the area, noticing that this was for sure not some sort of mind game—the buildings were structurally different, the lack of humming from vehicles replaced by the creaking of carts and carriages, horses neighing, the Church bells ringing, peoples raised voices.
Your first instinct was to turn back to the store. You turn on your heel, and shockingly, the store remained. The state of it was different—new, polished, and it didn’t stick out weirdly between buildings like it did in… the London you were just at moments ago.
You grab at the door handle, before realizing it was locked. You tugged and rattled at the handle to no luck. “Pardon me, madam. But what business do you have here?” A stranger approached, gesturing toward the door you had been pulling at in attempt to open. Well, you didn’t intend for it to look like attempted robbery, but what does one do when they’re thrown into a different era?
Your thoughts scrambled, “Uh,” you paused. “I’m… I was mistaken.” You awkwardly stepped back from the building, stumbling and catching yourself immediately. “I’m sorry.” You apologized, though you were unsure what you were apologizing for.
”Whose household do you belong to?” the stranger inquired, voice suddenly growing suspicious, aggressive in a way. That question makes you pause.
Because what were you supposed to say?
“I’m from another timeline, please help me.”
“I’m not from here.”
“I don’t know.”
Each possible answer sounds like lunacy.
An answer mustered up from your throat, “I’m waiting for someone.” You felt as though your voice was out of place.
The stranger raised an eyebrow, “And that someone would be?”
Your mouth opens. Nothing comes out. You mentally braced yourself to be publicly executed for lying, or whatever unreasonable cause it is that these people exile others for.
And another voice cuts in—smooth, amused. “I believe she is with me.”
You, as well as the stranger, turned to the direction of the voice. The owner of the voice was tall, standing a few paces away. Chestnut hair, paired with dark brown eyes. And unfortunately handsome. His eyes held contact with yours, the wrinkle in his eyes implying he was more amused than concerned.
”Ah, Mister Bridgerton,” the stranger said, nodding his head at the man.
Bridgerton?
You looked back at—what was meant to be—the antique shop, eyeing the section where you had found the family portrait. Dated 1815, approximately 211 years ago.
You paused, looking back at the stranger and the man. Connecting the dots, it had finally clicked. In an impossible, fantasy-adjacent, absurd way, it clicked. The reason why the painting had disappeared was because you were no longer looking at history, but standing inside it.
The painting was no longer hanging on an antique shop’s wall because it was standing before you.
upon the release of bridgerton season four, i’ve found motivation to pick up the pen and write. any requests / suggestions / prompts? i’d love to try my hand again with writing. : )
pairing : draco malfoy x reader.
synopsis : draco malfoy is the most insufferable prat you have ever met—yet it makes him all the more interesting. he shows the same interest in you. and you hated that.
warnings : 1.7k words. profanities that are canon in the series, fluff ﹖, implied history between reader and draco, no y/n mentioned.
author’s notes : i’ve been wanting to write this fic for a while, but i’ve finally gotten the motivation to write it after weeks of staring at nothing at all.
（ this was written september first '24, happy sorcerer’s stone day! ）
Draco Malfoy. He was always intriguing to you. You were, in a sense, interested in him.
You let out a heavy sigh. Potions, how wonderful. Snape, while a great professor, was someone you absolutely dreaded seeing every week. It didn’t help that you had to see him every single day. You tap your fingers against the wooden desk in front of you, while your mind subconsciously floats around.
Sat before you was the infamous Draco Malfoy. If that didn’t click yet, then these synonyms for Draco Malfoy might: Harry Potter’s arch nemesis, The Stick Up Harry Potter’s Arse, Daddy’s Money…
Your eyes unconsciously gaze towards Malfoy who sat a table away. Conventionally, he was attractive—extremely attractive. However, you were aware it was his attitude that put people off. No one would like to be around someone who scowls at someone who does so much as breathe in their direction.
You flick the end of your quill, which has been in a coarse state for quite some time now, yet you never found yourself wandering to Diagon Alley in hopes of purchasing another one. Snape had been rambling on for about thirty minutes or so and you found yourself just scribbling over a piece of parchment.
Admittedly, you’ve been staring at Draco for about thirty minutes in question. It wasn’t like he had done anything interesting; he was a normal student who excelled above most students, played quidditch, and was wealthy. You could find anyone like that in other houses - still you found yourself fixating on him. Not in a creepy way as far as you were concerned.
“Oi,” Pansy pokes at your wrist. “Staring at Malfoy again? And you’re doing that as the same person who had told me I was obsessed with him during the second year.”
“Stop it, Pansy,” you exhaled. “I am not staring at him; just observing, not staring. Different things, if you cared to know.” You retort in defense.
Pansy was right - you had told her off during your earlier Hogwarts years for being so attracted so Malfoy, yet here you were, practically gawking at him. The last thing you needed was for people to begin running their mouths about your 'crush' on Malfoy. Which wasn’t true. At least that was what you told yourself. Your mind wanders back to the discussion, tuning out Snape’s booming voice in your head. His voice, at one point, had become white noise to you.
After class, you were walking down the corridor with Pansy, textbook clutched in your arms to your chest. You were pretty annoyed at the time; Snape had given yet another essay that could go on for miles and miles. And if Snape wanted a whole meter-long essay, it was either that meter-long essay or no mark at all.
“Outrageous, honestly.” You shook your head. Pansy seemed amused due to how worked up you were, but at this point, it was no surprise.
“I mean, no one wants to write a whole bloody essay and h—”
“Ouch,” someone hissed after bumping into your shoulder. The audacity? You turn your head to see who the person is and become flabbergasted at the sight. Draco Malfoy.
ㅤYour face twists into a smug smirk, yet somehow, Draco makes no move to formulate a witty remark against it. “My apologies, Malfoy,” you said. Draco’s face contorts into something akin to disdain, yet you ignore it. He walks away after; you’d notice how he carried himself and how he delivered most of his response. With pride and confidence, you observed. That smirk transformed into a small smile, which earned you a nudge from Pansy.
ㅤ“So, are we heading to the library, or would you rather continue making expressions to the air?” Pansy raised her brows at you. She didn’t seem to take notice of the interaction you just had with Draco, given she was a few feet away, so perhaps she had continued walking after Draco had bumped into your shoulder.
ㅤ“Alright, alright,” you murmur, walking forward to walk side by side with her. “So impatient.” You muse, giggling. That earned you a harsher nudge, a shove from Pansy. “Ouch— Godric, Pansy. Does no one teach you how to treat your friends?”
ㅤ“You’re the last person who's supposed to be speaking of mistreating friends,” said Pansy who seemed to be growing impatient and frustrated. Pansy and her temperament, what a great thing to experience during your free period. You loved your dear friend but sometimes you’d rather get whipped around by the Whomping Willow rather than dealing with her and her ticking timebomb of a personality.
ㅤIt wasn’t like he hated you. He, too, found you interesting. You weren’t the nicest student, but you were a bright student. It earned you some respect, which he had to give you a bit of credit himself. But he didn’t consider himself your acquaintance either. He wasn’t your enemy, nor your rival.
ㅤDuring Transfiguration, you were awfully bored. You were practically melting into the wood of your desk from how slouched over you are. As much as you respected McGonagall and her work ethics, her lecture wasn’t the best thing to listen to when you only got three hours of sleep during the night. Your finger taps against the desk in a pattern, as if indenting your fingerprint on the wooden surface. You feel something brush against your arm, and you see a crane.
ㅤYou sigh, flicking it off of your desk in annoyance. There came another flying crane. You flick it off again. There came a third crane when you were about to flick the previous one off.
ㅤ“Oh my God,” you groaned. You decided to just unfold the crane, in hopes to get rid of the cranes for good. There was writing; Swirls of cursive letters decorate the parchment, that was the first thing you noticed. You dread reading the note, but you had to eventually if you wanted the cranes to stop hauling in your way.
ㅤMeet me tonight,
ㅤ- D. Malfoy.
ㅤThis prat was insufferable. Not like you haven’t realized that yet, but it was like a reminder that he was indeed the most insufferable person you've ever met.
ㅤInsufferable he was, but you chose to meet him anyway. You weren't sure where, but you had a gut feeling you knew where he fancied meeting. It made you want to gag—the fact you knew where he wanted to meet. That's utterly disgusting and out of character for you. Though Pansy does say you're just in denial. Your footsteps echoed, making no move to shush them as you walk down the hall. You try to tell yourself that you rather Filch catch you than having to meet with Malfoy out of all people.
ㅤ“Malfoy,” you breathe out. Much to your dismay, he was serious about meeting you tonight. It wasn’t like this was the first time, however. So, it didn’t feel too out of place. You watch as he turns his head towards you, his usually styled hair now free from whatever routine he did in the morning to achieve its usual look.
ㅤ“Oh, it’s you.” He spoke.
ㅤ“It’s me.” You confirm.
ㅤUncomfortable silence overcomes both of you but seeing as you were now in the Astronomy Tower late at night, it wouldn’t be far-fetched. Adding onto the awkwardness, it was cold. Extremely cold. Unbearably cold.
ㅤYou rub your palms against your forearm, “Is there something you wanted? You don’t usually… you don’t usually tell me to meet you. I figured that was more of my job, not yours.” You raise a brow.
ㅤHe shook his head, “Don’t act so idiotic for once, you act as though we don’t meet every other night.”
ㅤ“It’s different,” you retort.
ㅤ“How different?” He protests.
ㅤTruthfully, you didn’t know how to answer that. It was clear you weren’t friends, nor enemies. It wasn’t like you were close in any way. You were just two people strung along by fate who just so happened to be illicitly meeting during the afterhours. Illicitly in a sense that you knew you weren’t supposed to be associating with him—you knew that. But you still do it.
ㅤ“How different is it?” His voice snaps you out of your train of thought, making direct eye contact. “It’s ridiculous how you start things you can barely finish, are you not ashamed?” He hissed.
This boy was beyond terrible. His reputation was very telling, yet here you were.
ㅤ“Why would I be ashamed?” You frown. “You were the one who asked to meet, but you’re also the one who’s berating me at the mome–”
ㅤ“I like you.”
ㅤ“...What?”
ㅤAnother series of deafening silence overcomes your surroundings. Your initial denial had become your ultimate realization that ... maybe you do like him. Maybe you fancied him more than you let on. You felt your heart almost burst out of it's confides in your chest, caged in your ribs. Your gaze sets on him for what felt like an eternity; it was an embarrassingly long moment of just eye contact with the guy you've sworn you never liked - at least romantically.
ㅤ“Are you deaf? I said I like you,” he repeated, as if his first confession had fallen on deaf ears. You shook your head at this, almost like that'd be your final response.
ㅤBut you spoke up, “You like me?”
ㅤ“Were you not present the whole time I had been talking? It's no wonder you're failing Potions.” He sighed. He really took the chance to throw an insult at anyone. Even the person he liked.
ㅤ“No, no, I heard you,” you retort. You feel your forehead wrinkle in thought, yet he stood there so eerily unmoving.
ㅤ“So why is it that you're incapable of responding?” He hissed, “You're associated with Parkinson, no? Maybe that's where all this obliviousness is coming from—”
ㅤ“I like you too.” You reply firmly in the midst of his ramble. You could feel the air grow tense as Draco freezes before you, his eyebrows shooting up.
ㅤPerhaps he wasn't as bad as you thought. That was something you realized after you departed to Hogsmeade with him the next day. And although he could still be described as moody and a git, he was ... somewhat decent to you, his friends would point out. And well, you did get relentlessly teased and picked on by your clique, but you weren't bothered—not when you've charmed Draco Malfoy, of all people.
