Draco Malfoy Oneshot - Tumblr Posts

Smile For Me

Pairing: Draco Malfoy x reader

Word Count: 914

Summary: You want to make the constantly brooding Draco Malfoy smile, and you succeed...

Warnings: N/A

A/N: Set after the battle of Hogwarts. Hope it’s okay! I don’t feel really good about this...

Smiles from Draco Malfoy were a true rarity. The blond boy was the very embodiment of a cold-blooded man who wanted to succeed, because his blood was as cold as it was pure. And yet, to you, there was nothing about him that screamed ‘Prejudiced Pureblood’ because he had changed his ways for the better. The war had taken its toll on him as it had on everyone, but it had changed him in ways it had changed nobody else. Gone was the prejudiced boy full of hatred. He had been replaced by a still snobbish, still superior, man who was much more tolerant than he had been.

Still, Draco never smiled. He never found the motivation to, and that saddened you immensely because he should have had a thousand reasons. He had a perfect job at the Ministry of Magic, his family life wasn’t in shambles, he had friends and he was free to live his life on his terms.

Apparently, those terms didn’t include smiles.

So you made it your purpose to make his lips curl upwards in mirth even the tiniest bit.

You worked together, and since you saw him every day you thought you had a chance to make him smile.

Hopefully.

~.~

“Hey, Draco, how are you on this fine morning?” you asked, grin wide as ever as you strode into the office, sitting in the chair next to the platinum blond wizard’s and looking at him expectantly as you did every morning.

He took a sip of his tea and rolled his stormy grey eyes as he relaxed in his seat, running his hand through his hair to push it out of his eyes.

“Considering we have ten lawsuits filed against that wizard who made the fountain at the park in Yorkshire explode and several complaints about the man pretending to be the Queen of France in Aberdeen, not so well,” Draco said with a sigh, levitating a stack of parchment towards you with a flick of his wand.

You took it with a smile and studied it, knowing that you wouldn’t get your smile in return. But it was okay, because that’s just how things were, no matter how much you craved that smile.

~.~

“The bloody Aurors can’t spare one person to go bring the bloke with the exploding fountains in for questioning!” you heard Draco curse from the door as he walked into the room, a flurry of bottle green robes as he sat down on his desk chair. “We have a job to do, but they won’t let us do it. And then they complain about our inefficiency. We’re the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, not a police force,” he sighed, rubbing his fatigued eyes with the palm of his hand. Seeing his distress, you couldn’t help but try to help him a bit, make hm feel slightly better with himself.

“I can go in their stead,” you said with a shrug, and it was true. Having been in the Battle of Hogwarts yourself, you knew how to protect yourself should the need arise, but you couldn’t see how you would be threatened by some guy blowing up pipes in a park.

That was the first time you ever saw Draco concerned. There was a crease between his eyebrows and he was worrying his lower lip between his teeth as he studied you. You had to look away from his lips because, okay, the way he sucked on them was pure heaven.

“Alright,” he said finally, trying not to sound too doubtful. He knew what you could do and he wanted to trust you with this job. You smiled at him then, hoping for a smile in return but getting none. You didn’t let him see how much that hurt.

Soon, he had briefed you on the details of the mission and you had Apparated away to track down the offending wizard.

And you did... but that didn’t go so well. You returned with the now incapacitated wizard, victorious, but you were pretty badly bruised, sporting a dislocated shoulder and a gash across your stomach.

It was also the first time you saw Draco fret.

“How are you feeling?” he asked softly as he ran his wand over your injuries, healing them with expertly executed healing spells. “I’m feeling okay, really,” you offered with a small, tired, smile as he finished with healing you but he didn’t pull back.

Instead, he looked at you with wide eyes, noticing the proximity but not caring enough to distance himself from you.

“Are you sure?” he asked, and while he talked your eyes focused on his lips, soft and perfect in their shape. You could only nod mutely in reply, too caught up in fantasies to look up. Had you looked up, you would have met a gaze focused on your own lips, blue-grey and concerned and positively magnetic.

It was that magnetism that kept you constantly in each other’s orbit, which attracted you to his lips.

Nobody knew who moved in first and frankly neither of you cared enough to find out but soon you were kissing and it was like a million sparks exploding around you. Draco’s hot breath left tingles on your skin as you kissed and every movement of his lips and swipe of his tongue against yours felt amazing. When you pulled away, a thousand questions in both your eyes, you saw something that made every doubt go away.

He was smiling.

Draco Malfoy × Reader

❝He doesn’t know what to make of this - of her. All he knows, and is able to decode is this: for the first time in a long time, he’s finally going home.❞

saccharine sunshine.

draco malfoy × reader

words: 2k

Draco Malfoy is eleven years old when he first catches sight of a blur of sunshine one bleak and blustery afternoon. It clouds the vision in his left eye, snatches his attention for more than fifteen seconds, forces him to whip his head - his entire body - around, all just to catch a glimpse, a teeny, minuscule glimpse, of a girl - the girl - bundled beneath the flash of vibrance.

And Draco, well, Draco has to remind himself just how putrid the color truly is. How revolting the House it belongs to is. How even more offensive the girl who resides in the House with the dreadful color is.

Because she is absolutely, positively, completely and down right, utterly horrible. A disgrace to her already disgraceful House.  

And Draco has no desire to discredit his high and mighty family title for someone of such a lowly caste.

×

Draco Malfoy is twelve years old and believes himself even more superior in contrast to the population that makes up Hogwarts. Spitting the word “Mudblood” like venom to its prey nearly every other day, lets it drip from his lips like a faulty faucet in the dead of winter.

And this - this bothers her, gets underneath the thin layer of her flesh, and gnaws away at her every last nerve, bores itself into the endless void of her brain, and pesters her and pounds its menacing name against the drums of her ears, sends her into a frenzied dance of furry in the middle of the night between the cotton quilts dressing her feather, soft mattress, and makes her clamp down on her rose dusted lips till they transfer to a gleaming crimson.  

But she doesn’t dare speak, doesn’t dare say a single word, or crack a simple syllable.

And this - this bothers Draco, infuriates him to no end, seeps underneath the translucent skin of his peeked cheeks sending them into a flurry of untameable flames.   

But he doesn’t dare stop, doesn’t dare let the chance of her speaking to him flutter away like the tattered leaf tumbling down, down, down to the ruby littered ground right before his very eyes in this very moment in time.  

And it occurs to him, rather harshly, that the word itself doesn’t taste half as well as he’d anticipated.

×

It isn’t until Draco’s third year he musters the courage to speak two words to her.    

“Watch it!” he hisses.

And it’s the girl’s turn to whip her head - her entire body - around, all just to stare him down dead in the eye.

And, my God, if she’s not completely and down right, utterly gorgeous in the bleeding sunlight.

But instead of spitting venom right back at him, she smiles. A graceful grin, a sneaky smirk, and the corridor shimmers and glimmers under her ethereal presence.  

A remark suffused with snark is rolling around behind the walls of her loosely sealed lips, a playful glint igniting a spark in her eyes as she speaks.

“What makes you think I’m the one who needs to watch it?”

Swiftly like the autumn wind scraping against the dust filled windowpanes, she twirls around and is on her way.  

And that is that.

×

Draco Malfoy is fourteen years old and standing beneath the midnight stream of a crystallized chandelier watching ever so carefully, ever so cautiously as she glissades across the grandeur, ice floor, five fingers intertwined with those of a distinguishable boy with a diacritic scar and a detectable pair of spectacles.

And Draco, he’s seething, is hardly breathing, can hardly see clearly for the burning, gurgling concoction seeping up and up and up his esophagus.

It’s not until later when his eyes catch on the billow of her dress, and the shimmer of her skin, and the catalytic twirling of the wind between her hair and -

She feels the weeping of the wound before he even pulls the trigger, hears the breeze beneath his feet as he glides across the snippy December air from behind the spot of where she stands.

“Careful,” she spirals around slowly, gown bound lowly to the tips of her toes. “Stare any longer, and I might actually bleed out.”

“Wouldn’t want that.”

“Right. I’d hate to be the one to dirty your pretty, shiny shoes.”

He opens his mouth, closes it, opens it once more, but reverts back to the resounding silence.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“You sure about that?”

Draco’s never been sure about much of anything.

“I’ve got a question for you, Malfoy, and I want the truth.”

Draco’s only ever learned how to form petty lies around his pretty lips.

“Why is it you’ve never called me that.”

“Called you what?”

And he knows, oh, my God does Draco know.

“You’re a remarkably good liar,” she whispers, and it’s only then and there, Draco takes note of just how close they’ve become in such a short span of time. “But not that good.”

“You just never heard me.” he retaliates coolly, and rather quickly.

Much too quickly, and not quite chilly enough.

Her face grows closer until it’s mere millimeters away from his unraveling lips. Their breaths are intertwining, and body heat is interweaving, and tightened chests are quickly rising and -

“I don’t believe you.”

Draco’s not so sure he’s ever felt so cold in all his life.

×

It isn’t until fifth year Draco receives a shock most alarming.

It isn’t until fifth year he receives a dose of fiery, cold water down the shirt on his back, feels it trickle down the iron wrought staircase of his spine and slither through the notches of his ribs, down to the very marrow of his very bones.  

It isn’t until his fifth year is nearing its end he receives a tangible whack across his face more abrupt and unexpected and unwelcome than Granger’s back in third year.

It isn’t until his fifth year he receives his first kiss.

And it goes a little something like this:

A girl - the girl - comes billowing down a torch-lit, midnight swept corridor with a laugh lodged in her throat and a flush tainted to her cheeks.

And he knows she cannot, should not be here, knows he should not be considering letting her be, remaining free, and he knows, oh, my God, does Draco know he should snatch her wrists and commit his sin by turning her in and gain himself a win, but he cannot, cannot, cannot bring his rigid form to break free from this rock hard mold, cannot, cannot, cannot bring himself to do the wrong thing because this is her, and as much as he really, truly, deeply detests her, it appears he cannot unveil the strength he needs to pull through with this daunting task.

But when she spies him spying her, she stops, stumbles, stutters, all wide eyes and saturated shadows melting down her waxy features.

It’s a moment of silence - a moment of truth - as they stare the other down, waiting for a sign - a motion, a flash, a jolt - that they are, in fact, flesh and bones and not cold, hard stone.

“You shouldn’t be here.” is all he says - all he can think to say. Because every other possible letter and word and sentence is mortar on the roof of his mouth.

“You’re going to turn me in, aren’t you?” she quietly inquiries, though, it’s hardly an inquiry at all. Rather, it’s more of a confrontation, an invitation, a dare.

A sickly, sweet dare.

A sickly, sweet dare Draco swishes around his mouth, rolls across his tongue, spreads over his taste buds and shoves down his esophagus.

It’s a dare - a dare so utterly sweet, so undeniably taunting - one Draco cannot seem to say “yes” or “no” to.

A cheshire cat smile tickles her lips as her maddening stare bores bullets through his soul, his skull, his fucking sanity. She’s closing in and grinning big as she places one foot in front of the other until she’s close, closer, closest, until he can no longer breath, no longer see the precise lines of her sloping nose and razor wire jawline.

And they’re barely missing, skin almost, almost, almost kissing.

And it’s oh so tantalizing, oh so terrifying.

Their lips are brushing, heartbeats pulsing -

- And their lips are touching, pulse points rushing.

And this - this is new.  

This is different. This is enthralling. This is enticing. This is petrifying, just as it is electrifying.

And his next movement comes uninitiated, unpredicted. For his fingers weave through the waves of her hair as he kisses, kisses, kisses her back so hard and so long that his lips swell and his tongue exudes a lurid, berry syrup.  

Teeth clink and guards sink, and without a blink or a proper moment to think, he’s crashing into the cold, hard ground without anything or anyone to grasp on to.

×

Draco Malfoy is sixteen years old, and his life is spiraling out of control.

Because there’s a mark, you see, all serrated and stark against shockingly white flesh. The ink rubs against his veins the wrong way.

His tears seep through the starch of his shirt and his blood flows through the crevices of the scabrous stones of the girl’s bathroom floor.

He’s bleeding out, and there’s nothing he can do to make it stop.

This is how she finds him - lying in a flood of horrors, the basin overflowing, blood drowning her toes and filling his lungs.

She can’t quite bear the sight.

She runs to him, holds him tight, with all her might, without a fright and -

And she doesn’t let go.

Draco really doesn’t know how much longer he can keep on fighting.

He realizes he’s finally reached the end of the line.

Perhaps that was his destination this whole time.

“Please, Professor, you have to help him,” she whispers, quiet desperation slipping from her tongue, and spilling from her eyes.

Draco can’t help but wonder if this is what it feels like to die.

Because lying here it all seems much too crystal clear.

The end of the world is finally here, knocking on his door, his demise has arrived at long last.

×

Draco Malfoy is seventeen years old, and the time has come for him to go.

Because there’s a war, you see, all blood and gore amidst a world torn in two.

It’s cackling like a tortuous scorn inside the walls of his head, thrumming and humming within the flow of his bloodstream, screaming and crying and -

“I have to go.” he says, words reverberating through the ash-mottled air. 

His name has been called, and it’s time for him to move on, to choose the side he was meant to all along.

He can’t help but feel as if he were the one who had been wrong after all.

“You don’t have to,” she says, and oh, my God, Draco knows.

He knows.

"Oh, but I do, love.”

She shakes her head, digs her nails into the lapels of his jacket. There’s soot in her hair, and tears in her eyes, and blood on her lips. Draco can feel the final sigh of his once beating heart, the tumbling of the walls inside his chest.

He really did try his best.

Draco knows this is a final goodbye, and a screaming cry and a dire prayer to a God that Draco’s unsure is even there and -

“I love you,” he says.

But only inside the back of his head.

Draco Malfoy × Reader

❝I love you.❞ he says.

❝But only inside the back of his head.❞

Draco Malfoy × Reader

Soulmate AU

❝It’s a mark of charred and chiseled edges. A mark better known as an easily conspicuous scar, with the simple initials of H. P.❞

Draco Malfoy × Reader

Modern Day AU | Parisian Coffee Shop AU

❝Draco kisses her in the stark silhouette of the sleeping skyline.

❝She tastes of universes undiscovered, and Sunday evening crème brûlée.❞

Draco Malfoy × Reader

❝Draco can recall the autumnal air that had once hung from his tongue like the acerbic aftertaste of the destruction he’d been a part of. Can remember his crimson caked cuticles, grimy yet gleaming, beneath a sheet of stardust atop the Astronomy Tower balcony. Can taste - yes, can almost, almost taste - the cryptic whorls and acrid ink tracing his veins, predicting his fate.

Their fate.❞

haphazard.

draco malfoy x reader

*requested

in which two war-torn lovers confess their feelings as the world comes to its end.

prompt list.

x

When Draco Malfoy is seventeen years old, he twines a promise around her finger and pins a secret to his heart.

Because Voldemort has ascended and there’s blood on the Drawing Room floor - dirty blood, tainted blood, Granger’s blood - and there’s cries imbued into the whorls of Draco’s mind, crashing and burning and tangible and scarring. There's Dumbledore's pleas and Thorfinn's screams and Crabbe's ashes and a ring on her finger and a knife hanging over his head and Potter's dead, Potter's dead, gave up his life so that the world might go on and everyone, everything will be alright.

But everything is not alright, no, nothing is okay. Because Draco is running and running, and he’s searching and searching, and oh, God, oh, God he can’t find her, he can’t find her, and there’s rubble crunching beneath his feet and soot seeping into his lungs, and oh, God, oh, God he can barely breathe.

When he finds her on a fourth-floor corridor backed into a corner by Fenrir Greyback with her fingers grasping her ribs and her wand lying half a yard away, his breath catches, and his heart stutters and his mind flatlines.

A curse falls from his lips. It sounds so natural and tastes so bitter, and it makes him feel sick.

“Draco?”

“Come on. We have to hurry.”

He fits his fingers to her hips, and it feels like fourth year all over again. With frost clinging to her hair and petals falling from her lips and a kiss - sweet, sweet, sweet - pressing against the corner of his mouth because she’d missed his cheek, but he doesn’t believe that was an accident, no.

Not entirely.

“Where are we going?”

“I don’t know,” he murmurs, hopes she doesn’t hear him.

Screams are reverberating off the walls and splintering the stone and Draco is vaguely reminded of Granger's guttural cries and Thorfinn's screams and Dumbledore's final plea and Crabbe's bones lying in a pile of muddled memories beneath the cabinet in the Room of Requirement and God, oh, God, he can barely even breathe.

He stops running, swipes a thumb across the picket white fence of her knuckles and reiterates to himself that he is breathing and she is real.

He holds onto that, onto her hand, tells himself a pretty lie he refuses to swallow and choke on.

He stops running, faces her, grasps the slope of her chin in the cusp of his palms, can feel the pads of his thumbs pulsating beneath the subtle jut of her cheekbones.

“Listen to me. Listen to me, please. I love you. More than I ever truly knew. More than you’ll ever begin to know. And that - that is my downfall. That has been my mistake this entire time. My mistake was falling for you.”

She grabs the starch of his collar and digs her nails into his nape and drags her teeth along his lips and presses her ribs flush against his and he thinks - God, he knows - their hearts are pounding in perfect tandem.

When she pulls away, there’s copper rusted on her chin.

“We’ve both made mistakes,” she whispers, her breath biting his lips. He can still taste their kiss.

Sweet, sweet, sweet.

Crimson lightning strikes the morning air.

The sky falls.

Draco Malfoy x Reader

❝He fits his fingers to her hips, and it feels like fourth year all over again. With frost clinging to her hair and petals falling from her lips and a kiss - sweet, sweet, sweet - pressing against the corner of his mouth because she’d missed his cheek, but he doesn’t believe that was an accident, no.

❝Not entirely. ❞

roulette.

draco malfoy x gryffindor!reader

*requested

it’s an accident, the way she falls, the way he burns.

prompt list.

x

Draco meets his match on a nippy October morn. It’s a blur of lurid, cherry lips, fleeting palpitations, splinters digging into palms, and broomsticks stitched across bleeding hearts. She‘s standing in front of the line up with a knife-sharp glare intact and a knee-jerk grin on the ready.

He thought Potter was the enemy.

He just hadn’t met her.

x

She plays rough, dirty. All crimson caked knuckles and midsummer thunderstorms bursting in color across cheekbones.

She gave him his first black eye. He almost thanked her.

“You know, Malfoy, perhaps you should consider trying. That way practice could actually be worthwhile.”

Draco grits his teeth and digs his nails into the neck of his broomstick and squeezes, squeezes, squeezes his eyes shut till his vision bleeds of titian fireworks and shooting stars.

“Well, perhaps you could try winning for once instead of talking big like you Gryffindors are known for doing.“

She smiles, molasses-slow and honey cloy.

He swallows, thick and audible.

“You haven’t won yet, Malfoy.”

It’s not a race. It’s a game.

And Draco intends to win.

Whatever it takes.

x

The opening match of the season takes place on a frostbitten morn in early November. Thick, silver tendrils weave their fingers through Draco’s hair as raindrops hang heavy on his lashes and the earth bruises his cheeks.

As if Draco believed in miracles, Potter split the bones in his wrist mere hours before. He doesn’t know how this came about. He suspects Flint is behind it.

“We need you to take Harry’s place,” Angelina says storming into the Great Hall before the game is set to begin, voice shrill and nerves visibly disheveled. “He managed to break his arm this morning, and you’re the next best on the team.”

He doesn’t expect her to be good.

He doesn’t expect to lose.

x

His heart is pounding in perfect tandem with the crowd, wrought iron veins in a twist beneath the gossamer veil of his wrist. He can feel thunder coiling beneath his feet. The applause is deafening, defeating, bruising, bleeding. Draco believes he might be drowning.

When he finally catches sight of the snitch - hair-trigger and razor-sharp and gold, gold, gold - she’s diving nose first towards the ground. The crowd comes to an asphyxiating standstill.

Draco tells himself she can’t make it, she won’t. She’s going to crash, and she’s going to burn, and she surely won’t, no, she can’t -

She does.

He watches, mesmerized, as gilded gold melts between her fingers, dribbles up her arm, and seeps into her veins. She swerves around, stares him down, smirks, winks, then turns the other way.

Draco never did believe in miracles.

No, not until today.

x

She snatched the snitch and stole his heart, the once bruising palpitations kicking his chest now nothing more than a tender, bated breath.

“You’ve been distracted, Malfoy,” Flint says one evening after practice. The sound of metal kissing metal grates against Draco’s eardrums and makes him shiver.

“Yeah? How so?” he replies, too tired to look up.

He does anyway.

Flint angles his head and squares his shoulders disproportionately. He’s smirking, the crimson crusted over his lips begins to gleam.

“It’s the girl, isn’t it.”

It’s not a question.

“I’ve hardly noticed her.”

Flint wants to laugh. Draco can see that in the superficial lilt of his lips and the dimple puncturing the center of his right cheek.

He doesn’t believe him.

Draco doesn’t care.

X

Draco tells himself it’s an accident.

Draco knows it’s not an accident.

Knows this because of the glint in Flint’s eye and the way Goyle chuckles just a little too hard after the bludger has been sent flying across the pitch, ending in a breathtaking kiss. He knows it’s not an accident, no. Because she’s fading, falling, spiraling into an abyss. Endless and black and ensnared between the tangled web of space and time.

Draco knows the feeling all too well.

X

When she wakes, the sun is seeping through the filigree and permeating the sheets. Her eyes are bleeding, and her head is spinning, and her ears are ringing, and -

“Good, you’re awake.” a woman says.

She turns her head. Her eyes have stopped bleeding, but the ringing -

God, the ringing is incessant.

“What happened?”

“You had a bad fall during Quidditch practice this morning. Just a couple of bumps and bruises. Nothing to worry yourself over.”

She sinks her teeth into her lips, tastes something bitter, but not blood, no, not exactly.

“That note there is for you, dear. A boy stopped by earlier. Suppose he wanted to check in and see if you were alright.”

“A boy? Was it Harry?” she says, eyes catching fire as the room begins to spin. The words inside her head hardly make sense.

“He was gone before I could get a good look at him, but from what I could see, it wasn’t Mr. Potter.”

She knits her brows, studies the penmanship, knows it’s not Harry’s, no.

She recognizes who it belongs to, yes. Can distinguish languid syllabus and tender vowels dipped in curlicue ink and swiped away in ebony streaks.

Harry never signs his name in cursive.

X

The words are sweaty in her palm, draped across lifelines and stamped into her bloodstream.

Meet me in the Astronomy Tower at midnight, the note reads, vivid, obsidian ink coiling in the late November breeze.

She stumbles across the cedar planks leading to the Astronomy Tower balcony. Stops, stutters, stalls when she sees a sliver of moonlight steal beneath the swell of his lips and the slope of his clavicle.

“Malfoy,” she seethes, narrows her gaze and clutches the tea-stained scrap of parchment in her hand. She can feel crimson streaks racing down her palm.

“You came,” he says, sitting on the edge of the ironclad railing. His fingertips are pressed white hot against the intricate rods.

She thinks he might jump.

“I didn’t think you’d actually come,” he continues after a beat, a spell, a moment stolen, a moment lost, he’s hardly certain.

She crosses her arms across her breast, favors her left leg, says, “There are many things you think of me, Malfoy. But you forget, I prove you wrong quite often.”

He clears his throat, runs his tongue along his lip, can taste something vile and tangible, but not blood, no, not quite.

“Then let me ask you this,” his shadow spills across the floor, heels caressing the walls and hands slipping languidly between the silken threads of his pockets.

The mere conception of it all is vexatious.

“Why are you here?”

She looks up at him with indignation shining brightly in her eyes. When he looks at her the way he’s looking at her now, she doesn’t feel quite so brave or bold or much like a Gryffindor at all.

“I’m tired of pretending,” she whispers tenderly, tiresome, lungs rubbed raw and words bled dry, “It’s hard to hate someone you don’t truly hate.”

He’s quiet for one, two, three -

“I suppose it is rather exhausting,” he replies, shifts his weight from side to side, sees the stars align and then collide, fall, burn all for her, only her, always her.

“If you didn’t think I’d show, why did you even bother asking me to meet you here?”

Draco purses his lips and bites his tongue and digs, digs, digs his nails into his palms. He can feel the lifelines snap and the sapphires shatter. 

And it’s sudden how nothing else matters when he kisses her. All blistering rubies and glistening pearls and blood on his tongue that burns, bubbles, bruises. 

He presses her spine against the woodwork, fits his fingers to her hips, and spells her name across her lips. He can feel the Earth crumble beneath the whorls of his veins like the rubble running down the streets of Pompeii. 

He doesn’t know what it means.

He will.

draco dating a hufflepuff girl in the same year as him.

*requested

Draco’s sixth year at Hogwarts comes in a succession of black and blue, the shape of a Mark, a branding, a death sentence, stitched into the capillaries of his arm.

The gossamer ribbon of his lungs slips through his rib cage and swirls around the notches of his esophagus till he’s choking on the silent screams.

Because loving her is a dangerous thing.

A tricky thing.

A deadly thing.

For she’s now a pawn in the Dark Lord’s game, all muddled blood, and impure veins.

He feels like Icarus falling for the sea, can taste the foam in his lungs, on his tongue, shards of salt lacerating the walls of his once beating heart.

And he cannot breathe, cannot swallow, cannot see, no, not as she’s standing behind him more ghost than girl, ankles buried beneath more truths than lies, tears staining the rim of her cathedral-glass eyes.

“Draco,” she whispers, and it sounds like a hymn, a chorus of angels screaming, crashing, burning, falling from heaven, falling for devils. 

He’s never heard something quite so tragic.

“I’m sorry,” he replies, almost laughs at the irony.

The Mark, the blood, the truth, the lies.

He wonders if this is what it feels like to die.

With a girl - the girl - by his side, eyes wide, lips swollen and tinged with a hint of Botticellian pink.

“I’m not leaving.”

“Please, he’ll kill you, he’ll kill us all.”

A strand of hair catches in her lashes as she shakes her head adamantly.

“Like you said, he’ll kill us all. At least I’ll be by your side when I die.”

She twines their fingers together and knots their knuckles in a manner that reminds Draco vaguely of a promise. 

He thinks he wants to hold her hand forever, wants to memorize each slope and curve and jut of her tender, porcelain bones.

Because loving her is like Russian Roulette.

A game, a chance, a dangerous thing.

She folds her arms behind his neck, brings her lips close, close, close till they’re closest.

“I’m not leaving,” she says, again.

Again, again and again.

And yellow never was so beautiful.

Draco Malfoy x Reader

❝She snatched the snitch and stole his heart, the once bruising palpitations kicking his chest now nothing more than a tender, bated breath.❞

domino effect.

draco malfoy x slytherin!reader

*requested

x

Draco’s blood is not pure, has been contaminated with bittersweet toxins that feather his veins and stain his wrists a terribly virulent shade of black. He can feel the Yew digging white-hot into his flesh, has to bite his lip and choke on the bile ascending his esophagus to defuse the pain.

Accepting the mark was his first mistake, an inevitable fate, a terribly hideous disillusionment he cannot erase.

He sees that now.

x

Draco doesn’t exactly forget the summer of his sixteenth year, no.

Not quite.

Because there’s a succession of nightmares spinning round and round his peripheral. A woman, and a teacher, and an innocent fragment of collateral damage levitating ten feet from the dining room table, flames licking her face, eyes glossy and lifeless and perpetually fearful.

The memory is the first of many.

Fragmented and enigmatic and easily misunderstood. They begin as ink-stained silhouettes that eat up the walls in the dead of night. They’re fuliginous and obscure and only reside within the back of his head, or so he says. 

Because now he’s doubled over in a wicked, wretched pain, has a prayer like a kiss falling from his lips and blood dribbling down his hands like an omen.

He pinches his skin.

Feels the pain.

x

Draco’s sixth year at Hogwarts is unlike the other five, is more like handcuffs and confines and secrets that morph into pretty white lies. He has splinters in his palms and ink between his fingers, vitriol in his veins and words stuck between his teeth.

Amortentia never did smell so sweet.

He inhales the saccharine aroma of honeysuckle blossoms, heady wood polish, and the summer nostalgia of his fifteenth year spent languidly sprawled across the serrated shingles lining the roof of Malfoy Manor. Summer had felt infinite then, with the days melting down the hills and the jut of her chin, suffusing the lilac currents of her wrists and spewing out the ends of her fingertips. He remembers feeling the desire to kiss her - hard, soft, asphyxiating, inebriating. He did, and it was exhilarating.

But summer is gone, has faded with the dusk, has been replaced by perpetual nightfall and a bitter, biting chill that slips through his spine and the teeth of his ribs.

“I smell,” she begins, tucks a strand of hair behind her ear so he can see the potion catch in her eyes like dewdrops on spider’s silk. “Eucalyptus and sandalwood and something,” she stops, closes her eyes, inhales, “Something sweet. Like freshly fallen rain.”

It rained earlier that morning.

x

The cabinet is broken, is nothing more than dust mottled crevices and musty drawers that don’t even open.

And time is not on Draco’s side, no, for he can feel the hands of his grandfather's wristwatch slipping down his wrist and into his veins. Can feel the burn, burn, fucking burn searing his flesh and boiling his blood. 

It’s poison, and he’s drowning. 

He can still taste the toxicant bite of the witch’s apple fresh on his tongue as a heavy curse hangs from his fingertips and comes undone at his lips. He peels back the starch of his sleeve, digs his nails into his flesh, prays, hopes, wishes that maybe, just maybe he can turn back the hands of time and change his mind.

x

She’s a daydream caught between a labyrinth of ancient incantations and finger-smudged ink.

He thinks he may as well be dreaming.

Because the last light of day is catching fire on the ends of her hair as kaleidoscopic shadows race down the notches of her spine. Her wooly skirt brushes up against the sides of her thighs as an emerald green mosaic paints a landscape of shadows across her face.

Draco feels his equilibrium slipping off its axis.

Because he’s chasing her like he once chased those sultry summer sunsets from the roof of Malfoy Manor, can feel her melt like wax between his fingers, and her lips pressed to his. Can taste her lipgloss dribbling down his chin like sticky sugar liquor and gossamer candyfloss.

He’s running out of time.

Can feel the sand slipping through his grasp and filling up his shoes. Can feel the water crashing against his lungs and crushing his ribs and oh, God, oh, God, this is what it feels like to die, isn’t it? 

He’s certain this is a dream. A bitter, bittersweet reverie.

He closes his eyes.

Sees the world in colors he’s never seen before.

x

Draco watches as the sun slips between the fingers of the pines lining the horizon, watches as the syrup-thick rays catch in the murky window panes of the fourth-floor corridor and spill across the timeworn stone, across the patent leather of his Brogues.

Within minutes, the stars coagulate in an array of constellations as the night saturates the sky in caliginous shades of violet. The time has come to do what must be done.

“Draco, there you are. I’ve been looking all over for you.”

The moon drags its teeth across her face, stars bleeding out, dying, in her eyes. “Where have you been?” she asks, again, differently this time.

"There's something I need to tell you." He says, twists his fingers behind his back, and slides his teeth across his tongue, and feels the earth tremble beneath his feet.

She takes a tentative step forward and angles her head. Draco can see her wide eyes gleam beneath the midnight sheen of the balmy June night, can see the silver dollar smile of the moon reflect off her emerald green tie.

“What’s wrong?” she no more than whispers. 

It sounds like a scream.

And he can hardly fucking breathe as he drags his arms from behind his back, wholly bare and visibly bruised, laid out explicitly for her to see.

She's quiet for a moment, a minute, a heartbeat, a lifetime, and he's desperate for her to speak, to say something, anything, everything, or maybe nothing at all.

She reaches out, brushes her fingers across the roadmap of his veins, drags her nails across the ink, across the teeth of the stain that mars the flesh of his left arm. He feels the sting, then the bite, then the forest fire burn of her touch.

She’s intrigued, he thinks.

“When?” she whispers, not quite letting go of his arm, holding on just a little bit tighter. “When did this happen? When did he do this to you?”

“Last summer. Right after I turned sixteen.”

She nods and he swallows, suddenly feeling as though he’s choking, or suffocating, or drowning, maybe. He takes a step back, states his desperate need to leave and turns around before she can blink and he can cave.

“Wait, no, I’m not letting you leave like this,” she says, snatching his wrist and pulling him back into a tender, bittersweet kiss.

All Draco can taste is a tangible, decadent doom. A premonition of the end. Her lips are soft and their kiss is sacred and this moment is fleeting, fleeting, gone.

He pinches his skin.

Numbness.

an arranged marriage to draco malfoy

draco malfoy x pureblood gryffindor!reader

The ring is heavier than he’d anticipated

A pocket full of posies searing through the threads of his trousers, biting and bruising and burning his flesh

He’s sixteen, and the world is just beginning to weigh heavy on his shoulders

But the ring

The ring

Nothing quite compares to the weight of the promise in his pocket, the premonition of a dreadfully bloody epilogue

Because once upon a time on a mid-June afternoon when the sun is high and the air is warm, he takes the ring from his pocket and slips it over her finger

He swipes a thumb across the back of her hand and kisses each delicate jut of her knuckles, watches her blush like a rose beneath the microscope of the sun

She smiles, and Draco wishes he could capture it and hold on to it forever

But even the light of a firefly soon dies out and summer comes to a close, thunder fading in the distance and colors falling from the trees

The world is spinning out of proportion, tilting on its axis, slipping from his grasp

And it all comes undone with a gasp from his lips, a sharp jab to his ribs, a faint shiver in his bones

He can feel his blood running cold, can feel the water rising past his knees, can feel the ribbon-thin curl of ink spilling into his bloodstream

It’s not long before he’s drowning in the nightmares

Because a war is brewing, is dancing along the horizon, an epic contrast against the charcoal smoke bleeding out across the sky

But there's a girl with a ring on her finger waiting on the other side, and Draco can't help but wonder how things would have turned out had he been on the winning side from the start

They’re married on a mid-June afternoon when the sun is high and the air is warm

He takes her hands in his, slips a ring over her finger, watches the sunlight catch and shatter and fade away

Thinks that maybe, just maybe, everything will be okay

He's sitting on the edge of the Astronomy Tower balcony and all he can think about is falling. 

Falling for a girl. 

A girl in a pleated plaid skirt with pristine blood and a family name to uphold. A girl standing in the library of his family's estate, a waterfall of curls cascading down her back and a plethora of pearls draped across her neck. 

It was the middle of June. It was hot. He was cold.

It's October now, and there’s a serpentine grin eating away at his skin. It's a branding, a message, a sentence to death. 

He can still feel the burn in his bloodstream, can still see the electric green reverberating off the walls. He traces the blue river of his veins.

"I looked everywhere for you, but then I realized where I'd find you." she says behind him.

He always did love the stars. 

She sits down beside him. She's close enough that he can smell her perfume.

She twists the button on the cuff of her sleeve. Draco catches a glimpse of a familiar black curl on her forearm.

He didn't -

He had no idea.

"Does the pain get better?" She says.

He wants to lie.

"It becomes numb, eventually."

Her skin is red, rubbed raw.

"Just," she begins, pauses. "Hold me. Please."

He nods and slips his arm around her shoulders. He waits for her to lay her head in his lap.

All he can think about is falling. 

It's a long way down.

She wears a dress for him. And lipstick. A bit of gloss too. And he doesn't even show.

The dress is pink, covered in lace. It's kinda pretty, and it's kinda short, and not the sort of thing she'd usually wear because of how fancy it is, but she wears it just for him. She'd wear anything for him.

She's standing in the middle of the room, pulling at a loose thread on her dress. She's looking for him. She spots Cormac and Hermione, Dean and Ginny, even Luna and her Jupiter-sized earrings, but no Draco.

Slughorn tells her not to look so glum, and she kinda wants to tell him to shove it because she doesn't even want to be here in the first place. She bites her lip and instantly regrets it. There's probably a pink blot on her teeth and there's no mirror around to check her reflection.

Fuck.

"Dragon ball?" Harry says.

Her heart jumps to her throat, and her stomach drops to her knees, and her hands begin to shake. She feels a bit sick.

"Oh. No, thanks."

"No bother. Gives your breath a horrid taste, anyhow." He says, shoving another dragon ball into his mouth.

She adjusts the strap of her dress even though it's perfectly fine. It gives her something to do. She shifts her weight from her toes to her heels and checks the time. Eight fifteen. He should've been here by now.

"You okay?" 

"Yes." 

He nods, not believing her.

"You haven't happened to have seen Draco anywhere, have you?"

He swallows and shakes his head.

"Oh, Malfoy? No. Not tonight."

"Right. Of course."

Harry sucks on his lower lip. He doesn't know what to say. He's always been kinda shit with words.

"I'm sure he'll show. It's still early."

"Yeah, no. Totally."

He looks over at her and notices the wetness on her cheeks. No guy should make a pretty girl in a pretty dress cry. 

"Hey. He's just a bloke, all right? You're really great. He's missing out."

He doesn't know if he should grab her hand, or put his arm around her shoulder, or offer her his hankie, or try and make her laugh, or none of the above. Probably the latter. He grabs her hand because he's an idiot.

"Thanks." She says.

He kisses her. Chaste. A little off. Not perfect, but sweet. He pulls back, eyes closed. There's a bit of gloss smudged across the bow of his lip. It's sticky and it kinda tastes like cotton candy.

"Oh, God. I'm. I'm really sorry. I shouldn't've. I just..."

She grabs hold of his lapels and brings his lips to hers.

They don't see Draco standing in the doorway.

My Astronomer

Draco Malfoy x Reader

~★~❤︎~✦~

“What about that one?” you point at the collection of stars. 

“Cassiopeia, also known as the seated queen” he quickly answers once again earning an amazed look from you. The two of you have been doing this all night. It started off as a nighttime picnic by the lake. The stars were just so beautiful you started to stargaze. Now you're having your boyfriend tell you every single constellation in the London night sky. Draco’s always been better at astronomy, having a natural talent and passion for the subject. 

“What-”

He cuts you off, grabbing your hand so you can no longer point at the sky. “I love you darling but I’m beginning to think you want me to name every star in the night sky.” 

“I just like to hear you talk”, It's true he could be reading his potion textbook and you would sit and listen to him. Something about his voice just captivates you. Though he’s especially enchanting when he’s talking about something he’s passionate or knowledgeable about. Astronomy checks both those boxes, so can he really blame you for making him stay up late and tell you about the stars. 

“I can think of much better things my mouth can be doing besides listing the constellations”, he wiggles his eyebrows for added effect. You can’t help the fond smile that overtakes your face or the giggle that follows. You love your handsome astronomer. 

The two of you share a soft kiss, all smiles and giggles. Between kisses he amuses your need for him to talk about the stars.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!

Draco Malfoy x Reader

~★~❤︎~✦~

“Everyone shut up he’s coming” you whisper shout, quickly turning off the lights and ducking behind a table. The air is heavy with anticipation, everyone listening closely to the tapping of shoes against tile. As soon as the door opens and lights turn on, you’re all jumping out of your various hiding places.

A chorus of ‘Happy Birthday’ rang out. Making the blonde jump. 

“BLOODY HELL!!” Draco yells, grabbing his wand and pointing at the crowd. “Are you trying to kill me?” 

“You're the one pointing your wand at us” you speak up walking over to your boyfriend. He chuckles, pocketing his wand before pulling you into a sweet kiss. “Happy birthday”, you repeat.

“You didn’t have to go through all this trouble”, he tells you looking around the room packed full of his friends. A large smile decorating his face, he couldn't believe you did this all for him.

“Hey are you forgetting about us” Pansy calls out. 

“Yeah we helped,” Blaise adds. Draco chuckles, his smile growing.

“Thank you all, now let’s get this party started!” Cheers erupt in the room.

That night was one of the best birthdays he ever had. He partied all night with his friends and got multiple birthday kisses from his lovely partner.