Draco Malfoy Reader

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.❞

Draco Malfoy

❝He is charred cigarette ashes scraping against tired lungs, the crimson caking encasing your knuckles and the midsummer storm skiming over your collarbones.❞

Sirius Black × Reader

❝She’s wrongfully hypnotic and sinfully angelic. Unintentionally ethereal and substantially divine. ❞

draco falling for a hufflepuff.

requested: @megelizhufflepuff - Can you do one of those list things with headcanons for Draco x Hufflepuff!reader

 He wouldn’t fall. No, not at first.

He would convince himself he didn’t feel a single thing but pure disgust towards the poor, little Puff.

Because there’s no way, no chance he could possibly be falling for someone of such distaste.

No way, no how he could possibly take such sudden interest in the most sorry excuse of magic tainted blood and bones within the enchanted walls of the school of Witchcraft and Wizardry itself.

Until he did.

And that was the very moment he couldn’t bring himself to look the other way.

Because the only person that appeared more tasteless than Granger inside the judgment of his chilly glare, was a descendant of the house of all things sunshine and everything rainbows.

Until they weren’t.

Because there she is, hair aglow, laughter lolling lazily off her tongue like dancing snow against a winter blemished pane. Head thrown back enraptured by a contagious mirth.

And Draco cannot control the glib grin that skims over his lips.

After that, he doesn’t fall; he crashes and erupts into flames.

He’s absolutely, positively convinced it’s a form of dark magic she’s inflicted upon him.

Because this isn’t normal, nor is it healthy.

So, a quick trip to Madam Pomfrey is deemed very much, very well necessary.

The nurse, of course, easily deciphers the signs and the symptoms. Sniffs out the rampaging war raging within himself; recognizes the inner conflict tearing him apart by the seams.

For he is in love, you see. A prescription of an herbal tea would only get the poor boy so far.

So, he leaves. Defeat lagging like a weight upon his shoulders because he was sure, oh so very, very sure, his body was simply complying to the symptoms of a terribly wretched cold.

He has to be nearly knocked off his feet for him to discard his absent minded demeanor, and actually take heed as to where it is he is headed.

For when he looks down, he can see, right there on the ground lies a familiar face, struggling to return to their previous state.

All it takes for his heart to feel faint is a slip of two hands, kissing nerve endings and pulse points puncturing through perspiring flesh.

If Draco wasn’t sure before, he is undoubtedly positive now that he has been infected with a type of disease.

Because in this very moment, his heart is beating so hard and so fast against the doors of his chest. He is fairly certain he is going to choke or croak or quite possibly both.

He concludes it will be both.

And this girl - this girl - who he has grown rather fond of, smiles.

Right at him, straight through him, it seems.

When she recites her name, it sounds like a poem or a sonnet. A sweet summer singsong, and a heavenly sort of prayer.

He forgets he was given one of those as well on the day of his birth.

He fumbles through a series of muttering mumbles, attempts to find the two words he needs.

“Drac - Draco … Draco Malfoy.”

There it is, yet again: that grin.

The one that yanks his heartstrings, tugs at his lungs. Coils its fingers around the walls of his stomach, and digs, digs, digs into the flesh, threatening to rupture each and every one of his nerves.

It’s melted sugar, the way her lips curl, but there’s a sly twist at the tipping point of each end.

That sweet, subtle simper is confirmed to be yearned for later on as he watches the way she glides on thin air, slides on by, thoughtlessly close to his side.

He simply stands there, in a trance. Watches her descend down the deserted corridor in a dumbfounded awe.

He only has a name and a yellow intertwined tie to go by.

But his mind is made up, a deal having been settled and sealed.

He must know this girl he once ensured to eternally abhor.

For ambition is what courses through his veins; being told no has never really been his thing.

It is within a droning declaration of a DADA lesson, where he makes the hapless decision to glance over his left shoulder.

For there she is, once again. Breezy wisps tracing the frame of her face in a light tangle across her frangible features.

Now, he doesn’t exactly keep track of the time, doesn’t count how many seconds or minutes or hours or days it takes before -

Her gaze flicks upward - up towards him. For she had felt the heat of a gaze; a sort of blaze penetrating the side of her face.

Eyes connect and focuses deflect and minds are effected and lifelines flatline and -

And she can’t help but believe that perhaps he’s not as bad as he initially seemed.

These staring contests, one may name them, do not only occur during lulling lectures.

Oh, no, no, no.

Quite contrary to what many would suspect, these entertaining games resume where last left off each meeting that is made.

Inside the chilly passageways, within the walls of the grand Great Hall, the barren pastures of the front lawn.

He wants to talk to her. Oh my God, oh how he does.

But the trouble with that problem is, he’s never been very good with words. They’ve never seemed to come all that easily to him.

So, he does the one and only decently, rational thing that comes to mind.

He leaves behind notes for her to find.

He thinks he’s being sneaky, he believes himself discreet. But the truth of the matter is, she knows that it’s him.

And that knowing fact is growing roots within her soul.

It’s enough to make a flush arise to both sides of her face and penetrate two craters in the center of each cheek.

She doesn’t tell him that she knows at first. Rather, she painstakingly, purposefully, patiently awaits the moment of which is appropriate and which is precise.

That doesn’t happen until approximately one week later, when she decides to write him a note of her own, stating a date and a time and a place for them to meet.

It’s that Friday night at 9 o’clock sharp, tucked far away, up in the hideaway that is the Astronomy Tower.

And Draco, well, he cannot, cannot, cannot begin to digest the news he just consumed.

It’s somewhere around a minute later that the fear comes rearing up in the back of his mind, reminding him of what it is that lies ahead.

And it’s for a brief minute, it’s for a quick moment, he looses a small part of his mind.

Because this is something entirely fresh and something totally new. Something he never expected, nor ever predicted. 

He cannot go to anyone for advice or aid or assistance of any kind.

Once he gains humane control over his train of thought, he is able to console himself into rationality.

Yes, he will meet with her this Friday night, and yes, he will tell her that it is he who has seemingly fallen into a trap for her.

Or something of the sort.

It is believed by Draco that someone bewitched the clocks to tick ten times faster. For Friday is already here, and he cannot seem to garner the appropriate amount of guts or get a grip of his fidgety feelings.

He paces back and fourth, up and down and all around. Will not, will not, will not grant himself the privilege of rest. For his nerves are breaking and his hands are shaking and his mind is racing and -

There's an echoing scuff ascending up and up and up the steps.

And there's a familiar pattern, a certain singsong rhythm to the way the echos patter then shatter.

There's a halt outside the door, a halt outside his heart.

An ear splitting crack smacks through the air, determined to wake all the students in their dormitories and owls up in the Owlery.

A muffled “sorry” arises from the dulcet voice he has come to recognize.

“Why aren’t you surprised?” is the first question to slide off his mouth.

“It wasn’t too hard to figure out. You’re pretty easy to read.”

His cheeks simmer down to the potent shade of a bleeding beet.

She takes one, two, three, four, five steps closer, until their breathing is one in the same, their heartbeats pounding the others name.

“Why did you want to meet?” is the second question of the night he recites.

“Same reason as you, I ‘spouse.”

“I think...I think I may like you...I know I just might...and I don’t know if I like this-this...thing.” this is the first outspoken confession to fill the dark, dank air.

And the girl, well, she’s taken aback by this brash admission.

So much so, she has no control over what happens next.

For she’s the one to close the remaining distance, captures his feverish face and kisses him hard, harder, hardest.

With everything she is, and everything she’s got.

It is now Draco’s turn to be thrown for an unseen loop. For what he does next is simply beyond his sober conscience.

He wraps both arms around her waist, kisses her back with much urgency, as if they’re both drowning in a life or death emergency.

And it is then and there Draco concludes he doesn’t care what people say at the sight of their knotted fingers. Doesn’t give a second thought to the laws and the hatred and the venom and the acrimony speeches he was raised upon. 

This newfound love is fatal, destined for death, like Romeo and Juliet.

It’s headed for destruction, is bound to be deduced by the hands of all the people of his past, present, and future.

Draco knows all this, but doesn’t care. No, not a bit.

Because this is the most real, most raw, most relatively realistic thing he’s ever felt.

And it is here and now Draco finally decides, she is all he’ll ever want and ever need.

Luna “Loony” Lovegood ☞

❝It’s good, isn’t it?❞ said Luna happily. ❝I wanted to have it chewing up a serpent to represent Slytherin, you know, but there wasn’t time. Anyway…good luck, Ronald!❞

Draco Malfoy × Reader

❝I love you.❞ he says.

❝But only inside the back of his head.❞