Draco Malfoy X Reader

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But summer is gone, has faded with the dusk, has been replaced by perpetual nightfall and a bitter, biting chill that slips through his spine and the teeth of his ribs.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

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.

It’s Stoss. I’m just popping up from the ether to say I love you and your writing continues to blow me away x

oh, my goodness! hey, stoss! i was literally thinking of you and your sweet baby the other day. how are you? i'm so glad you enjoy my writing. that's such high praise coming from you 💖

Draco dating a Hufflepuff in the same year as him

❝Loving her is like Russian Roulette. 

❝A game, a chance, a dangerous thing.❞

Hi hello can I know about your dream date to the art museum?

We’re swimming in a Van Gogh daydream, in colors and acrylics and tear-stained canvases. All is still as we stroll through each room, hand in hand, in awe of the art as the art admires us.

The cuff of his navy blazer tickles the roadmap of my veins. A threadbare camera strap hangs languidly from his neck. I’m wearing my favorite burgundy combat boots, the ones with scuffed soles and frayed laces. He’s wearing a pair of battered Brogues, cognac and patent leather and a little worn around the toes. His footsteps reverberate off the walls, across my ribcage, through my veins.

After we’ve seen all there is to see indoors, we sit in the gardens and sketch the sculptures lining the walls. He uses the charcoal stub he always carries around in his pocket to capture the perpetual smile of an elegant stone statue. The day is sunny, sweet, and slow. Gritty saccharine and sticky honey melting down the slope of my shoulder blades. It’s not quite summer, but the season is near. The air is warm, but not quite parched. His lips are chapped, but taste like sugar.

We leave the museum, and he takes me to the park across the street. I packed a small picnic in my bag - cherries, strawberries, saltine crackers, cheese, a baguette from the baker’s, a bottle of San Pellegrino and a tin can full of the chocolate chip cookies I baked the other day for two minutes too long.

We’re living in a Monet reverie, in pastels and brushstrokes and blushing waterlilies.

And everything - his hands, his lips, his lazy grin - is bliss.