Draco Malfoy Hufflepuff Reader - Tumblr Posts

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.

Draco Malfoy × Hufflepuff Relationship

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

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.❞