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feat. Draco Malfoy x fem!reader CW: From the title itself, too sweet.

a/n: Sorry for ghosting again. My attention span is bonkers. Anyways, Happy Reading! ----- Flashback, Y/N's POV

The heavy wooden doors of the hospital wing clicked shut behind Y/N, and the moment the iron latch settled into place, the carefully maintained mask of casual innocence shattered completely.

A high, breathless squeak escaped her throat. Her hands flew up to her face, her palms pressing tightly against her burning cheeks as if she could physically push down the vivid crimson blush consuming her skin. She stumbled forward a few steps into the quiet corridor, her knees feeling entirely like jelly. He kissed me, her brain screamed in a chaotic, looping chant. Draco Malfoy just kissed me.

"Ow!"

Y/N yelped as a sharp, stinging smack descended upon the back of her head. She spun around, clutching the spot, to find Madam Pomfrey standing in the crack of the doorway, holding a rolled-up copy of The Daily Prophet like a weapon.

"Less mooning, more moving, Ms. Blackwood!" the Matron scolded, though the exasperated twitch of her lips betrayed her stern tone. "If I catch you turning my ward into a romantic parlor again, I will have Mr. Filch assign you to scrub the chamber pots without magic. Now, off to the Great Hall before you dissolve into a puddle!"

"Right...Sorry Madam" Y/N says sheepishly as she rubbed the back of her neck before turning on her heel and practically floating down the corridor.

As soon as she was out of Pomfrey's line of sight, she leaned her back against the cool stone wall, letting out a long, shaky exhale. She looked down at her hands, which were still trembling slightly. The truth was, Y/N had been utterly, hopelessly, and tragically in love with Draco Malfoy since their fourth year.

Before that, he had just been the loud, arrogant blonde boy who complained about Harry Potter. But then came the first Quidditch match of that season. Y/N had been sitting in the middle tiers of the Slytherin stands, the crisp autumn wind biting at her nose, when Draco had taken to the sky. She had been completely starstruck. Watching him dive through the air, sleek and fearless, his silvery-blonde hair whipping back as he caught the golden light of the afternoon sun—it had done something irreversible to her chest. He looked like an absolute god on a broomstick.

Since that day, she had been trying, with agonizingly mixed results, to get his attention.

She remembered a particularly humiliating incident during fifth-year Ancient Runes. Draco had accidentally knocked his expensive silver ink-quill off his desk, and it had rolled straight to her shoes. Heart hammering, Y/N had eagerly picked it up and held it out to him, offering her best, most dazzling smile. Draco had merely snatched it from her fingers without a word, his gray eyes fixed rigidly on the blackboard, ignoring her completely.

What Y/N hadn’t known—and what would have saved her hours of agonizing self-doubt—was that Draco had been having a silent panic attack. Her smile had been so bright, and she had been looking at him with such open warmth, that he knew if he looked her in the face, he would lose his carefully cultivated composure entirely. He would have stuttered, or worse, flushed bright red in front of the whole class. So, he had chosen the path of a stone wall.

Then there was her sudden, aggressive interest in volunteering for Madam Pomfrey. The moment Draco had joined the Quidditch team again for sixth year, Y/N had practically cornered the Matron, demanding to be assigned to any injuries Draco might incur.

"If Malfoy gets hit by a Bludger, I want the shift, Madam Pomfrey! I'm highly qualified in ice charms!" she had insisted.

But fate had a cruel sense of humor. Whenever Draco did get hurt, it was always too minor to be admitted. He would walk in with a scraped knuckle or a bruised shoulder, receive a quick smear of essence of murtlap from Pomfrey, and leave within two minutes. Y/N would sit in the back corner of the wing, furiously sorting bandage rolls and sulking because his injuries weren't severe enough to warrant a bed.

And, of course, there was the tragedy of last winter.

It had been a freezing Tuesday afternoon. Y/N had been on duty, hoping against hope he might walk through the doors. The exact moment she stepped into the hospital wing’s private bathroom to wash her hands, Draco had walked in. He had stayed for a grand total of five minutes, quietly requesting a single box of Pepperup cough drops from Madam Pomfrey, and left. When Y/N stepped out and saw the empty ward, Pomfrey had casually mentioned his visit. Y/N had been so utterly devastated at missing him that she had sat on a stool in the supply closet and sulked for two straight hours, refusing to count the tongue depressors.

But now? None of that mattered. Because he had kissed her. And it hadn't been an accident. ---

Three days passed in a blur of agonizing tension. Draco had been discharged, and while they hadn't spoken since the incident, the air between them in the Great Hall and the Slytherin common room was practically electric. Every time their eyes met, Draco would look away with a sudden, rigid intensity, his jaw clenched, while Y/N would feel her cheeks heat up all over again.

On Friday evening, the hospital wing was finally quiet. The sunset was painting the high windows in shades of deep amber and violet. Y/N was sitting at the main desk, lazily charting the remaining stock of Skele-Gro, when the heavy oak doors creaked open.

She looked up, her breath catching in her throat.

Draco stood in the doorway. He wasn't wearing his school robes, just his crisp white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and his hands were shoved deep into his trousers pockets. He looked entirely recovered from his fever, though there was a tense, nervous energy in the way he stood.

"Malfoy," Y/N breathed, her heart embarking on a frantic rhythm. "Are you... do you feel sick again? Did the fever come back?"

Draco closed the door behind him with a soft thud. He didn't answer right away. Instead, he walked slowly across the stone floor, his gray eyes locked onto hers with a fierce, unwavering intensity that made her knees feel weak even while sitting down. He stopped just on the other side of the desk, leaning forward slightly.

"I'm not sick, Blackwood," he said, his voice low, smooth, and laced with that familiar, arrogant charm that always made her head spin.

"Oh," Y/N murmured, suddenly finding her quill very interesting. "Then... what are you doing here? Madam Pomfrey is in her office, if you need a potion—"

"I don't need Pomfrey," Draco interrupted softly. He reached into his pocket and pulled his hand out, placing something on the wooden desk between them.

Y/N looked down. Resting on the polished wood were two lollipops. One was a bright, vibrant yellow. The other was a deep, electric blue.

A slow, breathless smile began to spread across Y/N's face as she looked from the candy up to his gray eyes, which were now dancing with a rare, genuine amusement. The tension that had held him rigid for the last three days seemed to melt away, replaced by a confident, devastating smirk.

Draco leaned in a bit closer, his voice dropping to a rough, teasing whisper that sent a thrill straight down her spine.

feat. Draco Malfoy x fem!reader SUMMARY: When a sleep-deprived Draco Malfoy collapses from academic exhaustion, he finds his grueling recovery interrupted by a sweet, early-morning visit from Y/N. However, an innocent indulgence in smuggled contraband sweets leaves behind a vivid clue that has Madam Pomfrey questioning the true nature of their interaction. CW: From the title itself, too sweet.

a/n: Sorry for ghosting. Studying architecture was quite time consuming and tiring (oops). Part 2 will be posted in a few hours. Happy Reading! -----

The high, arched windows of the Hogwarts hospital wing were usually met with the steady, rhythm of afternoon light or the dull gray of a typical Scottish morning. But for the past few select months, the ward had become an oddly high-traffic zone, much to the mounting exasperation of Madam Pomfrey.

The reason for this sudden spike in minor, inexplicable ailments was currently organizing a stack of freshly laundered sheets at the end of the room.

Y/N Blackwood was, by all objective accounts, a bit of an anomaly in Slytherin House. She was a pureblood of impeccable lineage, independently wealthy, unfairly pretty, and sharper than most of her peers combined. Yet, instead of the characteristic cold detachment expected of her circle, she possessed a genuine warmth that seemed to draw people in like moths to a flame. She was adored by virtually everyone, from the nervous first-year Hufflepuffs to the otherwise stoic older Slytherins.

Naturally, this universal adoration extended to Draco Malfoy. Not that he would ever acknowledge it aloud. In fact, he would rather leap headfirst off the Astronomy Tower than admit that his gaze tracked her across the Great Hall every morning, or that his heart did an irritating, uncharacteristic flip whenever she smiled in his direction. To Draco, acknowledging his feelings meant vulnerability, and vulnerability was out of the question.

Instead, he chose to overcompensate. With the absence of any looming dark threats or tyrannical figures over their sixth year, the pressures on Draco were purely academic and societal. Determined to maintain his position at the top of the class, he had spent the last three days surviving entirely on black coffee, sheer spite, and an average of two hours of sleep a night preparing for a grueling Ancient Runes examination.

Draco Malfoy, however, was no deity and had its limits.

By the time the exam concluded the previous afternoon, Draco’s vision was swimming, his skin was burning, and his limbs felt like lead. He had barely managed to stumble out of the classroom before his knees gave out, forcing a pair of passing Ravenclaws to haul his shivering, feverish form straight to Madam Pomfrey.

That was how he had spent his first day: completely dead to the world, buried under heavy blankets, drifting in and out of a restless, fever-induced sleep.

Now, it was the morning of the second day. The sky outside was a pale, crisp lavender, the very first rays of dawn just beginning to creep over the horizon.

Draco sat propped up against a mountain of pillows, staring blankly out the window. The fever had broken sometime during the night, leaving him feeling hollowed out, incredibly bored, and thoroughly dazed. His throat was dry, and the silence of the early morning ward was doing nothing to distract him from the lingering ache in his temples.

A soft, familiar rustle of fabric broke the silence.

Before Draco could turn his head to look, a sharp, shocking jolt of cold pressed directly against his left cheek.

He flinched back slightly, his gray eyes widening as he looked up, heart doing backflips. Standing beside his bed was Y/N. Her dark robes were slightly loose, her hair fell perfectly over her shoulders, and a look of quiet amusement danced in her eyes. In her hand, she held a cherry-flavored lollipop, the crinkly plastic wrapper having been the source of the chill against his warm skin.

Without waiting for an invitation, she deftly unwrapped the bright red confection, held it out to him with a tilted head, and casually popped a blue raspberry-flavored one into her own mouth.

Draco stared at the offering, his mind still slightly sluggish from the fever. "What is this?" he muttered, his voice raspy from sleep.

"A peace offering for the grumpy patient," Y/N replied around the stick of her own lollipop, her voice a soft, melodic murmur that seemed to echo gently in the quiet room. "And a sugar boost. Madam Pomfrey is still asleep in her quarters, so you're safe. Eat it."

Draco hesitated for a fraction of a second. If anyone else had tried to smuggle contraband sweets into his sickbed, he would have sneered and told them to get lost. But it was Y/N. He reached up, his fingers brushing against hers for a brief, electric moment as he took the plastic stick, sliding the cherry lollipop past his lips.

The tart, sweet flavor immediately burst across his tongue, cutting through the stale, bitter taste of medicinal potions.

For several long minutes, neither of them spoke. The ward was entirely theirs, insulated from the rest of the castle by the early hour. Draco kept his eyes fixed on the window, though his peripheral vision was entirely occupied by the way the morning light caught the edges of her silhouette. Y/N simply leaned against the edge of his bedside table, swinging one foot lightly, enjoying her blue raspberry sweet with a look of pure contentment.

Suddenly, the shifting of fabric caught his attention. Y/N had stepped closer, leaning over the edge of the mattress.

Draco’s breath caught in his throat. She was close, close enough that he could smell the faint, crisp scent of vanilla and parchment that always seemed to follow her. Her eyes, bright and incredibly focused, scanned his face, inspecting the lingering flush on his cheekbones.

Slowly, she took the lollipop out of her mouth, holding it between her fingers as she peered into his eyes.

"Huh," Y/N murmured, her gaze locking onto his. "I didn't know your eyes were gray. I mean, I knew they were light, but up close… they’re really pretty."

Draco’s brain completely short-circuited.

The compliment, delivered with such casual, unvarnished honesty, shattered whatever fragile defense mechanism he had spent the last six years building. His heart hammered violently against his ribs. The combination of the lingering fever heat, the quiet intimacy of the dawn, and the sight of her lips just inches from his own drove out every ounce of his usual calculated restraint.

Before he could process what he was doing, before his conscious mind could scream at him to stop, Draco reached out. His hand closed around the nape of her neck, his fingers tangling in the soft strands of her hair, and he pulled her down.

He kissed her.

It wasn't a tentative, hesitant brush of lips. It was deep, desperate, and entirely consuming. The sudden rush of adrenaline made his senses explode. As his lips parted hers, the taste of tart cherry mingled instantly with the sweet, vibrant blue raspberry on her tongue. The contrast was sharp and intoxicating. Y/N let out a soft, muffled gasp against his mouth, her hand instinctively coming up to rest against his chest, her fingers clutching at his shirt.

Draco deepened the kiss, his tongue sliding against hers with a possessive, unyielding hunger that he had suppressed for far too long. For a few suspended seconds, the entire world narrowed down to the heat of her mouth, the sweetness of the candy, and the intoxicating reality that she wasn't pulling away.

The heavy thud of the hospital wing's main doors swinging open broke the spell like a shattering glass window.

They pulled apart instantly. Draco’s hand dropped from her neck as if he had been burned, his face instantly turning a violent, brilliant shade of crimson that had absolutely nothing to do with his fever. Y/N stumbled back half a step, her breathing shallow, her cheeks flushing a vivid, beautiful pink.

"Right then!" Madam Pomfrey’s brisk, authoritative voice boomed through the quiet ward as she marched out of her office, balancing a heavy silver tray piled with bowls of porridge and cups of pumpkin juice. "Time for breakfast, Mr. Malfoy. Let’s see if that temperature has—"

The Matron froze mid-stride, her sharp eyes darting between the two sixth-years.

She took in Draco’s wild, wide-eyed expression and Y/N’s frantic attempt to look perfectly casual. Then, her gaze dropped. In Y/N’s left hand was a half-eaten blue lollipop. In Draco’s fingers, clutched like a lifeline, was a bright red one.

Madam Pomfrey let out a long, heavy sigh, shaking her head in deep disdain as she set the tray down on the bedside table with a loud clunk.

"Sweets before breakfast. Again," Pomfrey scolded, fixing Y/N with a stern, maternal glare. "Ms. Blackwood, I have told you for the nth time, smuggling sugar to the patients does not aid their recovery. It interferes with the potions, ruins their appetite, and quite frankly, is a disciplinary hazard!"

"A little sweet won't hurt, Madam Pomfrey," Y/N stammered out, her voice a pitch higher than usual as she tried to regain her composure. "It's… for energy. Academic exhaustion, you know."

"A potential sore throat is what it is," Pomfrey muttered, crossing her arms. She then turned her attention directly to Draco, noting the severe, unprompted flush that had taken over his entire face. "Good heavens, look at you. Your face is bright red. Did the fever spike again over the last hour?"

Draco froze, his jaw tightening. "I feel fine," he managed to choke out, his voice incredibly stiff.

"We will be the judge of that. open your mouth, let me check your throat," Pomfrey commanded, stepping closer and reaching into her apron for a small diagnostic wand.

Reluctantly, under the Matron's piercing gaze, he parted his lips and stuck out his tongue.

It was stained a deep, unmistakable, vibrant shade of purple.

Madam Pomfrey stared at his tongue. Then, she slowly lowered her diagnostic wand, her eyes shifting to the bright red lollipop in Draco’s fingers. Then, very deliberately, her head turned toward Y/N, who had suddenly found a particular corner of the high stone ceiling to be the most fascinating thing in the entire castle. In Y/N's hand, the blue lollipop caught the morning light.

Primary colors. Red plus blue.

Realization dawned on Madam Pomfrey’s face with the force of a crashing Bludger. She pinched the bridge of her nose, letting out a breath that sounded like a slow leak in a tire.

"Ms. Blackwood," Madam Pomfrey said, her voice dropping into a dangerous, exhausted register. "How many times do I have to tell you to stop flirting with our patients?"

"I swear I didn't do anything!" Y/N blurted out, her hands flying up in a defensive gesture, her face now matching Draco’s in intensity.

"Save it," Pomfrey sighed, waving a hand dismissively. "Out. Before I deduct points from Slytherin for compromising my ward. Go get your own breakfast in the Great Hall."

Y/N didn't need to be told twice. She gave Draco one last, wide-eyed, completely flustered glance before turning on her heel and hurrying out of the hospital wing, her cloak billowing slightly behind her.

Draco sat frozen, staring at the closed doors, his thumb tracing the stick of his lollipop, his mind a complete and utter chaotic mess. ---

By noon, Draco had been officially discharged. Madam Pomfrey had declared him cured of his fever, though she had given him a very pointed, lingering look as she handed him his shoes.

The moment Draco stepped out into the corridors, however, he realized that the hospital wing wasn't just a place of healing anymore. It had become a stage for a ridiculous, ongoing theater production.

As he walked down the grand staircase toward the dungeons to drop off his bag, he crossed paths with Blaise Zabini and Theodore Nott. Theo was currently leaning heavily against Blaise, clutching his stomach with a theatrical groan that could be heard from three corridors away.

"Oh, the agony," Theo groaned, his voice dripping with exaggerated despair. "The pain is unbearable, Blaise. I don't think I can make it to Double Potions. I need the gentle, healing touch of the hospital wing assistant."

Blaise rolled his eyes, catching sight of Draco. "Look at this idiot. He’s been practicing his 'dying orphan' routine since breakfast."

Draco stopped, eyebrow raised. "What for?"

"I have a terrible, mysterious ailment, Draco," Theo said, instantly straightening up and dropping the act entirely, a smirk spreading across his face. "A sudden, acute bout of loneliness that can only be cured by Y/N Blackwood checking my pulse. Have you seen the queue up there today? It's ridiculous."

Draco’s chest tightened with a sudden, sharp spike of irritation. "A queue?"

"Oh, absolutely," Blaise chimed in, leaning against the stone balustrade. "Ever since word got out that Y/N is doing the morning and afternoon volunteer shifts, a portion of the male population of Hogwarts has developed sudden, chronic conditions. Cormac McLaggen tried to pretend he twisted his ankle during Quidditch practice, but he forgot which foot was hurt and kept switching which leg he was limping on."

"And Davies from Ravenclaw," Theo added, shaking his head. "Claimed he had a severe migraine. Y/N sat with him for five minutes, gave him a glass of water, and talked to him about his Herbology essay. The moment she walked away to get a cold compress, the bloke was completely cured. Smiling like a bloody loon."

Draco clenched his jaw so hard his teeth clicked. "They're pathetic."

"They are," Theo agreed easily. "But can you blame them? She’s nice, she actually listens, she’s gorgeous, and she hands out those muggle sweets. I'm thinking of faking a dragon pox outbreak on my left arm just to get her to sit next to my bed for an hour."

feat. Draco Malfoy x fem!reader SUMMARY: After a devastating loss to Gryffindor, Draco Malfoy decides he's done hiding his secret relationship and claims Y/N in the most public, arrogant way possible. CW: Too cute

a/n: I saw a lot of the "My dorm. Now." trend on tiktok so I also tried writing one lol. Happy Reading! ------

The Slytherin vs. Gryffindor match hadn't just been a loss; it was a catastrophe. Draco had been inches from the Snitch when Harry Potter’s sheer luck—and his infuriatingly persistent existence—snatched it away.

The tension in the air was suffocating as the teams touched down. Draco was vibrating with a cold, sharp fury, his hair uncharacteristically disheveled and his silver-green robes streaked with mud. The Slytherin stands were dead silent, watching him like a ticking time bomb.

You were sitting three rows up, trying to look appropriately disappointed while remaining inconspicuous. You and Draco had been "secretly" seeing each other for six months—a whirlwind of Midnight Tower meetings and Silencing Charms in the library.

Draco marched off the pitch, his eyes scanning the crowd with predatory focus. He didn't look at his captain; he didn't look at the scoreboard. He looked straight at you.

"Y/N. My dorm. Now."

His voice wasn't a whisper. It was that sharp, Malfoy command that echoed off the stone walls of the stadium like a crack of thunder.

The entire stadium went still. Not just the Slytherins—even the Gryffindors stopped their victory cheers. Pansy Parkinson actually dropped her binoculars, the plastic clattering loudly against the stone.

Your heart hammered against your ribs. You played the only card you had left: cluelessness.

"I—beg your pardon?" you stammered, widening your eyes and looking around at your friends. "Malfoy? Are you… speaking to me? Is this about a Prefect matter?"

Draco stopped in his tracks. He looked at the hundreds of staring faces, then back at you. For a split second, you thought he’d backtrack. Instead, he leaned his broom against his shoulder, a dark, arrogant smirk twitching onto his lips. The secret was out, and he looked almost relieved to stop pretending.

"Don't play coy," he drawled, loud enough for the first five rows to hear. "I’m losing my patience, and you’re the only thing that’s going to fix my mood today. Move."

---

The walk back to the castle was a blur of burning cheeks and hushed voices. Draco caught up to you in the courtyard, wrapping a firm, possessive arm around your waist in front of the entire student body, effectively marking his territory.

By the time you reached the Great Hall for dinner, the actual Quidditch match was ancient history. Usually, the school would be dissected into factions: the Gryffindors celebrating Potter’s catch, and the Slytherin Captain mourning his failed strategy. But today, the atmosphere was different.

The air was thick with a singular, frantic energy. From the Hufflepuff table to the High Table itself, no one was talking about the Snitch. Every head turned as you passed, the whispers rising like a swarm of bees. It was clear that seventy percent of the castle was currently obsessed with one thing: exactly what Malfoy intended to do with you in the dungeons.

---

The Slytherin common room was buzzing when you eventually surfaced. The questions followed you like a physical weight: "Since when?" "How did we miss this?" "Did you see his face when he yelled her name?"

Draco was slumped in his favorite armchair by the fire, looking remarkably smug for someone who had just lost the game of the season. He had his feet up on the table, watching you approach with a look of pure ownership.

"You're a nightmare," you whispered, sitting on the arm of his chair. "Everyone is staring."

feat. Draco Malfoy x fem!reader SUMMARY: What started as a desperate deal to fake-date Draco Malfoy for a month of free essays turns into a dangerous game when the Prince of Slytherin forgets that he was supposed to be pretending. CW: Too sweet you'll probably get a toothache

a/n: I'm so sad this story came to an end. I really enjoyed writing it and I hope you enjoyed reading it as well.

-----

The next morning, the air in the Great Hall was thick with a new kind of tension. The "fake" kiss in the alcove had metastasized into a full-blown legend.

You sat at the Slytherin table, staring gloomily at your porridge. Draco sat beside you, looking far too smug for someone who had spent the previous night pacing his dorm.

"You look like you're attending a funeral," Draco drawled, leaning in so his shoulder pressed against yours. "Smile, darling. People are watching."

"I hate you," you whispered through a forced, frozen smile. "Pansy tried to trip me in the corridor, and someone put Frog Spawn in my shoes this morning. This 'arrangement' is ruining my life."

"I'll make it worth your while," he countered, sliding a piece of parchment toward you. "I'll do your Transfiguration and History of Magic essays for the next month. Top marks, guaranteed. Just keep the act up for three more weeks until the heat dies down. If we break up now, I look like a fool who got dumped, and you look like a liar."

You sighed, crumpling the parchment and glaring at him, weighing the soul-crushing boredom of Binns’ class against the social suicide of being Draco’s "girlfriend." "Fine. One month of essays. And you pay for the butterbeer in Hogsmeade today."

-----

The Hogsmeade trip was supposed to be a "date," but it felt more like a tactical briefing. However, while Draco was busy boasting to Blaise near Honeydukes, you found yourself cornered near the Owl Post by a tall, handsome figure in yellow and black robes.

"Y/N? Do you have a moment?"

It was Cedric Diggory. He looked at you with a gaze so earnest and kind it made your stomach flip with guilt.

"Oh, hi Cedric," you mumbled.

"Look, I’ve heard the rumors," Cedric said, lowering his voice. He stepped closer, his brow furrowed in genuine concern. "And I’ve seen the way Malfoy treats people. If he’s... if he’s forcing you into this, or if he’s holding something over you, you can tell me. Gryffindor and Hufflepuff, we’ve got your back. You don’t have to be his trophy."

You looked at Cedric—the boy who was actually nice, who didn't ruin essays or lie to the whole school. You realized then how absurd this was. You were helping a boy who had spent years making fun of your blood status or your marks.

"Cedric, I—"

"Is there a problem here?"

The voice was like a whip. Draco was standing five feet away, his face pale with a sudden, sharp fury. This wasn't the bored, arrogant Draco; his eyes were narrowed, and his jaw was set tight.

"Just checking on a friend, Malfoy," Cedric said calmly, stepping between you and Draco.

Draco marched forward, shoving himself into your personal space and grabbing your hand—not gently this time, but with a possessive heat. "She doesn't need 'checking on' by a Hufflepuff. She’s exactly where she wants to be."

"Is she?" Cedric asked, looking directly at you. "Because you don't look happy, Y/N."

"She’s fine," Draco snapped, his voice trembling with a jealousy he couldn't quite mask. "Move along, Diggory, before I find a reason to lose you some house points."

As Cedric walked away with a lingering, pitying look, Draco turned on you. "What was he saying? Was he hitting on you? I swear, if he thinks he can—"

"He was being nice, Draco! Something you should try!" you hissed, shaking his hand off. "And for your information, he’s right. This is exhausting. You even took my first kiss in that alcove just to prove a point to your idiot friends! You told me it was your first, too, and you wasted it on a lie!"

Draco froze, the tips of his ears turning pink. "It wasn't a waste," he muttered, looking away. "And it wasn't a lie. I mean... the kiss was real. Even if the reason was... you know what forget it."

-----

To escape the biting wind and the tension, you both retreated to a back booth at The Three Broomsticks. The pub was crowded, but the corner was dark.

"I really do hate this," you said, nursing a butterbeer. "Every boy I actually liked has stopped talking to me because they’re scared of you."

"Good," Draco said sharply. "They weren't good enough for you anyway."

He reached across the table, his hand slowly sliding toward yours. The "act" felt miles away. His gaze softened, his thumb brushing against your knuckles in a way that made your breath hitch. He looked like he was about to say something—something real.

"I dragged you into this mess Y/N, I'm sorry. And I—" Draco started, his voice barely a whisper.

"And I—" A cold, silk-wrapped voice sliced through the air like a guillotine.

"—think I made it clear that students are supposed to be back at their dorms at 5:00 PM sharp."

You both bolted upright, nearly knocking over the butterbeer. Professor Snape stood over the table, his black robes billowing despite the lack of wind. He held a silver pocket watch in his hand, staring at it with profound disappointment.

"Professor! We were just—" Draco began, scrambling to regain his composure.

"It is currently 5:10," Snape interrupted, his eyes flicking between your joined hands and Draco’s flushed face. "While I am certain your... clandestine negotiations... are of the utmost importance to the future of the Slytherin bloodline, they do not grant you immunity from the clock."

"We lost track of time," you stammered, grabbing your cloak.

"Clearly," Snape drawled, his lip curling. "Five points from Slytherin for your lack of punctuality. Get back to the castle immediately, before I decide that a month of detention is a better way for you to spend your 'quality time' together."

You scrambled out of the booth, face flaming. Draco followed, looking ruffled and annoyed, but as you hurried toward the castle, he bumped his shoulder against yours.

"A month of essays," he reminded you, a small, genuine smirk tugging at his lips. "And... maybe another 'fake' meeting tomorrow? Just to keep Snape off our backs?"

You rolled your eyes, but you didn't pull away when his hand found yours in the dark of the path. "Fine. But I'm picking the snacks next time."

----- The following weeks were a strange, blurred transition from "acting" to something that felt suspiciously like a routine. The month of essays Draco promised turned into late-night sessions in the library where he actually took the time to explain the nuances of Gillyweed and the complexities of Transfiguration.

Soon, the possessive hand on your waist or the way he’d pull out your chair at the Great Hall didn't feel like a performance anymore. It felt like muscle memory. You found yourself looking for his silver-blonde head in a crowd, and he found himself carrying your bag without being asked.

-----

It was a cold Tuesday evening, exactly one month since the day Draco had lied to Theo and Pansy in your bedroom. You were sitting by the fireplace in the Slytherin common room, the final Transfiguration essay lying completed between you.

"That’s it," you said, your voice sounding flatter than you intended. "One month. Our deal is officially over."

Across the low table, Draco was lounging in a velvet armchair. He had his head tilted back, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows as he twirled a heavy silver ring on his thumb. He looked bored, effortless, and—infuriatingly—breath-taking.

"Right," he muttered. "The 'contract' is up."

"So," you continued, feeling a strange ache in your chest. "I suppose tomorrow we tell people we had a massive row and broke up? You can go back to being the 'Prince of Slytherin' and I can go back to... well, not being hexed by Pansy every five minutes."

Draco finally looked at you. His grey eyes weren't cold or arrogant; they looked almost vulnerable. He leaned back against the chair, sighing deeply.

"I have a confession," he said, his voice low. "About that kiss in the alcove. And the 'date' at the Three Broomsticks. And the essays."

"What about them?"

"I stopped pretending a long time ago, Y/N," he admitted, the words coming out in a rush. "Ever since that first kiss... the one you think I wasted. I wasn't acting for those idiots I call friends. I was trying to see if you’d pull away. And when you didn't... well, let's just say I’ve been remarkably bad at 'fake' dating because I forgot the 'fake' part about three days in."

You stared at him, your heart doing a slow, heavy thud against your ribs. "Draco..."

"I know I started this as a way to save my own skin," he said, stepping toward you. "And I know I’ve been a nightmare for years. But if we 'break up' tomorrow, I’m just going to have to find another excuse to sit with you. And quite frankly, doing your essays is the only way I can get you to stay still long enough to talk to me."

A small, genuine smile broke across your face. "You really are a dramatic idiot, aren't you?"

"Perhaps," he smirked, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. "So, what’s the verdict? Do we tell the school it’s over?"

You hummed, pretending to think about it. "Well, if we break up now, Cedric will probably try to ask me out again. And Snape will think he won that little confrontation in Hogsmeade."

Draco’s jaw tightened at the mention of Cedric. "We can't have that. It would be a blow to Slytherin's reputation."

"Exactly," you laughed, reaching up to rest your hands on his shoulders. "How about we extend the arrangement? Just to be safe."

"How much longer?" Draco asked, his hands settling naturally on your waist, pulling you closer.

"I don't know," you teased. "Maybe five more years? Just to see us through graduation and perhaps a bit of adulthood? It would be a shame to let all that 'practice' go to waste."

Draco chuckled, a warm, rich sound that made you realize you didn't hate him at all. He leaned down, his forehead resting against yours, his breath warm against your skin.

"Five years," he whispered, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that was very, very real. "But I’m not doing your essays for that long. You're on your own for the N.E.W.T.s."

"We'll see about that, Malfoy," you whispered back, right before he closed the distance to kiss you—this time, with absolutely no one watching. The End

feat. Draco Malfoy x fem!reader SUMMARY: After a night of hidden kindness and secret sabotage, Draco Malfoy accidentally sparks a scandal. Caught in your room by Pansy and Theo, Draco tells a desperate lie to protect his reputation: that the two of you are secretly together. Now, trapped in a fake relationship to avoid suspicion, you’re forced to play the part. But when a "staged" kiss in a secluded alcove to fool your stalking classmates feels a little too real, the line between an act and an attraction begins to blur. CW: Fluff obvi

a/n: Beginner writer! Would really love and appreciate any feedback. Comment if you want another part. Happy Reading! -----

The Charms classroom was stiflingly warm, filled with the scent of old parchment and the frantic scratching of quills. You kept your head down, focusing intensely on the movement of your wand. You could feel the weight of Draco’s gaze from two rows back, but you refused to look. The betrayal stung more than the exhaustion; the fact that he had sat in your room and helped you "fix" a problem he had maliciously created made the "angel" comment you'd whispered feel like a sick joke.

When the bell rang, you gathered your things and bolted, heading straight for the dungeons. You needed to hide. You needed to sleep. And most of all, you needed to forget the way his silver-blonde hair had looked in the lamplight.

You were barely through your door when you saw it. Lying right next to your desk chair was a heavy, silver Rolex—Malfoy’s watch. He must have taken it off while he was helping you with your essay and forgotten it in his haste to leave.

"Great," you muttered, picking up the cold metal. "Just what I need. Another reason to—"

THUD.

The door swung open, hitting the stone wall with a bang. You jumped, shoving the watch behind your back, but it was too late.

"I knew it!" Pansy Parkinson’s voice shrieked. She was standing in the doorway, flanked by a smirking Theodore Nott and a very confused-looking Draco, who had clearly been intercepted while trying to sneak back to your room.

"Pansy, get out!" you snapped, your heart hammering against your ribs.

"Oh, look at her, she’s guilty!" Pansy sneered, stepping into the room. She lunged forward, grabbing your wrist and forcing your hand out from behind your back. The silver watch dangled from your fingers, catching the light. "I saw Draco heading toward the girls' wing and I thought, 'No, surely he wouldn't.' But look at this! You’re a thief, Y/N. Or worse—a stalker. Did you nick this off him in the Great Hall? Are you keeping it under your pillow?"

"It's not what it looks like," you stammered, looking at Draco for help.

Theo leaned against the doorframe, his eyes glinting with amusement. "A bit bold, isn't it? Stealing from a Malfoy right under our noses?"

"She didn't steal it," Draco’s voice rang out, sharper and louder than usual. He stepped into the room, closing the door behind him to shut out any other prying eyes in the hallway.

"Then how does she have it?" Pansy demanded, her face turning a mottled purple. "Unless... Draco, don't tell me you were in here."

Draco’s mind raced. If he said he was just "helping with an essay," the school would laugh him out of the Slytherin common room for being a "soft" tutor. If he admitted he was drunk, his father would hear about it by nightfall. He took a deep breath, his arrogance snapping back into place like a shield.

"Of course I was in here," Draco drawled, stepping closer to you and sliding a possessive arm around your waist. You stiffened, your eyes widening in shock. "And for Merlin’s sake, Pansy, use your head. Why do you think she’s so tired this morning? Why do you think I’m always 'bullying' her? It’s a cover."

Pansy’s jaw dropped. Theo’s smirk vanished, replaced by genuine shock.

"You mean..." Pansy started.

"Yes," Draco said, his voice dropping to a low, suggestive hum that sent a shiver down your spine. "We’ve been sleeping together."

The room went deathly silent. Pansy looked like she’d been hit with a Stunning Spell. Without a word, she turned on her heel and fled, Theo following close behind, looking like he’d just seen a ghost. They’d have the news spread across the entire house in under five minutes.

As soon as the door clicked shut, you shoved Draco away, nearly sending him sprawling.

"Sleeping together?" you hissed, your face heating up to a shade of red that rivaled a Gryffindor banner. "Are you insane? We haven't even kissed! I barely even liked you until about six hours ago—and then I found out you ruined my essay on purpose, so I’m back to hating you!"

Draco rubbed his arm, looking slightly ruffled but mostly relieved. "Would you rather I let them call you a thief? Or a stalker? My father would have had you expelled for 'assaulting' a Malfoy if they thought you stole that watch."

"So your solution is to let the entire school think that I’m... I’m that?" You gestured wildly at the bed.

"It’s the only story they’ll believe that doesn't get me in trouble," he countered, though a faint pink tinge was creeping up his own neck. He stepped back toward the door, realizing the weight of what he'd just started. He paused, his hand on the handle, turning back to you with a look that was half-commanding, half-desperate.

"Look, the news is out. If we go back on it now, we're both dead. I’ll wait for you at dinner," he said, his voice regaining its usual cool authority. "You’re going to sit beside me. We’re going to act like this is normal. Don’t be late, and for Salazar's sake, try to look like you actually like me."

With one last glance at your stunned face, he slipped out of the room, leaving you standing there clutching his watch. -----

The walk to the Great Hall felt like a march to the gallows. Every time a group of students passed you in the corridor, the whispering started—sharp, hissing sounds that followed you like a trail of smoke. By the time you reached the heavy oak doors, your stomach was in knots.

True to his word, Draco was waiting. He was leaning against the stone wall, looking effortlessly composed, though the way his fingers rhythmically tapped against his thigh betrayed his nerves. When he saw you, he didn't smirk. He stepped forward and, with a lingering look of warning, took your hand in his. His palm was slightly warm, his grip firm.

"Remember," he muttered under his breath as you entered the hall together. "Sit close. Look annoyed but... fond."

The silence that fell over the Slytherin table was deafening. Pansy looked like she’d been sucking on lemons, while Blaise and Theo exchanged looks of pure disbelief. You sat down next to Draco, your thigh brushing his. Every time you reached for the pumpkin juice, you felt the weight of a dozen pairs of eyes tracking your every move.

"They don't believe it," Draco whispered an hour later as you both exited the hall, heading toward the library. "Look behind us. Don't turn your head! Just... look in the reflection of that suit of armor."

You glanced sideways. Sure enough, a cluster of robes was hovering near a large marble pillar about twenty yards back. You could see the top of Theo’s dark hair and Pansy’s sharp nose poking out.

"They're trailing us," you hissed. "What now?"

"We give them a show," Draco said, his voice dropping an octave. He suddenly veered off the main path, pulling you into a secluded, dimly lit alcove behind a tapestry. It was a narrow space, smelling of dust and old stone, just barely out of direct sight but perfectly positioned so that anyone standing by the nearby pillar could see exactly what was happening if they leaned in.

"Draco, what are you—"

He pressed you back against the cold stone wall, his hands coming up to rest on either side of your head. He was so close you could smell the green apple and expensive mint on his breath.

"They’re right there," he whispered, his face inches from yours. "Don't move."

From behind the pillar, a series of hushed, frantic whispers drifted over.

"I told you! Look at them!" Pansy hissed. "I still think he’s joking. Draco doesn't do 'feelings' remember?" Blaise muttered. "Maybe he’s just showing her a hex?" came Crabbe’s thick, slow voice. "Shut up, Crabbe!" three voices whispered in unison. "But I’m hungry, why are we watching them breathe on each other—" "SHH!"

Draco rolled his eyes, a flicker of genuine amusement crossing his face. "Idiots," he breathed. Then, he looked down at your lips, his expression shifting into something more intense. "They need more than this, Y/N. They need proof."

"Draco, we haven't even—"

He didn't let you finish. He tilted his head and leaned in, his lips brushing against yours. It wasn't the harsh, arrogant kiss you would have expected from Draco Malfoy. It was hesitant at first, then deep and surprisingly soft. Your brain short-circuited. Sleeping together? We haven't even kissed—wait, we're kissing. I barely even liked him since a few hours ago... but he's really good at this.

Your hands instinctively found the lapels of his robes, pulling him closer as the act started to feel a lot less like acting. Draco let out a low, muffled groan against your mouth, his hand sliding from the wall to the back of your neck, his thumb grazing your jawline.

From the pillar, there was a loud clack as someone—likely Goyle—tripped over their own feet.

"See?" Theo’s voice was strained, sounding halfway between impressed and disgusted. "I told you. He’s gone mental for her. Let’s get out of here before they start doing something we can't unsee."

"Disgusting," Pansy snapped, though she sounded defeated.

You heard the frantic scuffle of footsteps retreating down the hallway.

Draco didn't pull away immediately. He lingered for a second, his forehead resting against yours, both of you breathing heavily in the quiet alcove. The silence was heavy, no longer filled with the sound of his friends, but with the sudden, awkward realization of what had just happened.

He eventually stepped back, clearing his throat and smoothing his hair with a shaky hand.

"Right," he said, his voice a bit higher than usual. "That... that should keep them quiet for a while."

You leaned against the wall, your heart racing. "Yeah. Totally. Very... convincing."

He looked at you, his grey eyes searching yours for a moment longer than necessary. "I'll, uh, see you in the common room."

He turned and walked away, but you noticed he was heading in the wrong direction for the Slytherin dorms, and he looked just as dazed as you felt.

-----

feat. Draco Malfoy x fem!reader SUMMARY: When Draco Malfoy stumbles into the wrong Slytherin dorm after a rowdy post-Quidditch party, a night of unexpected vulnerability follows. Between a ruined Charms essay and a bottle of Honeysuckle Hangover Potion, secrets are shared in the quiet of the 4:00 AM shadows. But as the sun rises over the Great Hall, the warmth of the night fades, replaced by a cold realization that some mistakes were never accidents. CW: Fluff with slight angst

a/n: Beginner writer! Would really love and appreciate any feedback. Comment if you want another part. Happy Reading! -----

The Slytherin dungeons were always cold, but your private room was a small oasis of warmth. You had a fire crackling in the hearth and the soft glow of a lamp illuminating your desk. You were exhausted, your eyes straining as you dipped your quill into the ink for what felt like the thousandth time.

You still couldn't believe you had been so careless as to leave your inkwell open earlier that day. The original Charms essay lay in the bin, a blackened ruin. You were determined to finish the replacement before the sun rose.

You hadn't been in the common room to see the rowdy group of older students return from their post-Quidditch party, so you were completely unprepared when your heavy oak door suddenly creaked open. You jumped, spinning around to see Draco Malfoy disheveled and swaying in the doorway. His silver-blonde hair fell over his eyes as he blinked at your bed, looking entirely lost. He took a dizzy step toward your rug, nearly toppling a floor lamp as he stumbled.

"Malfoy?" you whispered, standing up. "Draco, wait—this isn't your room. You’re in the girls' wing."

He didn't even look at you. He just groaned, leaning his forehead against the cool wood of your wardrobe. "Room’s spinning," he muttered, his voice thick and slurred. "Just let me… sit down."

Knowing that if a prefect found him here he’d be in deep trouble—and you’d be caught in the middle of it—you sighed and guided him inside. Since you were the "nice" girl of Slytherin, you couldn't just leave him to get sick in the hallway.

You sat him down on your bed. He collapsed instantly, his face pale.

"Here," you said softly, reaching into your bedside cabinet. As a top student, you always kept a stock of Honeysuckle Hangover Potion for late-night study headaches. You handed him a glass of water and the vial. "Drink this. All of it."

He swallowed it blindly and fell back against your pillows, out cold. You shook your head, wrapped your cardigan tighter around yourself, and sat back down at your desk to restart your essay.

At 4:00 AM, the silence was broken by a sharp intake of breath. Draco sat bolt upright, clutching his head. The potion had cleared the fog, but the memory of the firewhisky was still ringing in his ears.

He looked at the silk emerald hangings of the bed, then at you, sitting just three feet away under a small lamp.

"What am I doing in your bed?" he demanded, his voice a harsh whisper. He looked genuinely panicked. "If Snape finds out—if my father hears—"

"You were drunk and lost," you said calmly, without looking up from your quill. "I wasn't using the bed anyway, so I figured it was better than you being caught by a prefect."

"Right. Well." He smoothed his shirt, trying to regain his dignity. He stood up to leave. "I'm going. Forget this happened."

"I wouldn't," you cautioned. "Filch and Mrs. Norris are right outside in the common room. I heard them talking to the Bloody Baron ten minutes ago. They're doing a sweep of the dungeons. If you leave now, you’re dead."

Draco paused, his hand on the door handle. He looked back at you, noticing the dark circles under your eyes and the massive pile of rewritten parchment.

"Why are you even awake?" he asked, his "Malfoy attitude" returning to mask his embarrassment. "Obsessing over grades again? It’s pathetic."

"I have to be," you said finally looking at him with a small, tired smile. "I ruined my first draft. I think I left the cap off my inkwell when I went to dinner, and it spilled everywhere. It’s my own fault for being so messy."

Draco felt a sudden, cold knot of guilt in his stomach. He remembered exactly how that ink had spilled—he had flicked it over with his wand while you were away, laughing with Theo about how "perfect" you always tried to be.

Looking at your tired eyes and your ink-stained fingers, he felt like a coward. You were being so kind to him, and you didn't even know he was the reason you were suffering.

"Move over," he grumbled, pulling a chair up next to yours. "You're probably hallucinating from sleep deprivation. Your last paragraph makes no sense."

"Draco, you don't have to—"

"I said move."

He spent the next half hour pointing out better spells to cite, his voice low and rhythmic. But as the silence of the room settled in, his energy faded. He leaned his arms on the desk, resting his chin on his sleeves. Within minutes, his breathing evened out and his eyes closed.

You stopped writing, watching him. In the soft, amber light of the lamp, all the malice and arrogance seemed to wash away from his face. He looked soft—almost vulnerable.

Without thinking, you reached out and gently tucked a strand of his hair behind his ear. "You know, you look like an angel when you're asleep," you whispered to yourself, a small smile tugging at your lips.

Draco’s eyes didn't open, but his breathing hitched for a split second. He heard you—every word—but he was far too tired, and perhaps a bit too stunned, to react. He simply stayed as he was, letting the quiet of your room shield him from the world. -----

The sun hadn't quite reached the dungeons yet when Draco stirred. The wooden surface of the desk was unforgivingly hard, and his neck felt stiff. He shifted his head, blinking away sleep as he slowly lifted his face from his arm.

He froze. You were less than six inches away.

At some point in the early hours, you had followed his lead, resting your head on the desk to face him. Your breathing was soft, a tiny puff of air hitting his cheek every few seconds. Draco felt his heart give a sudden, violent jump against his ribs. It wasn't the panic of being caught; it was a warm, fluttering pressure he wasn't prepared for. He stayed perfectly still, his eyes tracing the line of your eyelashes. For a moment, the Malfoy pride vanished, replaced by a quiet realization that he didn’t want to move.

A floorboard creaked in the hallway outside, snapping him back to reality. He nudged your shoulder gently. "Hey. Wake up."

You groaned, rubbing your eyes. "Draco?"

"I think Filch is gone, but the common room will be waking up soon," he whispered urgently. "I need to get out of here."

You stumbled to your feet and cracked your door open. The corridor was empty. "Go," you whispered.

Draco stepped into the hallway but paused, looking back at you. He looked like he wanted to say something about the "angel" comment, but he settled for a sharp nod. "I'll see you in class. Oh, and don't mention this to anyone"

By the time breakfast rolled around, the Great Hall was a cacophony of clinking silverware. You sat at the end of the Slytherin table, nursing a cup of coffee and clutching your finished essay.

"Look at her," Pansy Parkinson sneered from across the table. "You look like a Mandrake that’s been repotted too many times, Y/N. Did you spend the night crying over your grades?"

Blaise Zabini chuckled. "You know, Malfoy told us how he ruined your draft yesterday. Said it was the highlight of his afternoon."

At the mention of his name, your heart sank. You finally looked up, your eyes finding Draco’s. He was sitting nearby, lazily picking at a green apple. A flash of genuine hurt crossed your face as the realization hit you—he hadn't just watched the ink spill; he had done it on purpose. You quickly looked back down at your coffee, your throat tight.

The table erupted in mean-spirited laughter, but Draco didn't join in. He looked at the side of your head, seeing the way you wilted at Blaise's words. A wave of irritation washed over him, though he kept his face carefully blank.

"Shut up, Pansy," Draco said, his voice quiet but laced with a bored, sharp edge.

The laughter died down as Pansy blinked in surprise. "What?"

"I said shut up," Draco repeated. He leaned back, his expression one of utter disinterested fatigue as his grey eyes swept over his friends. "It’s eight in the morning. You’re being loud, annoying, and frankly, pathetic. Find something else to talk about."

"But Draco," Blaise started, looking confused. "We were just—"

feat. bff!Draco Malfoy x fem!reader SUMMARY: Your bff Draco having a crush on you but y/n being oblivious af CW: FLUFF FLUFF FLUFF AS FLUFFY AS A PUFFSKEIN

a/n: Lmao i know i asked to tell me if you want a part 2 but i'm posting it anyways since it's too good not to share. Hope you all love it. ---

The moment Draco’s lips left yours, the air in the Slytherin common room didn’t turn magical—it turned catastrophic.

Draco looked like he had just accidentally set the Great Hall on fire. He scrambled backward, his boots sliding on the stone floor, his face transitioning from a ghostly pale to a shade of red that would have made a Weasley jealous. He didn't say a word; he just let out a choked, panicked noise, turned on his heel, and bolted up the stairs to the boys' dormitories.

You sat there, frozen in your velvet armchair, staring at the scattered, broken Wizard's Chess pieces. Your lips were tingling, your heart was hammering, and your brain was screaming.

From the shadows of the high-backed armchairs near the fireplace, a slow, rhythmic clapping started.

"Bravo," Blaise Zabini’s voice drawled. "Truly. A masterpiece of social ineptitude."

You jumped nearly a foot into the air, spinning around to see Blaise and Pansy sitting in the corner, shrouded by the dark. Pansy was leaning back, a wicked, delighted smirk on her face, while Blaise looked like he had just won a very large bet.

"How long have you two been there?" you shrieked, your voice cracking.

"Since Draco started losing at chess because he was too busy staring at your face," Pansy said, standing up and smoothing her robes. "So, about forty-five minutes. Honestly, Y/N, the ending was a bit rushed, but the 'knocking over the table' bit? Pure drama. Very Slytherin."

"He... he just ran away," you whispered, touching your lips.

"Of course he did," Blaise said, walking over and peering at the broken Queen on the floor. "He’s probably currently burying himself alive under his silk sheets. He’s been pining for you since the Yule Ball, and he just realized he actually acted on it. He’s terrified."

"He’s not terrified, he’s an idiot," Pansy corrected, looking at you with a mixture of pity and amusement. "And you’re just as bad. 'That’s what best friends are for'? Honestly, Y/N, even the House Elves were rolling their eyes at you."

"I didn't know!" you defended, your face burning. "I thought he was just... Draco!"

"Exactly," Blaise grinned. "And now, the fun begins." -----

The terror didn't wear off. For the next three days, Draco Malfoy became a ghost.

He didn't sit next to you in Potions. He didn't wait for you in the common room. If he saw you in the hallway, he would literally turn 180 degrees and walk into a wall or a classroom he didn't even have a permit for. The avoidance was so blatant it started to hurt. By the third day, your sadness had turned into a sharp, focused annoyance.

You finally caught him in the library, tucked away in the back of the Restricted Section. When he saw you, he dropped his book and tried to scramble over a table to escape.

"Don't you dare, Malfoy!" you hissed, grabbing the back of his robes.

"I have to go, Y/N, I have... a thing. A very important pure-blood thing," he stammered, refusing to look at you.

"You've been avoiding me for seventy-two hours because you're embarrassed!" you shouted (as much as one can shout in a library). "You don't get to kiss me and then act like I have the plague!"

"I made a mistake!" he burst out, his face flushing crimson. "I lost my head! I’m a Malfoy, and I acted like a common, desperate schoolboy. I ruined everything, alright? Just go away so I can wither in peace."

He looked so pathetic, so completely stripped of his usual armor, that you decided then and there to end the drama.

"We aren't even, Draco," you said.

"What?"

"You caught me off guard. You took the lead and then ran away like a coward. That's not fair."

Before he could process the words, you reached up, grabbed the front of his expensive sweater, and pulled him down. You kissed him—hard. You were trying to look tough, to show him you weren't some fragile flower, but as your lips met his, your hands started to shake.

When you pulled back, you puffed out your chest and tried to look cool and collected. "There. Even. Now stop being a drama queen and come to breakfast tomorrow. Business as usual."

You turned and marched away, but in your "tough" exit, you accidentally walked straight into a bookshelf, bounced off it with a loud thud, and had to scramble out of the room with your face burning like a torch.

Draco stood there, looking like he’d been hit by a Bludger, his hair sticking up in three different directions. -----

The next morning was, quite simply, a train wreck.

You walked into the Great Hall, trying to look "tough" and "unbothered," but you accidentally tripped on the hem of your robes and nearly took out a second-year. You spotted Draco at the Slytherin table. He was sitting as far away from your usual spot as possible, staring so intensely at his green apple that you thought he might be trying to hex it.

You took a deep breath and sat directly across from him. "Morning."

Draco’s head snapped up. He looked like he hadn't slept a wink. "Morning. Yes. The sun is up. Standard morning procedure."

He reached for the teapot, but his hand was shaking so much the spout rattled against the china. "Draco, you're getting tea everywhere," you whispered.

"I am... hydrating the table," he snapped, his ears turning pink. He grabbed a napkin and started dabbing at the wood with jerky, frantic movements.

Directly next to you, Pansy and Blaise were watching the whole thing like it was a professional Quidditch match.

"Ten Galleons says he drops his fork within the next minute," Blaise whispered loudly.

"Done," Pansy replied. "I say he chokes on his pumpkin juice first."

"We can hear you!" Draco hissed, finally looking at them.

"Oh, ignore us," Pansy waved a hand dismissively. "We’re just enjoying the show. Don't mind the audience. Go back to being 'professionally' flustered. It’s adorable, really. Like watching two kittens try to figure out how a door handle works."

You tried to glare at them, but your hand accidentally brushed Draco’s as you both reached for the toast. Both of you jumped back as if you'd been hit by a Relashio jinx. You dropped your toast; he knocked over his spoon.

Clatter.

"Pay up, Pansy," Blaise chuckled, holding out his hand.

"You guys are horrible," you groaned, burying your face in your hands.

"We're your friends," Blaise corrected, leaning in. "And as your friends, it is our duty to tell you that you both look absolutely ridiculous. Just hold the girl’s hand, Draco. Your 'aristocratic dignity' left the building the second you tackled the chess board a few nights ago."

Draco looked at Blaise, then at you. His face was still a bright, humiliated red, but he slowly reached out under the table. You felt his fingers fumble for yours, eventually lacing them together. His palm was a bit sweaty, and he was gripping you far too tight, but he finally looked at you with a tiny smirk.

"Shut up, Blaise," Draco muttered, finally taking a bite of his apple.

feat. bff!Draco Malfoy x fem!reader SUMMARY: Your bff Draco having a crush on you but y/n being oblivious af CW: FLUFF FLUFF FLUFF AS FLUFFY AS A PUFFSKEIN

a/n: Beginner writer. Hope you all like it!! Tell me if you would like a part 2.

-----

The winter chill was seeped into the very stones of Hogwarts, and you were currently shivering over your breakfast. You had been so rushed to get to the Great Hall to meet Draco that you’d forgotten your cloak in the common room.

"You're a literal menace to yourself, Y/N," a familiar, drawling voice snapped from behind you.

Before you could turn around, a heavy, warm weight was draped over your shoulders. It was a Slytherin scarf—silky, expensive, and smelling strongly of sandalwood. Draco slid onto the bench beside you, looking annoyed as he adjusted the wool around your neck with sharp, jerky movements.

"I'm fine, Draco, really," you said, offering him a bright, appreciative smile. "You didn't have to."

"Clearly I did," he muttered, reaching over to flick your forehead lightly. "You’re sitting here turning blue. Honestly, how you’ve survived sixteen years without me constantly monitoring your basic survival is a mystery. You're remarkably stupid for someone with such high grades."

You just chuckled, pulling the scarf tighter. "That's what best friends are for, right?"

Draco’s hand, which had been reaching for a piece of toast, stiffened. He let out a sharp, frustrated huff and turned his attention to his pumpkin juice, refusing to look at you. "Right. 'Friends.' Brilliant."

Later that afternoon, the two of you were walking through the snow-covered courtyard. You were animatedly telling him about a boy from Ravenclaw who had asked for your help with a Charms essay.

"He was really sweet about it, Draco! He even offered to buy me a Butterbeer in Hogsmeade as a thank you."

Draco stopped walking so abruptly you almost tripped. He turned to face you, his pale face flushed—not from the cold, but from sheer irritation. "A thank you? Y/N, use that brain I know is in there. He isn't asking for a tutor; he’s asking for a date."

You blinked, confused. "No, he was just being polite. We're just being friendly. Like we are!"

Draco’s jaw tightened. He stepped closer, his shadow towering over you. "We are nothing like that. I don't help you with your Potions homework because I'm 'polite.' I do it because you’d probably set the dungeon on fire otherwise."

"See? Friendly!" you chirped, patting his arm.

Draco looked like he wanted to scream into the void. He reached out and grabbed the ends of the scarf he’d lent you earlier, tugging it so you were pulled a few inches closer to him. He stared down at you, his silver eyes searching yours for any sign that you were teasing him. But all he saw was your usual, kind, oblivious expression.

"You are the most frustrating person I have ever met," he whispered, his voice losing its bite and turning into something much softer, much more pained.

"I know, I know," you teased. "But you love me anyway."

Draco froze. The air between you seemed to crackle. He let go of the scarf and shoved his hands deep into his pockets, looking away quickly. "Don't be arrogant. It doesn't suit you."

By evening, you were tucked away in your usual corner of the library. You were leaning your head on Draco’s shoulder as you both read. To you, this was just what best friends did. To Draco, it was torture.

You felt him shift, and you looked up to find him staring at you. Not just looking—staring.

"What? Do I have ink on my face?" you asked, reaching up to rub your cheek.

"No," Draco said quietly. He reached out, his thumb catching the corner of your lip to wipe away a stray crumb. His touch was lingering, his thumb moving slower than it needed to. His eyes were fixed on your mouth, his breathing turning shallow.

"Draco?" you whispered, finally feeling a tiny spark of something—a strange flutter in your stomach you hadn't felt before.

He snapped out of it instantly, pulling his hand back as if he’d been burned. He stood up so fast his chair screeched against the floor.

"I'm going to bed," he snapped, gathering his books with trembling hands. "And for Merlin's sake, Y/N, put a proper coat on tomorrow. I’m tired of you stealing my things."

As he walked away, you watched the back of his neck turn that familiar, tell-tale shade of red. You pulled his scarf higher, burying your nose in the scent of sandalwood, finally starting to wonder if "best friends" usually looked at each other the way he had just looked at you. -----

That weekend, the snow was falling in thick, heavy flakes over Hogsmeade. You were standing outside Honeydukes, looking for the Ravenclaw boy, Cedric (a different Cedric, of course), who had asked for that "Charms help."

Draco was standing right next to you, looking like a thundercloud. He had his hands shoved deep in his pockets, his chin tucked into his high collar, and he was radiating pure, concentrated "don't talk to us" energy.

"There he is!" you said, waving as the boy approached.

"Oh, joy," Draco drawled, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "The scholar arrives."

The Ravenclaw boy smiled nervously as he reached you. "Hi, Y/N. I’m glad you could make it. I was thinking we could grab a booth at The Three Broomsticks and go over that Wand Motion theory?"

Before you could even open your mouth to agree, Draco stepped forward, effectively putting himself between you and the other boy. He didn't yell; instead, he put on his most bored, aristocratic expression—the one that made him look like he owned the entire village.

"Actually," Draco said, his voice smooth and deceptively calm, "Y/N won't be able to stay long. We have a very strict schedule today."

The boy blinked. "Oh? I thought we had an hour or two."

Draco leaned in slightly, a smug, proprietary smirk playing on his lips. "Afraid not. We have several… private sessions booked for the rest of the afternoon. We usually spend hours locked away in the common room or the dorms for them. Very intense. Very draining."

The Ravenclaw boy’s eyes went wide. His gaze flickered from Draco’s possessive stance to the fact that you were wearing Draco’s green-and-silver scarf. His face turned a deep shade of beet-red. "Oh! I… I see. Private sessions. Right. I didn't realize you two were… well, I’ll just leave you to it then! Sorry for bothering you!"

He turned and practically ran toward the Post Office.

You watched him go, completely bewildered. "That was weird. Why did he look so embarrassed? And since when are we 'draining' ourselves with private sessions?"

Draco turned back to you, the smugness remaining on his face even as his own cheeks took on a slight pink tint. "He probably just realized how boring Charms theory is compared to our plans."

"But Draco," you said, tilting your head, "it's just a Wizard’s Chess tournament. We’ve been playing for three years. Why did you make it sound so serious?"

Draco let out a long, frustrated groan, his head dropping back as he looked at the sky. "Because it is serious, Y/N! You’re currently three wins ahead of me, and I need the 'private' time to crush your defensive strategy. It’s a matter of Malfoy honor."

"You're so dramatic," you laughed, reaching out to fix his hair, which was getting dusted with snow. "But if you wanted to play Chess so badly, you could have just asked. You didn't have to scare him off."

Draco went still as your freezing fingers brushed his forehead. He sighed, reaching up to grab your hand. Instead of pulling it away, he tucked your hand into the pocket of his own heavy coat, holding it firmly.

"You're freezing again. Merlin, you're so stupid. Why do I even bother with you?" he grumbled, though he didn't let go of your hand.

"Because I'm your best friend," you said simply, leaning your head against his arm as you walked.

"Yeah," Draco whispered, his thumb absentmindedly stroking the back of your hand inside the pocket. "Best friends. Now come on, I’ve got a new 'Knight's Gambit' I’ve been practicing, and I'm going to destroy you."

As you headed back toward the castle, Draco kept his head high and his expression cold for anyone passing by, but inside his pocket, his grip on your hand was tight, protective, and unmistakably nervous.

Back in the Slytherin common room, the fire was roaring, casting dancing shadows over the oversized Chessboard between you. You were curled up in a velvet armchair, still wearing his scarf, while Draco sat opposite you, looking intensely focused.

But he wasn't focused on the board. He was focused on the way your hair fell over your shoulder.

"It's your move, Draco," you whispered.

"I know that," he snapped, though he didn't move a piece. He was watching the way you bit your lip while contemplating your strategy. He felt the familiar, terrifying pull in his chest—the one that made him want to say something incredibly un-Malfoy-like.

He moved his Knight blindly. "Check," he muttered.

"Draco… my Queen is right there," you pointed out, giggling as you slid your piece forward. "That’s the third move in a row you’ve messed up. Are you feeling okay?"

"I'm fine!" he barked, his face flushing. "The lighting in here is just rubbish. And you're… you're making too much noise."

"I haven't said a word," you teased, leaning forward. "You're just distracted because I'm winning."

You reached across the board to pat his hand, a gesture of "best friend" comfort you’d done a thousand times. But this time, Draco didn't pull away or make a sarcastic comment. He caught your hand mid-air.

The air in the common room suddenly felt very thin. The crackling of the fire was the only sound in the room. You looked at him, confused, but the words died in your throat. Draco wasn't looking at the Chessboard anymore. He was looking at you with an expression that was raw, frustrated, and deeply, quietly desperate.

"You really are stupid, aren't you?" he breathed, his voice barely a whisper.

"Huh? Draco—"

He didn't let you finish. He leaned across the Wizard's Chessboard, knocking over the Kings and Queens with a clatter, and pressed his lips to yours.

It wasn't like the books. It was desperate and shaky, smelling of sandalwood and winter air. Your heart stopped. His hands were tangled in the ends of the scarf he’d lent you, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you.

And then, just as quickly as it started, he pulled back.

Both of you froze.

The Chess pieces lay scattered and broken on the floor. Draco’s silver eyes were wide, his breath coming in short, jagged gasps, his face a vivid, burning red. You sat there, your hand still hovering where he had caught it, your lips tingling and your brain completely blank.

Neither of you moved. Neither of you spoke. The fire popped in the grate, and the silence stretched between you — heavy, terrifying, and utterly life-changing.

---

feat. Draco Malfoy x fem!reader SUMMARY: Draco hating you but is secretly obsessed??? CW: bullying, obsession, they're both kinda freaky idk, no smut but maybe a tiny bit suggestive?, mc and draco are both sick in the head

a/n: My very first fanfiction! Happy Reading!

---

The halls of Hogwarts always felt colder in the dungeons, but for you, the chill was a comfort. Being a Slytherin meant being ambitious and cunning, but you chose to pair those traits with a kindness that most of your housemates found baffling.

To Draco Malfoy, it was offensive. Or so he claimed.

It was a Tuesday afternoon, and you were walking toward the Great Hall when a sharp shoulder slammed into yours. You stumbled, your books nearly spilling across the stone floor.

"Watch where you’re going, Y/N," Draco sneered, his silver eyes flashing with a familiar, practiced disdain. "You’re far too busy smiling at Hufflepuffs to notice what’s right in front of you. You’re a disgrace to this house. Pathetic, really."

He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper as he noticed the small, expensive box of Honeydukes chocolates sitting on top of your bag— a gift you’d found in your locker that morning.

"And who left you those?" he scoffed, gesturing at the chocolates with a curl of his lip. "Probably a charity case. Some pathetic soul felt sorry for the girl who tries too hard to be nice. No one would actually like you for real, Y/N. It’s a pity gift."

He pushed past you, his hand lingering on your arm just a second too long—a firm, unnecessary grip that sent a jolt through his fingers before he ripped them away. You watched him walk off, his stride confident and arrogant.

What Draco didn't know was that you were much more observant than he gave you credit for. You noticed how he always seemed to "accidentally" be in the North Corridor right when you finished Ancient Runes. You noticed how his eyes tracked you across the Common Room, tracing the line of your jaw with a hunger he couldn't quite mask.

But mostly, you noticed what went missing—and what appeared.

A quill you’d used all week would vanish, only to be replaced the next morning by a rare, enchanted inkwell left anonymously on your desk. A ribbon would go missing from your hair, and a day later, a silver hair pin would be tucked into your textbook.

Later that evening, while Draco was down at Quidditch practice, you slipped into the boys' dormitory. You knew exactly where he kept his secrets. Beneath a loose floorboard under his bed sat a small, velvet-lined box.

You opened it, feeling a smirk tug at your lips. There they were. Every "lost" item of yours from the last three months was neatly organized. On top of the pile was your favorite handkerchief. You picked it up, pressing it to your nose; it smelled faintly of his expensive sandalwood perfume and the peppermint frogs he liked to snack on.

You knew he slept with this. You’d seen the way he tucked his hand into his robe pocket during Charms, his thumb rubbing against the soft fabric just to ground himself.

You stepped out into the common room just as Draco walked in, looking windswept and irritable. When his eyes landed on you, he immediately sneered, his mask snapping back into place.

"Still hanging around where you aren't wanted, Y/N?" he spat, stepping into your personal space to intimidate you. "You look ridiculous. Get out of my way."

You didn't flinch. Instead, you leaned in, catching the scent of the hair tie he had hidden beneath his cuffs—the one he’d just been smelling minutes before. You let your gaze drop to his wrist, then looked back up into his stormy eyes with a soft, knowing smile.

"Of course, Draco," you whispered, your voice sweet as honey. "I'd hate to be a charity case."

As you walked away, you didn't need to look back to know he was frozen in place. You knew he was reaching for his wrist, desperate to touch a piece of you, never realizing that you were the one holding all the cards.

Who's the pathetic one now?

The heavy oak door to the boys' dormitory swung shut behind Draco with a dull thud. He was agitated, his skin still prickling from that encounter in the common room. The way you had whispered “charity case” back to him—with that knowing, serene little smile—had sent a bolt of cold panic through his chest.

He threw his Quidditch robes onto his trunk and ran a hand through his white-blonde hair, pacing the small space between the beds.

Then, he stopped.

He took a sharp breath, his nostrils flaring. The scent hit him like a physical weight. It was subtle, but to him, it was deafening: the light, floral notes of your perfume, mixed with the faint scent of the vanilla lotion you used every morning.

It didn't belong here. This room should smell like broom wax, old parchment, and the damp stone of the dungeons. But right now, it smelled like you.

"No," he whispered to the empty room, his voice cracking slightly.

He spun around, his eyes darting to every corner. He checked behind the velvet curtains of his four-poster bed. He checked the shadows by the wardrobe. Empty.

He walked over to his bed and sat down heavily, his heart hammering against his ribs. He leaned forward, burying his face in his hands, only to realize the scent was strongest right here, on his own pillows.

"I'm losing it," he muttered into his palms. "I've finally gone mad."

He was convinced his obsession had finally fractured his mind. He spent so much time memorizing your schedule— knowing that at 10:15 AM you’d be walking past the library, or that on Friday afternoons you sat in the third window nook of the Slytherin lounge—that his brain was now projecting you into his private sanctuary.

He reached down, his fingers trembling as he pried up the loose floorboard beneath his bed. He pulled out the velvet-lined box, his breath hitching. Everything was there. The quill, the handkerchief, the bookmark.

He pulled your silk hair tie from his wrist—the one he’d been hiding beneath his cuffs—and compared it to the items in the box. His hands were shaking so hard the silk fluttered.

"She wasn't here," he reassured himself, though his voice sounded hollow. "How could she be? The wards… the stairs…"

He pressed his face into your hair tie, inhaling deeply. It was the only thing that calmed the storm in his head, yet today, it only made the paranoia worse. The air in the room was still thick with you. It felt as if you had just been sitting right where he was, watching him, judging him.

He stood up abruptly, shoving the box back into its hiding place and slamming the floorboard down. He needed to leave. He needed air.

As he reached for the door handle, he caught his reflection in the tall silver mirror. He looked haunted. His pale skin was flushed, and his eyes were wide and unfocused.

“Who’s the pathetic one now?” The thought echoed in his head, though he didn't know why. He felt like a predator who had suddenly realized he was being watched through a glass wall.

He stepped back out into the corridor, his eyes scanning the shadows for a flash of your hair or the hem of your robes. He was certain he was being hunted by a ghost of his own making, never realizing that the "nice" girl he bullied had left that scent behind as a breadcrumb, just to watch him crumble.

The following morning in the Potions dungeon, the air was thick with the steam of brewing cauldrons and the sharp scent of crushed herbs. Draco was a mess. There were faint dark circles under his eyes, and his hands were uncharacteristically clumsy as he tried to slice his Valerian roots.

His mind was still trapped in his dorm room, haunted by the phantom scent of your perfume. Every time he closed his eyes, he smelled you. Every time he heard a floorboard creak, he thought it was you.

"Malfoy, if you add that much powdered moonstone, you’ll blow us all to the Astronomy Tower," you said softly, appearing at his elbow.

Draco jumped, his knife clattering onto the table. He whipped around, his face instantly contorting into a mask of cold arrogance to hide his racing heart.

"Mind your own business, Y/N," he snapped, though his voice lacked its usual bite. "I don’t need advice from a girl who spends more time being 'nice' than actually studying. Go back to your own cauldron before you infect mine with your… mediocrity."

But you didn't move. Instead, you leaned over his table, reaching past him to adjust his heat setting. As you did, you deliberately brushed your arm against his—a slow, lingering contact of skin against skin.

Draco stiffened, his breath hitching. He could feel the warmth of you through his sleeve, and for a second, he forgot how to breathe.

"You look tired, Draco," you whispered, your voice barely audible over the bubbling of the cauldrons. You looked up at him, your eyes wide and seemingly full of concern. "You haven't been sleeping well lately, have you? You’ve been so… restless."

Draco’s silver eyes widened. He felt a cold sweat break out on the back of his neck.

"How would you know that?" he hissed, leaning down so his face was inches from yours, his expression menacing. "Been lurking in the shadows, have you? Looking for more people to annoy with your charity work?"

You didn't flinch at his tone. You just tilted your head, a tiny, innocent smile playing on your lips—the kind of smile that didn't reach your eyes, which remained sharp and observant.

"Oh, I just notice things," you said airily. "Like how you always check your cuffs when you think no one is looking. Or how you’ve started pacing your room until two in the morning. It’s quite a loud habit, you know."

Draco felt the world tilt. He thought he was the one doing the watching. He thought he was the one who knew your every move, your every corridor, your every habit. The realization hit him like a physical blow: you hadn't just been a target. You had been a spectator.

"You…" he started, his voice a low growl of pure panic and confusion. "You’ve been watching me?"

"Watching you?" You laughed softly, the sound tinkling through the dungeon. You reached out and straightened his collar, your fingers grazing the skin of his neck just long enough to make his hair stand on end. "Don't be silly, Draco. That would be pathetic, wouldn't it? And you've told me so many times that I'm the pathetic one."

You gave his collar one last pat and stepped back, picking up your ingredients.

"Try to get some rest tonight," you added, casting one more look over your shoulder. "The scent of stress doesn't suit you as well as… other things do."

You walked back to your station, leaving Draco standing frozen over a ruined potion. His heart was hammering against his ribs so hard it hurt. He reached into his wrist and gripped your stolen hair tie, but for the first time, it didn't bring him comfort. It felt like a trap.

He looked across the room at you, and you caught his eye, giving him that same sweet, devastatingly innocent smile.

He had spent months thinking he was the predator. He was starting to realize he was the prey.

The library was a labyrinth of shadows after hours, the scent of old parchment and dust hanging heavy in the air. Draco waited in the Restricted Section, tucked behind a shelf of crumbling herbology texts. He was vibrating with a frantic energy, his fingers obsessively twisting the stolen hair tie hidden on his wrist.

He knew you’d be here. He had your schedule burned into his brain—Tuesday nights, 8:00 PM, the back corner table near the window.

When you finally appeared, walking gracefully through the aisles with a stack of books pressed to your chest, he didn't wait. He stepped out of the darkness, his hand shooting out to grab your wrist, pulling you back into the narrow, lightless gap between the shelves.

"Alright, enough," he hissed, pinning you against the mahogany wood. He was close enough that he could see the reflection of his own panicked face in your calm, dark eyes. "What are you doing, Y/N? The comments in Potions… the 'noticing' things… What do you think you're playing at?"

Even now, trapped against a shelf by the boy who bullied her for years, you didn't look afraid. You looked… bored.

"I'm just returning books, Draco," you said, your voice a cool silk. "Though I'm surprised you're here. I thought you'd be busy in your room… tending to your collection."

Draco’s breath hitched. His grip on your wrist tightened, but his hand was trembling. "My what?"

"The floorboard, Draco," you whispered, leaning forward until your lips were inches from his ear. "Third one from the left under your bed. It’s a bit loose. You really should fix that."

Draco’s face went ghost-white. He let go of your wrist as if you’d suddenly turned into a serpent. He felt exposed, stripped bare in the middle of the library.

"You've been in my room," he choked out, his voice cracking. "You… you're a freak. You're obsessed with me. I knew you were pathetic, but breaking into a boy's dormitory to spy on him? That’s low, even for a 'nice' girl like you."

He tried to summon his usual sneer, his usual Malfoy bravado, but it crumbled when you started to laugh. It wasn't a loud laugh, just a soft, melodic chuckle that felt like a needle to his pride.

"Me? Obsessed?" You stepped toward him, forcing him to back up into the shelves. "Draco, I only went in there to see where all my things were going. Imagine my surprise when I found a little shrine."

You reached out, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw, lingering on his pulse point—which was drumming like a trapped bird.

"I know about the hair tie Draco," you murmured. "I know you smell my handkerchief to fall asleep. I know you memorize my corridors so you can 'accidentally' touch me. I let you do it because I wanted to see how far you'd go. So tell me…"

You grabbed his hand—the one with the silk tie on his wrist and looked at it.

"Who’s the one stalking who? Who’s the one who can’t breathe unless they’ve stolen a piece of me to keep in a box?"

Draco was hyperventilating now, his back pressed hard against the books. The power dynamic hadn't just shifted; it had completely inverted.

"I hate you," he whispered, though his eyes were wide with a terrifying mixture of shame and desperate want.

"No, you don't," you replied, your voice dropping to a dangerous, sweet low. You reached into his robe pocket, your fingers brushing his chest, and pulled out a small silver trinket—a charm he had stolen from you weeks ago. "You’re absolutely terrified of me. Because for all your talk about me being a 'disgrace' to Slytherin, I’m the only one who saw right through you."

You leaned in and pressed a lingering, soft kiss to his cheek—right near the corner of his mouth—leaving him stunned and breathless.

"Keep the hair tie, Draco," you whispered, turning to walk away. "You look like you need it more than I do."

As you disappeared into the shadows of the library, Draco sank to the floor, his mind spinning in circles. He had tried to break you for six years, only to realize you had been holding the leash the entire time.

The day following the library encounter had been agonizing for Draco. He had spent every meal staring at his plate, his skin crawling with the sensation of your eyes on him. He had skipped his last two classes, unable to face the "innocent" smiles you kept sending him from across the rooms.

By the time night fell, he was a wreck. He was back in his dormitory, the heavy silence of the dungeons pressing in on him. He had spent the last hour pacing, his fingers raw from twisting the stolen hair tie. He felt like he was being hunted in his own home.

He finally sat on the edge of his bed, his head in his hands, when he smelled it again. That unmistakable, soft scent of vanilla and floral perfume.

He didn't even look up. He knew.

"You're back," he whispered, his voice thick with a mix of dread and relief.

"I never really left, Draco," you said softly from the shadows of his curtains.

He looked up to find you sitting there, leaning against his pillows as if you owned the room. You were toying with a silver quill—one of yours that he had stolen three weeks ago. You looked down at him with a calm, almost clinical interest.

"I was thinking about what you said in the library," you murmured, sliding at the end of the bed to sit beside him. "About me being 'low.' About me being a 'freak.' Is that still how you feel?"

Draco looked at you, and the last of his resistance simply evaporated. The mask he had worn since he was a child—the Malfoy arrogance, the bullying, the sneers—didn't just slip; it shattered.

He slid off the bed and sank to his knees on the cold stone floor between your feet. He didn't care how it looked. He didn't care about his dignity. He reached out, his hands trembling as he rested them on your waist, and then he leaned his chin onto your knee, looking up at you with wide, desperate eyes.

"No," he choked out, his voice cracking. "I… I’m the freak. I’m the one who can’t stop. Please, Y/N. I’m begging you… just tell me what you want me to be."

You looked down at him, your expression softening into that terrifyingly sweet "nice" girl look. You reached down, your fingers sliding into his soft, white-blonde hair, petting him with slow, deliberate strokes.

"Good boy," you whispered, a small, triumphant smile tugging at your lips. "I want you to be exactly like this. Quiet. Loyal. Mine."

"I'm all yours." he breathed, closing his eyes and leaning into your touch like a starving man.

You leaned down, your hands framing his pale face. "Then show me," you commanded.

Draco didn't hesitate. He pulled your tie towards him, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that was frantic and desperate. It was the culmination of six years of repressed obsession, of every "accidental" bump in the hall and every item stolen in secret. He groaned into the kiss, his fingers digging into the fabric of your tie as he worshipped you.

CREAK.

The dormitory door swung open. Pansy Parkinson stood there, her eyes wide as she clutched a stack of books she was meant to return to him.

"Draco, I found your—"

She stopped. Her mouth fell open, books slipping from her fingers and hitting the floor with a series of dull thuds.

There was Draco Malfoy. On his knees. His chin was resting submissively on your knee as you pulled back from the kiss, your hand still buried in his hair, petting him like a mooncalf. He didn't even turn around to look at her; he was too busy staring at you with a look of pure, unadulterated adoration.

"Pansy," you said brightly, your voice as sweet as ever, though your eyes were cold and sharp. "You really should learn to knock. Draco and I were just… reaching an understanding."

Pansy didn't say a word. She backed out of the room, her face pale with shock, realizing that the girl she had mocked for being "too nice" had just brought the Prince of Slytherin to his knees.

The following morning, the Great Hall was a sea of murmurs and the clinking of silverware, but the Slytherin table was uncharacteristically quiet.

Pansy Parkinson sat huddled over her black coffee, her hands shaking. Every time she looked at you—sitting there calmly, spreading marmalade on your toast with a serene smile—she felt a chill crawl up her spine. She opened her mouth to lean toward Blaise, to whisper the scandalous truth of what she had seen in the boys' dormitory, but she felt a heavy presence settle beside her.

Draco slid into the seat next to Pansy. He looked better than he had in weeks; the dark circles under his eyes were gone, replaced by a strange, sharp focus. He didn't look at his breakfast. He looked at you.

"Pansy," Draco said, his voice low and dangerously smooth.

Pansy jumped, nearly spilling her drink. "Yes, Draco?"

"You look like you have something on your mind," he murmured, his silver eyes finally cutting toward her. There was no bullying in his gaze, no sneer—only a cold, absolute warning. It was the look of a man who had found his god and would burn anyone who dared to speak light of her. "I’d suggest you keep your thoughts to yourself. Unless you want to find out just how 'nice' Y/N can really be."

Pansy swallowed hard, her jaw tightening as she looked from Draco’s possessive stare back to your innocent face. She stayed silent.

As the weeks passed, the "weirdness" only intensified. To the rest of Hogwarts, nothing had officially changed. You weren't "together." There were no public displays of affection, no hand-holding in the corridors, and certainly no romantic declarations.

In public, Draco still acted the part of the arrogant prince. He would still "accidentally" bump into you in the halls, his shoulder hitting yours with enough force to make you stumble. He would still scoff and call you a "disgrace" when you helped a first-year find their classroom.

But now, when he did it, you would catch the flicker of desperation in his eyes—the way he practically vibrated with the need for your touch. And when he called you "pathetic," you would simply lean in and whisper a single word into his ear:

"Kneel."

The word would send a visible shiver through him, his face flushing as he struggled to maintain his mask in front of his peers.

The stealing hadn't stopped, either. If anything, it had become a game. You would leave things for him to find—a ribbon, a ring you "forgot" at the library table, a letter addressed to no one.

In return, your locker was constantly filled with anonymous, extravagant gifts. Emerald necklaces, rare books, and the finest chocolates from Hogsmeade. Draco would stand across the hall, mocking you for being a "charity case" while his own money sat in your pocket.

Every few nights, you would return to his room. You would find him exactly where you expected: sitting on the floor by his bed, waiting for the click of the door. He wouldn't speak. He would just crawl to your feet, resting his head on your lap while you read your textbooks, his fingers ghosting over the hem of your robes.

He was your secret, and you were his obsession. You weren't a couple, and you weren't friends. You were something much more volatile—a predator and her willing captive, hiding in plain sight.

As you walked out of the Great Hall that morning, Draco followed two paces behind you, his eyes fixed on the back of your head. You caught your reflection in a suit of armor and smiled. You didn't need a title or a relationship. You had something much better.