draco x reader headcanons... I can't believe it's been nearly five years since I've posted anything hp related. masterlist || navigation || ao3

“This is so stupid,” Draco huffs, kneeling down beside you to help hold the baby Augery you found outside. Its wing is a tad bit misshapen, presumably a genetic mutation, and the reason it cannot fly off the ground.  You lift your eyes to Draco, a smile so infectious he has to look away, or he’ll crack his own. “Don’t be so silly, Malfoy.” You tell him, pulling your wand out to cast a healing spell on the poor Augery. “Look how cute he is,” you say, watching as the wing goes into proper form. He rolls his eyes, “Yeah, yeah. I suppose he’s a bit cute, eh?” 

requested 𐐪♡𐑂 | nsfw!! minors pls dni!! | 150ish words | some visions of dirty bf draco

Pride Against Pride

Pairing: Draco Malfoy x fem!reader

Summary: When a study session with your boyfriend turned turns into bickering, it quickly becomes a battle of pride, neither you nor Draco were willing to admit who’s wrong

Warnings: no use of y/n

Cw: fluff kinda

Wc: 1k

A/n:  short one for now bc a new series is coming soonnnn and also yes I’m posting every day… I write at night before I sleep and just queue everything like a maniac cause I’m literally free this whole two weeks lol

It had started, like most things between you and Draco, with one of you being wrong.

The problem was that both of you were too stubborn to admit they’re wrong.

You were sitting across from each other at your usual table in the Slytherin common room, the one closest to the fire that you had silently claimed as yours. Books were open, parchment was everywhere, and at some point in the last hour the studying had quietly turned into an argument, the way it always did, the way you both privately looked forward to even though neither of you would ever say so out loud.

"That's wrong," Draco said, not even looking up from his essay.

"It's not wrong."

"It's literally wrong."

"Draco, I swear—"

"Swear all you want," he said, finally glancing up at you with that expression — the calm and unbothered cause he knew he had you — "you're still wrong."

You grabbed the textbook and flipped it open with more force than necessary, the pages fanning out before you found the right one. You slid it across the table so hard it nearly knocked over his inkpot. He caught it without even flinching, which was deeply annoying, steadying it with one hand while he read the page with the other. It took him about five seconds. Then he looked up at you with the single most irritating expression you had ever seen on a human face in your entire life.

"Fine," he said.

You blinked. "Fine what?"

"You're right."

There was a pause while you processed that. "What?"

"Don't make me say it again."

"No, no, hold on," you said, sitting up straighter, "I want to make absolutely sure I heard that correctly, because I could've sworn that you just said—"

"I will take it back."

"You literally cannot take back being wrong—"

"Watch me," he said simply, and pulled the textbook back toward him.

You grabbed it. He grabbed it back without missing a beat, and suddenly you were both holding opposite ends of it, leaning forward across the cluttered table toward each other. He raised one eyebrow, slow and deliberate, like he was daring you to do something about it. You were very aware that his face was about a foot from yours. You were not going to think about that.

"Let go," you said.

"You let go."

"I had it first."

"I need it for my essay," he said pleasantly.

"You just said I was right, so clearly you've already learned what you needed to—"

"I said you were right once," he said, "not that I'd learned anything from it."

From across the common room, Blaise looked up from his own homework for what had to be the fourth time. He looked at Pansy, who was sitting beside him on the sofa with her chin in her hand, watching the two of you with patient, hollow-eyed expression of someone who had been through this many times before and had quietly stopped expecting it to end any differently.

"Are they flirting or fighting?" a fifth year whispered from one of the armchairs.

"I genuinely cannot tell anymore," someone else whispered back.

You let go of the textbook at the exact same moment Draco did. It dropped flat on the table between you with a dull thud. He smoothed down the pages very calmly with his palm, taking his time about it, unbothered in the way that only someone who had won could afford to be unbothered. You pushed your hair back, straightened your parchment, and looked back at your own essay with the dignity of someone who had absolutely not just been in a tug of war over a Potions textbook.

The fire crackled. Someone on the sofa turned a page.

"You have ink on your face," Draco said, after a moment.

You looked up. "Where?"

He didn't answer. Instead he leaned across the table, reaching over all the clutter between you, and wiped it off your cheek with his thumb. He did things like that sometimes without making it a big deal— small, quiet things and the worst part was that it always caught you off guard no matter how many times it happened. It was kind of his way showing you, he cared.

He sat back and picked up his quill like nothing had happened.

"You could've just told me," you said.

"That was faster," he said, eyes on his essay.

"It really wasn't."

He didn't answer, which meant he knew you were right about that one and wasn't going to give you the satisfaction.

You looked back at your own parchment, trying to find your place again. The common room had settled back into its usual quiet, the fire warm at your side, the dark water of the lake pressing soft and still against the windows. Normally this was the part of the evening where the two of you actually got work done, riding the calm on the other side of whatever argument had just burned itself out. Normally.

"Your essay has a mistake in the second paragraph," Draco said.

You didn't look up. "No it doesn't."

"Third line."

"It's fine, Draco."

"It's going to cost you marks," he said.

"My essay," you said, setting your quill down and looking up at him, "is perfect."

He looked at you over the top of his parchment with an expression that was doing a lot of work. His eyes were calm and grey and faintly lit up in a way that had nothing to do with the fire. "Nothing is perfect," he said.

"I am," you said.

Something shifted in his face. It was quick, just a flicker, like a door opening and closing before you could see inside — the way he was always almost smiling around you and pretending he wasn't. He looked back down at his essay. "Read the third line," he said.

You looked at the third line of your essay. You read it once. You read it again. You read it a third time and felt a very specific, very unpleasant feeling settle somewhere low in your stomach, the feeling of someone who is about to have to be quiet about something.

"It's fine," you said.

"It's wrong."

"It's the stylish way of writing—"

"You wrote the wrong name."

You opened your mouth.

"You wrote Golpalott," he said, very calmly, "when you meant Gamp."

There was a pause. A fairly long one.

"That's," you started, "a really easy mistake to make."

"They sound nothing alike."

"They both start with G."

"So do a lot of words," he said. "That's not a defense."

"At least Golpalott sounds better than whatever that is. Come on, who names someone Gamp."

"Just fix it,"he said, fighting the urge to crack a smile.

"I will fix it," you said, with great dignity, "when I'm ready."

He put his quill down. Slowly. Then you saw his shoulders move, just slightly, and you realised that he was laughing. Quietly, with his mouth pressed together, but laughing.

"Are you laughing at me?"

"No," he said.

"You're literally laughing at me right now."

"I would never," he said, which was such an obvious lie that it looped back around to being almost impressive.

The problem, was that him laughing made something in your chest go soft and stupid regardless of what you did about it. He had the kind of laugh he kept small and close, the kind he didn't give out to just anyone, and even when it was at your expense it still felt like something you'd been handed. You had never told him that. You were never going to tell him that.

"I hate you," you said instead.

"Fix your essay," he said.

"I genuinely, deeply hate you."

"I love you too," he said, your cheeks burned red from that sudden confession.

You picked up your quill and crossed out the third line with more force than was remotely necessary, pressing hard enough that the parchment dented. Draco watched you do it in silence, wearing the calm expression of someone who had won and was being very mature about it — which meant he was being smug, but quietly, which was somehow worse.

"Thank you," he said, when you were done.

"Don't."

"Very mature."

"Draco, I will actually—"

"Shh." He reached across the table and tapped the top of your parchment twice with two fingers, light and easy. "Write."

You looked at his hand. He hadn't pulled it back. It was just resting there, near the edge of your parchment, close to yours. You looked up at him and found him already looking back at his own essay, quill moving, like he hadn't noticed. Like it was nothing. He was very good at that — making things seem like nothing while they were quietly everything.

You turned back to your essay and started writing.

The common room had gone properly quiet now, the kind of quiet that settled in late at night when most people had drifted off to bed and left only the fire and the low sound of quills on parchment. It was the kind of quiet that you had come to think of as yours, specifically — yours and Draco's — something that existed on the other side of all the noise you made together.

After a few minutes, his pinky finger hooked over yours where your hand rested on the table. He didn't look up. He didn't say anything. It was such a small thing, barely anything at all, just the side of his hand against yours, but he did it the way he did all the quiet things.

You didn't say anything either. You just wrote, and he wrote, and the fire burned low and warm beside you.

From the sofa, Pansy glanced over at the two of you. She looked at Blaise. Blaise looked back at her. Neither of them said anything for a moment.

"They're so annoying," she said finally, quiet enough that it wouldn't carry.

"I know," Blaise said.

"It's actually kind of disgusting."

"I know," he said again, and smiled at his book, and turned the page.

summary: it’s your son’s 11th birthday and it hits you harder than you thought it would.

pairing: dad!draco malfoy x mom!reader

includes: Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy and Dione Europa Malfoy (my shaylas), fluff, comfort, little bit of angst

a/n: narcissa would be proud of the name i gave draco's daughter

You stood in front of the grand fireplace, hands resting on your hips, teeth worrying your bottom lip as you surveyed the room. Streamers curled elegantly from the ceiling, and a shimmer banner spelled out Happy Birthday, Scorpius! in flowing golden script. Everything was in place—his carefully chosen presents sat neatly in the armchair by the stained glass window, and his cake, decorated with intricate frosting patterns, was safely stored away in the fridge. Yet, despite the meticulous planning, something still felt off.

Maybe it was the colors? No, everything was adorned in Scorpius' favorites. The decorations were perfect, yet unease settled deep in your bones.

If you like these then feel free to check out my Draco x reader fanfic Moonlit Promises on Ao3 & Wattpad @ bangyxchwn0

Still Ongoing!

~ Has panic attacks regularly and he is always fidgeting with his rings or tapping his foot because he's nervous.

~ Is a very good listener but sucks at giving you response.

~ Sore looser, gets very grumpy when he looses a quidditch game.

~ Obsessed with his hygiene, probably has a whole skin and hair care routine.

~ Insomnia, so he likes to star gaze when he can't sleep.

~ He smell amazing, maybe because of how well he looks after himself but he smells so good, very citrusy and forestry.

~ Horrible at telling you any feelings he has but will write letters explaining in all in extreme detail.

~ I can't explain this one but he knows French or some other language, he just feels like the person to be bilingual lol.

✨ Draco x Reader — A day in his life (Routine Headcanons)

ᨒ ོ ☼ MORNING 𖤓 ｡𖦹°‧ ⋆☀︎.

Draco isn’t exactly a morning person. If anyone tries to wake him up early, they’ll be met with a groan. If you try to get out of bed before 10 a.m., good luck—he’ll just pull you closer and wrap his arms around you tighter, mumbling something like “Five more minutes… with you.”

His imagination tends to work against him. When you don’t answer his messages, his mind spirals into wild scenarios—usually involving magical beings or you getting stolen by some "mystic rival." His jealousy is dramatic, but deep down, it just means he misses you.

He walks around shirtless, messy-haired, and in pajamas (if you’re lucky—otherwise, just boxers), looking like a sleepy dragon himself. He leans on the doorframe, just watching you get ready with a sleepy smirk. “Damn… lucky me.”

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆𓂃 ོ☼𓂃 MIDDAY ⋆˚꩜｡

Cooking? Not his thing. If you don’t make lunch, he’s already opening a food delivery app. Though he does try to bribe you with texts like: “Make me lunch and I’ll let you pick the movie tonight… or whatever we do on the couch”

While you cook, he plays guitar right there in the kitchen, knocking into cups and ignoring every fragile object in sight. He doesn’t care—he just loves hearing your laugh when he breaks something (even if he has to clean it after).

If you go out or stop texting, he gets jealous fast. He’ll flop onto the couch with a pout, staring at his inflatable dragon like it’s his therapist: “She’s probably with that loser Fang. He always reacts to her pics… bet he thinks he’s funny.”

₊˚⛅.ೃ࿔*:🌻･ AFTERNOON ☼.°༄

He trains and practices "cool poses" in front of the mirror—says it's for his concerts, but if you’re watching, he doubles his effort.

When you visit, he puts on a whole show: spins his guitar around, flexes a little, winks, and goes: “Lookin’ stronger, huh? Just so you know, I’m the only one who gets to protect you.”

⋆°.☾⋆.ೃ࿔*:⋆ NIGHT ‧₊˚ ☾. ⋅

His favorite time of the day. He takes you up to a rooftop with his inflatable dragon, drapes his jacket over your shoulders, and lies next to you talking about his day. You listen as you both stare at the stars.

If you point out one you like, he quietly snaps a photo of it and saves it in a special folder with your name on it. Because for Draco, every night with you deserves to be remembered.