#jiraen writes 🍃

[jijournal]

NEVER GO NEAR A MALFOY| D.M

Summary: You were taught to never go near a Malfoy, ever. But how could you? He's very much unavoidable.

wc: 1.1k+

cw: potter!reader x draco, reader is twins w harry, au where voldy doesn't exist, jily is alive, kinda unsupportive james, reader and james fight.

A/N: I can't stop with the potter!reader x draco fics.😔

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

Your parents only ever gave you and Harry one command before your very first year at Hogwarts. Not “study hard,” not “stay out of trouble,” not even “stick together.” No. It was a singular warning, sharp and unwavering, as you stood on Platform 9¾ with your trunks at your feet and nerves buzzing under your skin.

James Potter crouched in front of you, eyebrows furrowed beneath his messy hair, and pointed at both of you as if branding the rule into your very soul.

“You do not go near a Malfoy,” he said with finality. “Ever,” Lily echoed, folding her arms across her chest.

You and Harry glanced at each other, unsure whether to laugh or panic. But neither of you asked questions. You didn’t have to. Their faces were carved from stone—resolute, nostalgic, and more than a little haunted.

So you promised.

And for the first few years, you kept that promise.

⸻

You were now heavily making out with Draco Malfoy.

Pressed against the stone wall behind the library, hidden in the shadows, you felt his fingers tangle in your hair as his lips moved hungrily against yours. Your heart pounded like it always did when he touched you—half from the thrill, half from the guilt.

You broke the one rule your parents gave you. And you broke it over and over again.

You didn’t mean to fall for Draco Malfoy. You really didn’t. He was cold and smug, always armed with some sharp-tongued remark. But there was something about him that you couldn’t shake—something that got under your skin.

Maybe it was the way he looked at you when he thought no one was watching. Or the way he softened, just slightly, when you were alone. Maybe it was the fact that he saw you when so few people did.

Whatever it was, you fell. Hard.

The worst part? You didn’t regret it.

Your relationship wasn’t born from passion—it was born from quiet. From shared detentions, lingering glances, sarcastic bickering that slowly melted into warmth.

It started in fifth year, during a late-night prefect patrol, when you caught Draco staring up at the stars through one of the Astronomy Tower windows.

“I thought you didn’t care about anything that wasn’t gold or pureblood,” you had teased.

“I don’t,” he’d replied, smirking. Then, after a pause:

“Except maybe this.”

He never said what “this” meant. But he didn’t have to.

You kept it hidden. For nearly a year, you and Draco became masters of secrecy. Carefully choreographed exits, notes passed in books, fleeting touches under desks. No one suspected a thing. Not your friends. Not Harry. Not your parents.

Until the day the secret fell apart.

It started with a storm.

You and Draco had snuck off to the boathouse, hoping to escape the castle for an hour. The rain came fast, wind howling against the windows. You lit your wand and wrapped yourselves in a conjured blanket, curled together on the old wooden bench. He kissed you, slow and soft, the way he always did when he was trying not to say something out loud.

And then—click.

You both froze.

In the doorway stood Colin Creevey, camera in hand, eyes wide.

“Colin,” you said, your voice weak. “You can’t—please don’t—”

But he was already running. Already shouting your name and Draco’s down the corridor.

By the time you returned to the castle, the damage was done.

You walked into the Great Hall for dinner and the noise immediately dipped into silence. Dozens of heads turned. Murmurs passed like wildfire through the room.

“Potter’s daughter and Malfoy?”

“James Potter’s going to kill him.”

“Bloody hell, are they serious?”

You held Draco’s hand anyway.

Even though Ron gawked at you like you’d lost your mind. Even though Hermione looked at you like she was calculating seventeen different ways your life was about to fall apart.

Even Harry, sitting at the far end of the Gryffindor table, stood up and walked out the moment you sat down.

He didn't talk to you for a month.

You were dreading the Easter holidays.

The moment you stepped off the train at King’s Cross, the pit in your stomach grew heavier. Your parents were waiting by the barrier, smiling—until they saw you walking hand-in-hand with Draco Malfoy.

James’s smile vanished.

Lily blinked like she was sure she was seeing things.

“Draco,” you said carefully, “maybe I’ll see you later—”

But James was already storming forward.

“Is this a joke?” he snapped. “Please tell me this is some Slytherin dare.”

“Dad—”

“No, no, no, don’t Dad me—you promised. You promised us!”

“I didn’t plan this—”

“Damn right you didn’t!” James shouted, voice cracking. “He’s a Malfoy! Do you have any idea what that family stands for?”

Draco, to his credit, didn’t say a word. He just nodded once at James, then looked at you with something unreadable in his eyes.

“I’ll see you later,” he murmured, and disappeared into the crowd.

Back home, the air was thick with silence.

Lily sat across from you at the kitchen table, her hands wrapped around a cooling cup of tea. James paced by the fireplace like a storm cloud.

“I knew you’d rebel eventually,” James muttered. “But I didn’t think you’d break our one rule.”

“I’m not rebelling,” you said. “I’m in love with him.”

The room froze.

Lily’s eyes softened. “Sweetheart…”

“He’s not Lucius,” you said, voice shaking. “He’s not cruel. He’s not obsessed with bloodlines. He’s nothing like the stories you told us.”

“And what if you’re wrong?” James asked, quieter now. “What if he hurts you?”

“Then he hurts me,” you said. “But at least it’s my choice.”

That night, you lay in your old bed, staring up at the enchanted ceiling James had painted for you when you were little—charmed to mirror the sky above Godric’s Hollow. Stars blinked back at you as your heart twisted with everything left unsaid.

You reached under your bed and pulled out the small, rectangular piece of enchanted slate. A matching one sat in Draco’s room at the Manor. You’d created them together last year in secret—a charmed chalkboard where whatever you wrote appeared on the other’s board in real time. Just one more way to stay close without being caught.

You held the chalk in your hand for a long moment, unsure what to say. But then, your fingers moved instinctively.

Are you still there?

A few seconds passed.

Then, slowly, a response appeared, the words etching themselves across the slate in Draco’s neat, angular handwriting:

I’m still here. If you still want me.

Your breath caught.

You smiled softly, heart aching with everything you felt and everything you chose.

You pressed the chalk to the board again.

Always.

You were told to never go near a Malfoy. But you did.

And now?

You’re not going back.

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

masterlist!

[jijournal]

THE GREENHOUSE EFFECT | D.M

Summary: When you're paired with Draco Malfoy for Herbology, you expected eye-rolls and dead plants. But, you don’t expect that the most sudden pairings bloom the brightest.

wc: 1.7k+

cw: Hufflepuff!reader x draco. FLUFF! FLUFF! FLUFF!, a very pouty reader who loves and names her plants.

A/N: Alright you got me. I made up some of the plants mentioned cause I got lazy going through all the canon plants in hp. I LOVE LOVE LOVE HUFFLEPUFF!READERS! 💞

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

You’d witnessed many botanical tragedies during your years in Hogwarts’ greenhouses—Mandrakes shrieking their way into fainting fits, Puffapods misfiring into clouds of spores, even a Dungbomb incident involving a Fanged Geranium with a grudge and poor aim—but nothing, not even that, prepared you for the quiet devastation that was Draco Malfoy trying to care for magical plants.

“This one’s supposed to be droopy, right?” Draco asked one chilly morning, holding up a miserable-looking Flitterbloom, his face in lost confusion. The plant sagged from his gloved fingers like a limp dishcloth, the edges tinged with black rot, its once vibrant fronds now hanging as though in mourning.

Professor Sprout audibly gasped, pressing a hand to her chest. “No, Mr. Malfoy, it most certainly is not supposed to look like that! That poor dear is drowning in water it didn’t ask for!”

You bit down on your smile, valiantly trying not to laugh. You really did try. But the look on Draco’s face—offended, a little baffled, and thoroughly disgusted—was too much. Your shoulders shook with suppressed giggles, and Professor Sprout caught your eye with a hopeful glint.

“Y/N,” she said, a little too sweetly, “would you mind pairing up with Mr. Malfoy for the rest of the term? He could use someone with your… patience.”

You blinked, unsure whether you were being punished or knighted. “You want me to help him?”

“I don’t need help,” Draco snapped, standing straighter.

“You do,” you and Sprout said at the same time, your voices perfectly overlapped. Your eyes met. She looked vindicated. Draco looked betrayed.

And that was how you became Draco Malfoy’s unofficial plant handler.

⸻

You wore flowers like armor. Always. In your hair—violets carefully tucked into your braid, a daisy behind your ear, sprigs of baby's breath pinned like secrets. Your jumpers often had tiny embroidered petals curling down the sleeves or buttons shaped like blooming buds. When people asked, you just smiled like the flowers had chosen you that morning and not the other way around. Flowers were a part of you, just like freckles were a part of others.

“Is there a reason you always dress like a sentient meadow?” Draco asked once, squinting as you buttoned up a coat stitched with little yellow marigolds that seemed to flutter when you moved.

“It’s for luck,” you said serenely, smoothing a daffodil-shaped pin at your collar. “And it makes the plants feel at home.”

He stared like you’d just offered him a slice of moonlight for breakfast. “You think the plants care what you’re wearing?”

You tilted your head, genuinely perplexed. “You don’t?”

The first incident came swiftly. You’d barely begun working together when he attempted to nudge a Puffapod into blooming. One gentle poke was all it needed—delicate, respectful. Draco prodded it like it owed him an explanation, and it exploded in a soft-pink mushroom cloud of pollen.

You stood in stunned silence, covered in fuzz, bits of petal clinging to your braid like confetti. You tried not to pout. You really did. But you ended up cross-legged on the floor, mournfully collecting the petals and whispering soft apologies.

“She just needed patience,” you murmured, fingers brushing the frayed bloom. “A bit of kindness.”

Draco sneezed and looked utterly unconvinced. “It was a plant. Not a therapy client.”

“She had a name,” you said sharply, shooting him a glare. “Lulu.”

He gave you a flat look. “You named the Puffapod?”

You met his gaze with unflinching sincerity. “I would've told you her name if you didn't blow up her sister Lala earlier this year.

He sighed. "yeah... because plants have siblings."

The next week, he crushed a Bubotuber in a moment of casual irritation. One second he was ranting about someone stealing his socks, the next he squeezed the bulb like it had personally offended him. It responded by erupting in a burst of thick, greenish goo. Draco’s shriek of horror echoed off the greenhouse walls.

“You strangled her,” you said disappointed, trying not to frown as you dabbed away goo with a Moondew sprig.

“I barely touched it!”

“You manhandled her like she owed you money.”

“It attacked me!”

“She was terrified.”

He stumbled back, covered in yellow-green sludge. “Of what? My refined bone structure?”

You crouched next to the limp plant, wand raised, murmuring a soft charm. “Of being misunderstood. She’s very shy.”

Draco groaned. “Merlin help me. Not again.”

“She has a name,” you said firmly. “Matilda.”

“Of course she does.”

With a flick of your wand and a quiet word, Matilda shivered back to life, wiggling slightly in your palm. You leaned in and whispered something that made her glow faintly. She’d forgiven him. Barely.

“She’s a menace,” he muttered.

“She’s sensitive,” you corrected, stroking her stem.

Draco stared at you like he was trying to decide if this was some elaborate Hufflepuff prank. You smiled serenely and tucked a fallen blossom behind your ear.

By the fourth week, Draco had managed to offend a Flutterfern, enrage a Shrivelfig, and traumatize a Fanged Geranium into permanent wilt. The final straw came when he took pruning shears to a Venomous Tentacula like he was avenging a personal vendetta. It lashed out in protest, its tendrils flailing before curling in on themselves, whimpering.

You didn’t speak to him for the next twenty minutes.

Instead, you crouched beside the wounded plant, gently gathering its injured tendrils in your hands. You rocked slightly, whispering something ancient and low—more lullaby than incantation. Slowly, the Tentacula calmed. Its color returned in hesitant pulses. One vine curled around your wrist, tentative and grateful.

“You’ve got to be doing this on purpose,” Draco muttered from the other side of the greenhouse. “No one’s that bad at plants unless they’re cursed. Or a Gryffindor.”

You glanced up, your voice dry. “You think I’d hex my own greenhouse just to make you look bad?”

“Yes,” he said without hesitation. “With great pleasure.”

You dusted soil from your cheek with a dramatic flourish. “I’m petty, Malfoy. Not suicidal.”

He eyed you, then your boots. “You’ve got roses on your socks.”

“They’re embroidered,” you replied, lifting your foot slightly to show him. “Climbing roses. Very resilient. A bit clingy.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Like you?”

You grinned. “Like you.”

His ears turned pink.

The sixth time was different. He didn’t kill the plant. He merely terrified it.

A small Mandrake sat trembling on its roots while Draco hovered uncertainly nearby, brow furrowed, tongue between his teeth in sheer concentration, wondering how the hell did you manage to stop a mandrake from crying. You watched from a few feet away, arms crossed, trying not to interfere.

“If you’re going to loom like that,” Draco muttered, glancing sideways, “you might as well do it yourself.”

“I’m observing,” you said proudly. “You’re improving. That Mandrake hasn’t flinched in at least two minutes.”

“It keeps looking at me.”

“you mean, He. Well, duh he has eyes. Of course he's looking at you.”

“Judgmentally.”

“That’s a compliment,” you said. “He doesn’t usually acknowledge people he dislikes.”

Draco scowled, but the Mandrake remained intact. Which, for him, was practically a miracle. When he wasn’t looking, you snuck the plant a leaf treat. It quivered happily.

Later that afternoon, while you adjusted the angle of a sunlamp for your Asphodel, you sensed Draco stepping beside you. He didn’t say anything at first, just hovered—an odd, uncertain weight in the air. Then his voice came, softer than usual.

“You missed a spot.”

You turned, confused, just as he reached out. His thumb brushed a smudge of soil from your cheek, lingering a second too long. You froze.

The world narrowed. You forgot the cold, the damp, the faint buzzing of Pixie-flies overhead. For one suspended breath, it was just you, him, and the inch of air between your faces.

He cleared his throat abruptly and pulled his hand back. “You had… dirt. On your face.”

“Oh.” You touched the spot instinctively. “Thanks.”

He turned away, cheeks faintly pink. You didn’t say anything. Your heart was too loud.

⸻

All term, you’d been tending to a single Moonlily in the corner of Greenhouse Three. Once silver-bright, it had withered into something curled and gray, like it had forgotten what light felt like. Every class, you brought it a fresh blossom, whispered to it like an old friend. “I’m still here,” you told it. “Come back when you’re ready.”

Draco never asked about it. But he noticed. You caught him glancing at it when he thought you weren’t looking. Watching the way you cared.

And then came the last day of term.

Most students had left for the holidays. Snow pressed against the greenhouse windows, and frost dusted the vines in glittering white. You were alone, brushing a light dusting of ice from the soil, when you heard the sound of footsteps.

Draco.

He looked a little windblown, hair tousled, scarf half-untied. In one gloved hand, he held something fragile. Small. Pale.

A pot with a single marigold.

Its stem was crooked. Its petals trembled. But it was alive.

“I, uh… Professor Sprout helped,” he said quickly, almost defensive. “A bit. Mostly she just stopped me from killing it.”

You stared, lips parting. He shifted, awkward.

“It’s not perfect,” he said.

You reached out and took it gently, your fingers brushing his. The flower quivered in your palm like it knew who had grown it.

“It’s exquisite.” you whispered.

His shoulders sagged, some tightness easing in his jaw. “I... It reminded me of you. It's bright and... pretty. Very, pretty.”

You stepped closer.

“Thank you,” you murmured, voice thick with something you didn’t dare name. “I love it.”

And then, without thinking, you kissed him.

It was soft, tentative—dirt-smudged noses, cold fingers brushing warm cheeks, and the quiet, sweet hush of something just beginning. He tasted of peppermint tea and the kind of wonder that comes only after you’ve stopped pretending not to care.

Behind you, something stirred.

You turned as the Moonlily—the one you’d nurtured all term—gave a shiver, then slowly unfurled. Its silver petals caught the moonlight and glowed like a promise, blooming with the kind of gentle pride only magic, patience, and love can grow.

Draco stared, wide-eyed. “Was that... because of us?”

You clutched the flower he'd given you to your chest, heart fluttering. “She’s been waiting. I think... she felt it.”

He looked at you, the usual edge in his voice softened into awe. “You’re completely mad.”

You grinned, breathless. “You still think the plants don’t notice?”

And then, for the first time all term, Draco Malfoy laughed—really laughed. It spilled into the greenhouse like sunlight after rain, warm and unexpected.

“Fine,” he said, shaking his head. “Maybe they do.”

You reached up and tucked the crooked little flower he’d grown into your braid, letting it nestle behind your ear like it had always belonged there.

“Then they’ve clearly been paying more attention than you have.”

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

masterlist!

[jijournal]

"Jealous Much?" | D.M

Potter!reader x Draco Malfoy

Summary: You receive a letter with a gift every week, and your brother Harry and his friends won’t stop teasing you about a “mystery admirer.” Little does he know, the sender is the last person he’d ever expect.

A/N: I'm currently in love with potter!reader x draco scenarios. ♡

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

It started about a month ago—a quiet little mystery that became your favorite part of the week.

Every Friday morning, just as the Great Hall buzzed with chatter and clinking silverware, a sleek, pale-gray owl swooped down gracefully and landed in front of you. It was never late. And it always brought something thoughtful—something that made your heart race just a little.

The first gift had been a delicate silver charm bracelet, simple but elegant, with a tiny serpent dangling from the chain. The note attached was written in tidy script:

“Something subtle… to keep me close, even when I’m not there.”

The second week, it was a small box of enchanted chocolates—each one shaped like a star, and when you bit into them, they whispered things like, “You’re beautiful,” and “Thinking of you.” The letter that time said:

“A little sweetness to match yours. Don’t share them with Weasley.”

You had giggled at that one, earning a curious look from Harry across the table.

Week three, it was a pressed flower—some kind of rare, deep purple bloom you’d never seen before—enchanted so it would never wilt. The note was shorter that time, but no less meaningful:

“Even something rare and beautiful pales next to you.”

And today? As the owl landed gracefully in front of you, heads turned, and Harry, who had already caught on to the pattern, raised his eyebrows with exaggerated interest. You untied the small parcel and unfolded the parchment first.

It read:

“Meet me tonight. Same place. P.S. You look stunning when you smile at my letters.”

You couldn’t help the grin that spread across your face as you unwrapped the gift—a silver locket. When you clicked it open, inside was a tiny photo of you (one you didn’t even remember being taken) smiling down at something out of frame. Opposite it was a moving image of Draco, eyes soft and a rare, genuine smile tugging at his lips. Your heart squeezed.

“Alright,” Harry said, setting down his fork and leaning forward on his elbows. “This is getting serious now. A locket? You have to tell me who it is.”

Ron and Hermione both looked up, curious and amused, but Harry was the most relentless.

“I’m guessing—hmm—Ernie Macmillan.”

You rolled your eyes, tucking the locket carefully into your pocket. “Nope.”

“Michael Corner?”

“Wrong again.”

“Hmm…” He tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Zabini? He’s smooth.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Lockhart?!” Harry gasped suddenly, eyes wide with mock horror. “Is it Lockhart? You can tell me!”

“Harry!” you squeaked, swatting at him, your face burning as you laughed.

“Look at her blush!” Harry crowed. “It’s Lockhart. Case closed.”

Ron groaned. “Please, no one wants to think about that.”

That night, you slipped out like usual, heart thudding as you made your way through the secret passage to your hidden meeting spot. And sure enough, there was Draco, already waiting, arms crossed, expression… stormy.

You frowned. “Hey… what’s wrong?”

He didn’t answer at first, just glared down at the ground. His jaw was tight, and he seemed to be brooding even more than usual.

“Draco?” you pressed, stepping closer.

Finally, he huffed and muttered, “If your brother keeps talking about other boys, I swear I’m going to hex him into next week.”

You blinked, startled—then burst out laughing. “That’s why you’re sulking?”

Draco scowled but didn’t deny it. “It’s annoying. All day, it’s been Corner this and Zabini that—and Lockhart?! Are you kidding me? I should’ve hexed Potter right then and there.”

You giggled, sliding your arms around his waist. “Jealous, much?”

“Maybe.” Draco didn’t even try to hide it. His eyes were sharp but softened when you reached up to brush his hair back.

“You know it’s only ever you, right?”

That earned a rare, genuine smile. He leaned down and kissed you, slow and deep, pulling you flush against him like he never wanted to let go.

“Let them guess,” you whispered against his lips. “It’s more fun that way.”

“As long as you remember who you belong to,” Draco murmured, smirking now, possessive but playful.

You laughed, pecking his lips. “Always.”

⸻

The following Friday, you thought maybe things would settle down. But oh, how wrong you were.

The owl swooped in as usual—but this time, it carried a huge box. Bigger than any gift so far. You stared as it dropped the package in front of you with a graceful thud.

“Oh, this is serious now,” Harry announced, eyes lighting up as he grabbed the box before you could. “Come on, let’s see what lover boy sent this time.”

You groaned, but Hermione and Ron were already leaning in curiously, and of course, the Weasley twins—never ones to miss out on teasing—slid onto the bench with identical grins.

Harry opened the box dramatically—and all five of them gasped.

Inside was the most stunning gown you’d ever seen: emerald-green silk, shimmering faintly, clearly enchanted, with intricate embroidery that looked too expensive to even touch. You couldn’t stop staring at it.

“Holy—” Fred began.

“—bloody hell,” George finished.

“Is that designer?” Hermione whispered, eyes wide.

Harry held it up, gaping. “This must’ve cost a fortune! Okay, okay, this is big money. We need to think. Who’s rich enough to pull this off?”

You tried to grab it back, face burning. “Harry, stop—”

“Theodore Nott?” Harry guessed first.

“Nope.”

“Mclaggen?”

“Wrong.”

“Zabini?” Hermione chimed in, clearly entertained now.

“Montague?” Fred suggested, holding the dress up to himself with a wink. “If it is, tell him I want one too.”

“Ohhh,” George added dramatically, “I bet it’s one of those international students. Super rich.”

You groaned, hiding your face. “You guys are ridiculous.”

Fred and George shared a look and started chanting, “She’s getting married! She’s getting married!”

“I am NOT—!"

And then it happened.

A sudden clatter of footsteps, sharp and purposeful, echoed across the Great Hall. Everyone turned—and your stomach dropped.

Draco Malfoy was storming across the room, eyes locked on you, face like thunder.

The table fell dead silent.

“Uh… why’s Malfoy coming over here?” Ron muttered nervously.

Draco didn’t stop until he was standing right behind Harry, towering over him with his arms crossed and that deadly glare fixed in place.

“I’m the one who bought the dress, Potter,” Draco announced, his voice cool but sharp, loud enough for half the hall to hear. “Not the cheap students you’re rattling off like some pathetic guessing game."

Silence.

Harry’s jaw dropped. Fred dropped his fork. Hermione blinked like she couldn’t process what had just happened.

Draco turned to you then, gaze softening ever so slightly. “You’ll look stunning in it, by the way.”

Harry's eyes widen even more, practically bulging out of his eye sockets, as Draco leans in to kiss your forehead.

And with that, he spun on his heel and strode out, his cloak following behind him.

There was a beat of stunned silence… and then chaos.

“MALFOY?!” Harry exploded, whipping around to stare at you. “You’re dating MALFOY?!”

Fred and George howled with laughter, practically falling off the bench.

“Ohhh, this is gold,” George gasped between wheezes.

“Best reveal ever,” Fred agreed, wiping tears from his eyes.

Ron just looked horrified, and Hermione… Hermione slowly closed her book, gave you a look, and said, “I knew it.”

You buried your face in your hands, groaning. “…Well. I guess the mystery’s solved.”

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

masterlist!

[jijournal]

CHARM ME UP | D.M

Summary: You’ve made it a habit to give small charms to those who need a reminder that they’re not alone. But there’s one person you keep finding reasons to give them to—one boy who always seems to need a charm.

Pair: whimsical!reader x draco malfoy

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

It starts with a button.

Draco Malfoy is sorting through his school robes one morning before his Charms exam when he finds it—buried deep inside the lining. A small, copper button glints under the pale light of the Slytherin dorm. It’s not the sort of button that’s part of his uniform. He runs his fingers over the smooth surface, then turns it over, finding neat handwriting on the back:

“A charm for clarity. You’ve got more in you than you think.”

He stares at it, his brow furrowing as he wonders if it’s some joke. A prank. Who would leave something like this in his robes? He’s about to toss it aside when he feels a strange pull to keep it. For some reason, the button doesn’t feel like an intrusion. It feels like… like it’s supposed to be there.

Without much thought, he slips it into his pocket, and the moment passes. He heads to the exam, but as he stares at the test before him, something feels different. His mind, normally clouded with thoughts of his father’s disapproval or his next move, clears. The questions seem easier to answer. By the end of the exam, he’s finished ahead of schedule. He walks out with a sense of accomplishment, something he hasn’t felt in a while.

Later, he checks his grade: top of the class.

Draco doesn’t believe in luck. Not really. But as he stands there, staring at the paper, his fingers instinctively reach for the charm still nestled in his pocket. He doesn’t question it—he simply keeps it.

A few weeks later, the charm reappears again, this time at a Quidditch match.

Draco pulls on his gloves before stepping onto the pitch, and tucked inside his left glove, he finds something small and coiled. At first, it’s nothing but a slight vibration against his fingers, but when he pulls it out, he sees a miniature broom, made of green thread and silver accents.

He examines it briefly before noticing a tiny inscription hidden on the side.

“For steadiness. And aim.”

Draco rolls his eyes at the absurdity. It’s another charm, no doubt—one of those ridiculous little trinkets that had become a nuisance around Hogwarts, but there’s something almost soothing about the weight of it in his hand. He tucks it into his pocket with a sigh, deciding it can’t hurt to keep it for good measure.

The match itself feels different than usual. His focus sharpens. He plays with a fluidity he hasn’t felt in months, his broomstick gliding through the air as if it’s an extension of himself. The team wins, of course—victory after a clean sweep—but it’s the ease with which they’ve done it that lingers in Draco’s mind.

When he later pulls the charm from his pocket, it feels like more than a silly token. It feels like something that worked.

He still doesn’t believe in luck. But he starts to think that maybe there’s more to these charms than he’s letting on. And once again, he tucks it into his tin.

Over the following weeks, Draco notices the charms popping up more frequently. Each time, it’s something different, something subtle—an object that seems so small but always holds a significance that lands right when he needs it most. A paper crane, its wings unfolding and refolding in a rhythmic pattern whenever he’s about to get a question wrong in class. A smooth stone with etched runes of protection, just when his father sends another cold letter. A tiny moon made of thread, glowing faintly in his hands, during the rare moments he’s truly alone.

It’s like magic—real, tangible magic—that only appears for him, and only when he needs it most. He doesn’t know who’s behind it. Doesn’t know how they’re doing it. But as time goes on, he doesn’t question it.

Not really.

Instead, he starts paying attention.

He notices you one afternoon in the library, bent over a stack of parchment, fingers working methodically on a charm of your own. You’re quieter than most, a bit of a mystery even among the usual crowd of Hogwarts students. But Draco’s not the only one who notices that there’s something different about you. While most people bustle about, you’re always where you need to be, your hands always working, always helping.

You’re not flashy. In fact, you’re the opposite of attention-seeking. But when he sees you slipping something into Pansy’s cloak before her Defense class, and then sees Pansy humming softly to herself like her cold walls crashed down, Draco knows. He doesn’t need anyone to confirm it.

It’s you.

And somehow, that doesn’t feel like a surprise.

One morning, Draco wakes up to find another charm tucked under his pillow, folded neatly like a forgotten note. He hadn’t expected it—not after the intensity of his father’s letter the night before—but there it is, sitting like a small spark of hope. It’s a simple charm—just a tiny star, stitched in gold thread, but it feels warm in his hand as though it’s been waiting for him.

“For brightness on dim days.”

He doesn’t know how you knew. He doesn’t need to know. But for the first time in months, he sits with it, feels its warmth against his fingers, and lets himself believe that things might just be okay. That maybe he’s still allowed to be good.

That he’s still allowed to be more than just a Malfoy.

The charm stays with him longer than any of the others. He keeps it in his pocket for a week, letting the weight of it ground him. It becomes his little secret, a reminder that even in the darkest moments, there’s light—somewhere, somehow.

By now, Draco knows where to look. He doesn’t have to search the hallways like he did before. He simply keeps an eye on you, watches as you slip in and out of classes, a quiet observer in the background, always stitching and folding and mending things that no one else notices.

One day, he catches you in the library, sitting by the window with a small bundle of thread in your hands, your eyes focused on your work. He knows better than to approach you immediately. He’s learned to wait, to observe, and so he watches you for a while, seeing the way you pause when someone asks for help, seeing how you always offer something when others least expect it.

He clears his throat when he’s close enough, making you jump slightly in surprise. Your eyes widen, but you don’t back away.

“Who are they for?” he asks, his voice steady but filled with curiosity.

You blink, surprised at the directness of his question. For a moment, you hesitate, then answer, “Depends who needs them.”

Draco raises an eyebrow. “And who decides that?”

You smile, the kind of smile that makes him wonder if he’s stumbled upon a secret. “I listen.”

Something inside him shifts at those words. It’s so simple, yet so profound. You don’t just make the charms. You feel them. You understand them.

Draco finds himself leaning against a table, unable to break his gaze. He doesn’t say anything more. But from that moment onward, he watches you even more closely, noting the way your hands move with such intention, how your eyes flicker with understanding when someone comes to you for something more than just a charm.

And, in a way, he starts to wonder if he might need something more, too.

The next Saturday is sunny and warm—a rare break from the usual dreariness of Hogwarts. Draco finds himself walking through the halls, his thoughts preoccupied with the latest charm he’d received, a small coin that had somehow found its way into his pocket before a particularly tense conversation with his father. His fingers close around it now, absentmindedly, as he walks toward the greenhouse, only to stop short when he sees you.

You’re kneeling in front of a row of plants, your hands buried in the dirt. He watches you for a moment before he speaks.

“Got a charm for me?”

You look up at him, startled. Then your lips curl into a smile, soft and hesitant.

“I thought maybe you were ready for something different.”

You reach into your bag and pull out a small note. It’s folded neatly, no charm this time, just a scrap of paper with delicate handwriting.

Draco unfolds it carefully and reads the words:

“For when you’re ready to ask me to Hogsmeade.”

He looks up at you, his heart thumping in his chest, and for once, he doesn’t hide his smile. Not from you.

He holds out his hand, offering the same quiet invitation he’s kept hidden in his heart for so long.

“You free next weekend?”

And the smile you give him in return is all the answer he needs.

“Yes.”

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

masterlist!

[jijournal]

THE ELEVEN WORD QUESTION | D.M

summary: Draco Malfoy would literally die for you—unfortunately, asking you to the Yule Ball might just kill him first. When he finally gathers the courage to do it, you politely decline… thanks to a spectacular misunderstanding. Now, with his pride bruised and his heart set, Draco is determined to win you over—properly, this time.

wc: 2.6k+

cw: DOWN BAD DRACO! awkward Draco who gets shy around reader, feat. Pansy, Blaise, & Theo as Draco's backup.

A/N: I love shy Draco. I AM SO SORRY THAT I HAVE BEEN INACTIVE LATELY. Aghhh I haven't posted anything in sooo long, I've been busy hihi.

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

Draco Malfoy was many things: a Slytherin, a menace on the Quidditch pitch, and the heir to one of the oldest wizarding families in Britain—but he had never felt this pathetic before. Not even the time he fell off his broom second year and cried because his wrist bent funny.

No, this was worse. Because he hadn’t just fallen—he’d plummeted, in front of you, with a flower in one hand and all his dignity left wilting somewhere between the Charms and Transfiguration section at the library.

You hadn’t looked back.

Not once.

Not even when he’d called after you, your name barely leaving his mouth before it got stuck in his throat with the taste of regret and disbelief.

He knew what it must’ve looked like. You thought it was a joke. That he was the joke. And for once, he couldn’t even blame you.

This catastrophe had all began the night before.

The Slytherin common room was filled only with the sound of crackling fire and the soft chatter of students with the scratch of quills against their parchment—until their heads turn to a yell that broke the silence.

"DRACO! We've been on this for over an hour now," Pansy sighed as she sat down on the couch between Theo and Blaise. "And for the millionth time, you are not going to DIE asking a girl to the Yule Ball!"

Pansy's "How to Woo a Girl 101" was clearly very hard for Draco to comprehend. Because based on the look on Theo's and Blaise's faces, it was not going well. At all.

Draco dramatically gasped as if he was being accused of murder, he then put a hand over his heart and then started rambling. "She isn't just any girl. She's the most perfect witch to ever exist! Gosh, do you guys even see how beautiful and smart and—" but, before he could continue, he was cut off by Blaise.

"We get it mate! You're bewitched by her." Blaise groaned loudly, throwing his head back and resting it on the backrest of the couch.

Theo sighed, "Mate, look," he said sternly, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "You just have to ask her a simple eleven word question, 'Would. you. like. to. go. to. the. Yule. Ball. with. me.?' see? Easier than brewing Felix Felicis!"

Draco was suddenly hot and started to fidget with his fingers all because of that eleven word question. "Easy for you to say, Theo. You don't have a big fat crush o—" he was cut off yet again. This time, by Pansy.

"Alright, Malfoy. We're done," she announced, crossing her arms. "Either you tell her—or we will!" Pansy smirked, now putting her hands on her hips, trying to hide her laugh as she stood up. The two boys beside her started snickering as they followed Pansy towards the dormitories, leaving Draco in a very difficult position.

Theo suddenly stopped in front of Draco, "You better ask her soon or you know what's coming." He teased, then continued to follow Blaise and Pansy.

"Wait! I'll do it!" He stammered, his hand reaching out, a hopeless attempt to let them stay. "But—uh—is 'You looked like a powdered donut and still managed to be gorgeous.' a good compliment? Because the potion she was brewing blew up last week."

All he got in reply was loud groans and sighs as three of his friends continued walking away from him.

"Guys?!"

Silence.

Draco sighed as he looked down at his feet. "Hey! You looked like a powdered donut and still managed to be gorgeous." He quietly muttered to himself.

⸻

The next day, Draco's heart felt like it was going to come out of his chest and his feet felt like rubber as he saw you strolling through the library. This was it. This was the day he's going to ask you the eleven word question.

Naturally, he brought backup—just in case of a stutter, a horrible nosebleed, or, Merlin forbid, passing out. He had to full-on beg them to come with him, since, in Pansy's own words:

“How are you even going to dance with her if you need us just to ask her to the ball? What—are we going to do a group dance in case you pass out?”

She may be right...

But he badly needed emotional support or he'll die of a heart attack before he could even talk to you.

"Alright. I'm going to go up to her, compliment her pretty face, ask her the question, and hope for the best." He whispered, his grip tightening on the stem of your favorite flower.

The four of them were currently formed in a circle at the corner of the library, three pairs of eyes staring at the blonde boy as he told them his plan.

Theo gave him a flat look, unimpressed. “That’s the plan? That’s it?”

“Well, do you have a better one?” Draco snapped, slightly louder than he intended, which earned them all a sharp shhh! from Madam Pince across the room. They all winced and lowered their heads like scolded toddlers.

Blaise leaned in, voice a murmur. “Yes. Literally anything other than blurting out powdered donut compliments in the library.” He rubbed his temples. “Just… try not to be weird, mate.”

“I’m not weird,” Draco muttered, offended.

“Yeah?” Pansy raised a brow. “You practiced your line in the mirror seven times this morning and then gave the flower a pep talk.”

Draco blushed furiously. “It’s her favorite flower. It needs to be… emotionally prepared.”

Theo shook his head, muttering, “We’re emotionally exhausted.”

Still, despite their teasing, the trio gave him nods of encouragement as he squared his shoulders, tucked the flower carefully behind his back, and began the slow, risky walk toward where you sat—cross-legged on the carpet between two shelves, surrounded by a sea of books and parchment, humming softly to yourself as you scribbled into your notes.

He froze halfway.

You were chewing on the end of your quill, a bit of ink on your chin, your eyes narrowed in concentration. You wore a flower crown made of daises again today—different colors if he may add—the yellows, oranges, and whites complimenting your face. Draco thought he might pass out on the spot.

'Gosh how can she be so beautiful while doing nothing.'

"GO!" Pansy whisper yelled as she pushed Draco toward you.

"Wait n—" he stumbled toward you. He was begging his feet to go back to his safe cocoon where he wouldn't get humiliated or possibly pass out, but they were stuck on the ground—unable to move.

"Hey!" he gulped, his cheeks rapidly turning red for being flustered but mostly from embarrassment.

You glanced up at the sudden noise and there he was. He looked... hot.

HOT! as in sweating hot—not the kind of hot where his hair was pushed back after a shower in the quidditch lockers and definitely not the time when—

Stop it!

“Oh! Hello, Draco." You said, offering him a warm smile as you stood, brushing the creases from your skirt to face him properly.

He smiled back—but it wasn’t the kind of smile most people gave. It was lopsided, almost shaky, like it couldn’t decide whether it wanted to be confident or terrified. His hands fidgeted behind his back, and then—

"ELEVENWORDQUESTION!" he blurted.

You blinked. “I’m sorry—what?”

Draco swallowed hard, his cheeks rapidly turning pink. “What I meant to say is… you look like a powdered donut.”

What.

The.

Hell?

Your smile faltered. You looked down at your shoes, heart sinking a little. Was that… was that supposed to be an insult?

“Oh,” you murmured, suddenly self-conscious. A quiet, uncertain panic started to rise in your chest.

“No, no, no, wait—!” Draco rushed forward, eyes wide. He reached out and placed his hands gently on your shoulders, his voice frantic now. “That came out wrong. I mean—you looked like a powdered donut last week—when the potion exploded—and you still looked… you still looked gorgeous.”

You looked up at him, stunned.

He took a breath, then, with trembling fingers, pulled a flower from behind his back. Your flower. The one he’d somehow remembered you loved.

“Would you like to go to the Yule Ball with me?” he asked, quieter now—earnest, vulnerable, the chaos gone from his voice.

And that was when everything seemed to stand still. You stare at him, your mouth agape. You could feel blood rushing through your cheeks.

And then… from behind the nearest shelf came the unmistakable sound of stifled laughter.

You glanced past Draco and saw them—Pansy, Blaise, Theo—all doubled over, failing miserably at hiding. Pansy wiped a tear from her eye. Blaise was wheezing. And Theo was clutching his stomach, trying to breathe.

Oh.

Of course.

It was a dare. A prank. A joke at your expense.

The flower in Draco’s hand suddenly felt like a knife.

Your chest clenched. You took a step back.

“I’m sorry, Draco,” you said, forcing your voice to stay steady even as your throat tightened. “I… I have to say no.”

His face crumpled in confusion as you turned away, blinking back tears you refused to let fall—not here, not in front of them.

Not when your heart had almost believed him.

⸻

“Mate,” Blaise had said later, tentatively, from the foot of Draco’s bed, where Draco had buried himself under his emerald blanket like a disgraced ghost. “She didn’t even see the part where you were being sincere.”

“She saw enough,” Draco mumbled.

Pansy kicked his mattress. “She saw us laughing, you dolt. She thinks we were laughing at her. Do you know what that does to a girl?” she added sharply, voice rising with frustration and—Draco noticed—genuine guilt. “You’ve got less than a week till the Yule Ball, and if you want any chance of fixing this, you better stop acting like a sad house-elf and do something.”

Draco’s next plan of action was, to put it bluntly, disastrous.

If he couldn’t speak to you like a normal person, then maybe he could… gesture grandly instead. Show, not tell, right?

Wrong. So very wrong.

It began with him walking—strutting—past your table in the courtyard three times in one lunch period, each time pretending he just happened to be passing by. The first time, he loudly commented to Blaise about how some people had “really excellent taste in flower crowns.” The second time, he tripped on a root and faceplanted into a bush. The third time, he tried to recover by dramatically pulling out a textbook and reading upside down while sneakily peeking at you over the pages.

You didn’t look up once.

“Subtle,” Blaise had deadpanned as he helped pick leaves out of Draco’s hair.

Then came the grand gestures. One morning, you opened your Transfiguration book and found—inside it—a single, freshly pressed forget-me-not. The ink on the page was slightly smudged as if someone had fumbled it with nervous fingers. Tucked next to the flower was a piece of parchment with a single line in jagged, uptight handwriting:

I never forgot. - D

The next day? A little paper crane fluttered down onto your lap during Charms. No one else noticed—except you. It unfolded itself midair to reveal another message:

I’d say something. But every time I try, I ruin it.

He was trying. You could feel it, in all his awkward, dramatic glory.

Then, during Care of Magical Creatures, he nearly sacrificed himself trying to separate you from a cranky Murtlap. You didn’t even ask for help, but there he was, sprinting across the paddock like a knight in shining robes, yelling, “DON’T WORRY, I’VE GOT IT!” before the Murtlap turned and promptly bit his wrist.

You rushed forward instinctively, wand already out, muttering a healing charm with a furrow in your brow. And Draco… Draco smiled like he’d just been kissed.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you said, half-annoyed, half-worried, as he flexed his hand and hissed.

“Worth it,” he said, eyes locked on you.

That night, you found another note tucked into the folds of your Herbology textbook:

Still an idiot. Still hoping. Still not giving up.

You rolled your eyes.

But you smiled.

⸻

It wasn’t until three days before the ball that he finally had a chance to explain.

You were walking back from dinner, your hands tucked into your robes, eyes on the frost glittering across the windows, when you heard it:

“Wait—please.”

Draco’s voice. Real. Sincere. Clear.

You turned, surprised to see him without backup, no Pansy whispering strategies in his ear, no Blaise with the emergency escape plan, no Theo who can tease him to no end.

Just Draco.

Alone.

Face flushed from the cold—or nerves. Maybe both.

You folded your arms. “Going to call me a pastry again?”

He winced. “Gods, no. Never again.” A beat passed. Then: “Well, unless you start working at Honeydukes. Then maybe once. Or twice.”

You didn’t laugh. But the corner of your mouth twitched.

He took that as a good sign.

“I know what you thought,” Draco said, stepping forward. “When they laughed. You thought it was a joke. That I was making fun of you.” His eyes were painfully honest, gray and glinting like wet stone. “But they weren’t laughing at you. They were laughing at me.”

You blinked. “Why?”

“Because I’d been practicing that line since breakfast. Because I’d stammered like an idiot and spilled ink on my cuff and given a flower a motivational speech. Because I was absolutely pathetic. For you.” He let out a nervous huff.

“You make me stupid.”

Your heart did a little leap.

Draco stepped closer. “And you know what? I don’t care if I look stupid. I’d rather look stupid in front of the entire school than let you go to the Yule Ball without knowing the truth.”

There was a long, breathless pause.

“I like you. I’ve liked you since the first time you made that little dandelion braid and stuck it in your scroll instead of using a bookmark. I like how you hum to yourself when you’re thinking. I like that you stay up after curfew just to stargaze and name constellations like they’re your personal pets. I like that you make everything around you feel… lighter.”

He stepped closer again, now inches from you.

“And if you’ll let me… I want to make you feel that way too.”

Your lips parted, but no sound came out. For once, you were the one struck speechless.

Draco reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a a bouquet of your favorite flower. Blooming. Vibrant. Alive.

“I grew this,” he said quietly. “Chose the seed, studied the soil, made sure it got the exact right light. It took weeks. But it’s yours.”

He gently held it out.

You stared at the flower. Then up at him.

Finally, your voice found its way back.

“…You didn’t stutter,” you whispered.

Draco smirked. It was slow, confident—flirty.

“No. Not when it really matters.”

And then, with a wicked gleam in his eyes, he added, “So. Would you like to go to the Yule Ball with me?”

You smiled.

Not just because the flower was perfect.

Not just because his voice was steady.

But because, for the first time, it felt real. No nerves. No games. Just Draco. Asking you.

Properly.

“Yes,” you said, cheeks glowing.

His grin was immediate.

“And I expect a dance,” you added, pretending to be stern. “A real one. No passing out. No backup dancers.”

Draco leaned in just enough for you to feel the warmth of his breath.

“Only if you promise not to look like a powdered donut this time.”

You laughed—finally, laughed—and shoved his shoulder.

“You’re the worst.”

“And yet,” he said smugly, “I’m still your date.”

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

masterlist!

[jijournal]

hii!! could i request oliver wood yule ball headcannons or a fic related to oliver asking reader to the yule ball?

THICKER THAN A BROOMSTICK | O.W

summary: Quidditch is brutal, but nothing compares to Oliver Wood’s hopeless attempts at flirting—too bad the only person who doesn’t realize he’s asking you to the Yule Ball is you.

wc: 2.1k+

cw: oblivious!reader, reader is on the Gryffindor Quidditch team, down bad Oliver.

A/N: Thanks for requesting!! MWA!

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

The Gryffindor locker room always smelled vaguely of sweat, leather, and a little too much pride. You were used to it by now—Quidditch came with its fair share of bruises and bad cologne. And Oliver Wood, your relentlessly intense captain, was the embodiment of both. He was also currently staring at you from across the room, looking at you as if you were a goddess.

“Okay, team! Good practice today!” he barked, a bit too loudly for someone whose voice cracked halfway through the sentence. “Except for you, Bell—next time, aim for the actual goalpost, not my nose.”

You stifled a laugh and sat down on the nearby bench. “In her defense,” you said, removing your glove with your teeth, “your nose was in the way.”

“Don’t encourage her,” Oliver muttered, mostly to himself. You were fairly certain he'd lost all his mental stability somewhere between the third and fourth practice this week.

“So,” he said suddenly, too casually to be natural, “let’s say—hypothetically—you were going to ask someone to the Yule Ball.”

You turned to him, instantly intrigued. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he repeated, nodding as if trying to convince himself. “What would be the best way to… do that?”

“Ooh. Okay. First of all, don’t use the word ‘hypothetically.’ That’s suspicious. And no stuttering. Confidence is key.”

“Right. Confidence...” He scratched the back of his neck, looking no where near confident.

“Ooooh,” you grinned, loosening your hair from your braid. “Got your eye on someone, Captain?”

Oliver looked like you’d just asked him to strip naked on the pitch. He rubbed the back of his neck, the tips of his ears turning a Gryffindor-jersey shade of red.

“Well, yeah,” he mumbled, eyes darting everywhere but your face. “There’s this girl.”

You gasped, full of exaggerated excitement. “WHO?! Wait, let me guess—Ravenclaw? The one with the really long plaits?”

“No,” he said, smiling slightly, “she plays Quidditch.”

“Ooh,” you said again, wriggling your brows. “Well, you should totally ask her!”

“I’m trying,” he deadpanned. And you just patted his shoulder encouragingly.

“Don’t be nervous! Just go up to her and say, ‘Oi, you. You’re hot. Dance with me.’ Works like a charm.”

Oliver blinked at you.

You blinked back.

“Don’t worry!” you chirped. “You’ll figure it out. I believe in you.”

And then you walked off humming the Weird Sisters’ latest hit, not noticing how Oliver dropped his forehead against the cupboard behind him with a muffled groan.

The thing was, Oliver Wood was not a subtle man. Subtlety was for people who didn’t run 7 a.m. drills and shout “THIS IS WHAT WINNERS DO” while dangling off a broomstick.

But around you? He tried. Really.

You just… didn’t get it.

There was a time where Oliver wordlessly tossed you a small box. It was square, wrapped in crinkled gold paper with an overly dramatic red bow. One of his main attempts on asking you to the Yule Ball.

You blinked at it. “Um. What’s this?”

He scratched the back of his neck, looking like he might physically combust. “Just… thought you’d like it.”

You opened it carefully—and gasped.

Inside was a charm bracelet. But not just any charm bracelet. The little pendants were Quidditch-themed—a broomstick, a tiny Gryffindor lion, a chocolate frog, and most tellingly, a miniature golden Yule Ball ticket.

You picked it up, charmed. “Oliver. This is adorable. Did Angelina make this?”

His mouth dropped open slightly. “What? No! I—I spent all week on that—”

“Aww. You should really sell these,” you said, slipping it on your wrist with a grin. “You’ve got such a good eye for girly stuff!”

He groaned and put his head in his hands.

Or, the time when he “accidentally” bumped into you outside Charms, dropping an entire bouquet of enchanted daffodils from his bag, then spent ten minutes trying to explain why his textbooks smelled like a greenhouse.

“Oh, is that for that girl you like?” you’d asked cheerily, nudging his side. “You’re really going all out!”

He gave a weak laugh. “Apparently not enough.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Later that week, he tried again. You were in the library, of all places, tucked between Quidditch Through the Ages and a half-eaten Chocolate Frog. Your brow was furrowed, tongue poking slightly out of your mouth as you annotated a diagram of broomstick aerodynamics like it was the most thrilling thing on earth.

He slid into the chair next to you, trying to keep his voice steady. “Hey. Been thinking about the Yule Ball.”

You didn’t look up. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he said, swallowing. “Still… haven’t asked anyone.”

You finally turned to him, eyebrows raised. “Oliver, you’ve been talking about this mystery girl for like a week now. Just ask her.”

“I’m trying.”

“Try harder!” you grinned, nudging his side. “Be romantic. Write a letter or something.”

The idea struck him like a Bludger. That night, he scribbled down a note on parchment, messy but sincere:

You’re brilliant. I like you. You’re the best flier I know and possibly the only person who scares me in a good way. Would you go to the Yule Ball with me? —Someone Who Should Really Just Say This Out Loud

He slipped it into your bag the next morning.

By dinner, you were holding it up like it was cursed. You’d read it three times and then loudly declared, “Okay, who wrote this?” you demanded, waving it at the table. “This has to be a prank, right? Angelina?”

Everyone shook their heads.

A prank?! What in Godric's beard? She thought it was a prank!

You turned to Oliver. “Was it you? This sounds like something you’d write if someone held you at wandpoint.”

His face burned. “Wow. Thanks. No, it wasn’t me.”

“Pity. The part about being scared of me was kind of hot.”

He choked on his pumpkin juice.

A few days later, you were helping him clean up after practice—well, “helping” in the loosest possible sense, mostly tossing broken broom bristles into a pile while he sorted spare Quaffles. You were humming to yourself, twirling your wand, and he watched you for a moment, heart thudding in his chest like it was trying to leave without him.

“I’ve got a question for you,” he said, clearly working up the nerve.

“Shoot.”

“Are you a snitch?” he asked, eyebrows raised.

You blinked at him. “Because I’m fast?”

“Because I’ve been chasing you all year.”

Silence.

You squinted. “Oliver. You're not even a seeker. And was that a pick-up line?”

He groaned, tossing a Quaffle into a crate like it had personally offended him. “Forget it.”

“No, no! I’m using that. That’s going in the Hall of Fame. I’m going to try it on McLaggen.”

“Please don’t.”

By the time the Yule Ball list was due, Oliver had tried everything—letters, awkward compliments, late-night “hypothetical” questions. He’d even brought you a Butterbeer after practice once, charmed so the foam spelled your name. You drank it and said, “Aww, thanks! This must’ve been meant for someone else, but lucky me!”

He had never been closer to quitting Quidditch and fleeing to Romania.

And now, now, you were sitting beside him in the common room, still in your post-practice jersey, hair windblown and socks mismatched, talking about the Yule Ball again like it wasn’t currently eating him alive from the inside out.

You threw a cushion at his face. “Come on! Just tell me who she is already.”

He caught the cushion, clutched it to his chest like it might prevent him from exploding. “She’s… she’s this girl who drives me insane.”

“Cute,” you said, absently braiding a strand of your hair. “Go on.”

“She talks too much. Never takes anything seriously. She flies like she was born with wings. She’s always got mud on her socks and she never notices when someone’s obviously trying to ask her to the damn Yule Ball.”

You blinked. “Oh. She sounds… vaguely familiar.”

“Yeah?” Oliver said, finally standing up, pacing now. “She should. Because she’s YOU. IT’S YOU! I’M TALKING ABOUT YOU.”

You stared. The common room went very still. Even the fireplace seemed to freeze.

“…Me?”

“YES, YOU.” He flung the cushion back at you. “I’ve been trying to ask you for weeks. The bracelet? The daffodils? The letter? The Butterbeer? The way I keep saying I fancy a girl who plays Quidditch right next to you?!”

You held the cushion in your lap, blinking at him in slow, stunned horror. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

“Wait. Soooo you like me?”

Oliver groaned so loud it probably woke up the Fat Lady two portraits over. “YES. Godric's beard, YES. I like you. I have liked you since the first time you swore at me for calling extra practice on a Saturday.”

You looked at him—red in the face, fists clenched, somehow adorable even in his panic—and then started laughing. Hard.

“Wait—wait, hang on,” you wheezed, standing. “You mean to tell me this whole time you were trying to flirt with me, and I was just—completely missing it?”

Oliver looked at you like you’d just confirmed his most traumatic suspicion. “YES.”

You giggled again, stepping forward. “Well, I am a bit thick, apparently.”

“No argument here.”

You smacked his arm. Then, a little softer, “So… is the offer still on the table?”

“I—yes!” Oliver stammered, practically tripping over his own breath. “Of course, yes. I mean—unless you're joking, in which case—bloody hell—I’m going to pretend I didn’t just have a minor cardiac episode—”

His words were frantic, uneven, like they’d been building for weeks and had nowhere else to go but out.

And still, somehow, he thought he might be dreaming.

You didn’t say anything. You just stepped forward, grabbed a fistful of his collar, and tugged him down to your height—firm, deliberate, like you’d been meaning to do it for a long time.

“Wood,” you said simply.

He blinked. You were close enough now to see the scatter of freckles over the bridge of his nose. His breath caught in his throat.

You leaned in, brushing your lips against the shell of his ear, just enough for him to feel the words.

“You talk too much.”

And then, before he could speak again—or overthink it, or panic, or launch into another charmingly idiotic monologue—you kissed him.

It wasn’t perfect. Not at first. His lips were warm, and the tip of your nose bumped clumsily into his. You nearly laughed into his mouth. Someone, somewhere across the common room, definitely let out a scandalized whistle.

But none of that mattered.

Because the second Oliver got over the shock—the second his brain caught up with the fact that this was real, that you were kissing him—his hands found your waist like they’d been trying to solve that equation for weeks. He pulled you closer, carefully but without hesitation, like he never wanted to let go again.

When you pulled away, his eyes were still half-closed, lips parted slightly like he wasn’t entirely convinced it was over.

“I…” he started, then stopped. Cleared his throat. “I wasn’t ready for that.”

You folded your arms across your chest, trying to act casual even though your heart was beating faster than a Zouwu “Clearly. You froze like I casted a Full Body-Bind Curse"

He let out a half-laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “You kissed me.”

You raised an eyebrow, shifting your weight onto one leg. “Don’t sound so offended. I thought you liked me.”

“I do like you!” Oliver said, exasperated, throwing his hands up again. “That’s the whole problem! You’ve got me all twisted up, can’t think straight half the time you’re around—Merlin, I planned seven different ways to ask you to the Ball and none of them included getting kissed into silence.”

You grinned, watching him unravel like the sleeves of your old team jumper. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

He huffed. “You’re ridiculous. You know that?”

You plopped down on the couch again, tugging him by the hand until he flopped beside you like a man defeated. “And yet. You still like me.”

He nudged your leg with his. “So. We’re going to the Yule Ball together?”

You turned your head to look at him—really look at him, flushed and glowing from the firelight, jersey wrinkled, hair messy, and smiled like someone who’d just won a championship.

“Yes” you said softly. “We are.”

You leaned your head on his shoulder.

Oliver laughed and let his head fall against the back of the couch. “Good. I was starting to think you didn’t like me back.”

You smiled, "That would be impossible"

And just like that, Oliver Wood—star Keeper, hopeless romantic, and newly confessed disaster of a crush—beamed at you like he’d just won the Quidditch Cup.

(And maybe, just maybe, he had.)

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

masterlist!

[jijournal]

potter!reader x draco Summary: After a playful late-night duel with Draco, you win a bet and make him hold your hand in public for five seconds. Maybe a little longer than five.

“You’re going down, Malfoy.”

Your boyfriend's eyes glittered with amusement as he leaned against the desk, the dim glow of candlelight flickering across his sharp features. It was well past curfew, the castle eerily quiet around you, but that only added to the thrill. His wand dangled lazily between his fingers, smirk firmly in place.

“You always talk big, Potter. But let’s face it—you don’t stand a chance.”

You raised your wand, stepping into the center of the room, chin high. “Winner gets to make the loser do one thing. No questions asked.”

Draco’s smirk deepened. “One thing? Tempting. Hope you’re ready to embarrass yourself.”

“Confident for someone about to eat dust,” you shot back, narrowing your eyes.

He rolled his shoulders, stepping toward you. “Ready when you are.”

For a brief second, the room was dead silent except for your breaths—and then—

“Expelliarmus!”

“Protego!”

Sparks burst from your wands as your spells collided, crackling and ricocheting across the room. A chair tipped over; a stack of books went flying; parchment fluttered like birds. Both of you were laughing and ducking, adrenaline crackling between you. You saw your opening and seized it fast.

“Expelliarmus!”

Draco’s wand shot out of his hand, skidding across the floor with a sharp clatter.

You gasped, staring at his empty hand, and then a wide grin stretched across your face. “Yes! Yes! Did you see that? I won!”

Draco blinked, stunned, before groaning and tipping his head back. “No. No, no, no. I refuse to believe this.”

“Believe it, loser,” you said, practically bouncing on your feet. “Oh, this is so good.”

He narrowed his eyes, stepping forward and pointing a finger at you. “You must’ve cheated. There’s no way—”

“Uh-uh.” You waggled your own finger at him. “A deal’s a deal. No complaining, remember?”

He groaned dramatically, dragging a hand down his face. “Fine. Get it over with. What horrible thing do you want from me ? Declare my undying love for you the middle of the Great Hall? Do your Potions essay?”

You smiled sweetly, stepping closer until you were inches away. “Hold my hand in public.”

He stared. “What?”

“For five seconds,” you added, enjoying the way his usual composure cracked. “Nothing crazy.”

Draco gawked at you like you’d grown two heads. “That’s your demand? Love, you could’ve had anything, and you chose… that?”

“Yup.”

He groaned again, rubbing his temples. “Merlin, you are insufferable.”

"But you still love me." You giggle as you peck his lips.

“Tomorrow,” you said, turning for the door. “Right in front of everyone.”

He muttered something under his breath, but you caught the faint smile tugging at his lips as you left.

The next morning, you spotted Draco exactly where you’d hoped—lingering near the entrance of the Great Hall, looking like he was regretting every life decision that had brought him here. He leaned against the wall, fidgeting with the cuff of his robe, eyes darting to the passing students.

“Aw, are you nervous?” you teased, stepping up beside him.

He scowled but there was a glint in his eyes. “This is humiliating. I can’t believe I’m actually doing this.”

You grinned, holding out your hand expectantly. “Come on. Let’s get it over with.”

With an exaggerated sigh that probably carried across the entire corridor, Draco took your hand. His fingers were stiff at first—like he wasn’t sure what to do with them. This was the very first time you two were holding hands in public. But then, slowly, they relaxed, his grip growing warm and sure.

You both stood there, hand in hand, as students streamed past, some casting curious glances but saying nothing. You started to count under your breath.

“One… two… three…”

Draco’s thumb brushed yours lightly, and your heart gave an unexpected little flip.

“…four… five.”

You looked up at him, smiling. “Done.”

But Draco didn’t move to let go. He was staring ahead, pretending like this was the most normal thing in the world, but you caught the faintest blush creeping up his neck.

“Uh… Draco?” you murmured. “We’re… kind of done.”

He glanced down at your joined hands and smirked. “Hmm. Are we, though?”

Before you could even process that, a loud voice shattered the moment.

“GODRICS BEARD!"

Both of you spun around to see Harry Potter standing there, holding a plate of toast, his eyes bugging out like he’d walked into an alternate universe.

“WHY ARE YOU HOLDING HANDS WITH MALFOY?!”

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

A/N: I got lazy making my posts pretty lol.

masterlist!

[jijournal]

He laughs at her eyes, at her smile, at the glasses on her face.

Summary: Draco Malfoy hates you, or so you thought...

wc: 1k+

A/N: Based on gracie's unreleased song "in between" (gracie release it rn pls 😔) Reblogs are appreciated :)

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

You don't know why Draco Malfoy loathes you.

Honestly, it would take someone smarter than Hermione Granger, and that’s saying something, to solve that particular mystery.

You weren’t a threat to his grades, his bloodline, or his ego. You weren’t even in the same House. But somehow, he always had something to say.

You were walking through the crowded halls, your head full of swirling thoughts about the upcoming Charms exam. The words of Professor Flitwick kept repeating in your mind, blending with the worry about whether you’d studied enough—or if your nerves would get the best of you.

You barely noticed where you were going, lost in your own world, clutching a pile of books to your chest.

And then—bam—you bumped straight into someone.

"Sorry!" you stammer.

You stumbled back, heart pounding, as the weight of one of your books slipped from your arms and crashed to the floor. You bent quickly to pick it up, cheeks flushing with embarrassment.

“Watch where you’re going, Glasses!” came the sharp voice, cutting through your scattered thoughts.

Of course, it was Draco Malfoy.

You hadn’t even seen him coming.

You looked up, bracing for the usual sneer, the cutting remark, the cold dismissal.

But instead, his silver eyes locked onto yours.

His gaze was slow, deliberate—traveling from your eyes to your nose, down to your lips, and back up again.

You felt like your heart had stopped for a moment.

“I said I’m sorry,” you managed softly, standing up then pushed your crooked glasses back up your nose.

He opened his mouth as if to snap at you, to put you in your place, but then he blurted out, “Why are your eyes lopsided?”

Your brow furrowed, confused.

He immediately followed up, trying to cover himself, “And your laugh. You sound like a laughing troll!”

You blinked, unsure whether to be insulted or amused.

He added, “And let’s not forget about your glasses. They look like something my grandmother would wear.”

His voice was sharp, but there was a strange hesitancy in it—like he was fighting against something inside.

“You’re terrible at insults, Malfoy,” you said, a small smile breaking through your embarrassment.

He stared at you, caught off guard, eyes searching yours like he was trying to figure out exactly what to say next.

With the two of you locked in each other’s gaze for what felt like an eternity, you finally found your voice. You cleared your throat softly and murmured a polite, “Excuse me,” before stepping past him.

Your shoulder brushed his as you walked away, but he didn’t move. Neither did you dare to look back.

Once you turned the corner, your heart finally remembered how to beat again.

What was THAT?

⸻DRACO'S POV⸻

Bloody hell.

She walked straight into me—again.

Instead of acting like a decent human being who'll accept and forgive her apology, I panicked and said a crude remark instead.

“Watch where you’re going, Glasses!”

I wanted to say something cutting, something that would put her in her place and end the conversation before it could begin.

But then she looked up at me.

And everything inside me stilled.

Her glasses were crooked, her hair slightly messy, and she looked at me like she was genuinely sorry. Not scared. Not angry. Just… apologetic. Like she cared.

Merlin, why did she have to care?

I couldn’t look away. My eyes dropped to her nose, then her lips—just for a second—and I caught myself wondering what it would feel like to kiss her right then and there in the middle of the hallway.

“I said I’m sorry,” she said softly, her voice small and fragile in a way that made my chest tighten.

My heart started pounding, which was ridiculous. I was Draco Malfoy.

I didn’t get flustered.

Especially not over her.

Except I did.

Because she was standing there, looking at me like I was a monster, and I couldn’t take it.

I panicked.

“Why are your eyes lopsided?” I blurted, voice too sharp, too fast. My brain screamed at me, what are you doing?!

Your eyes are the most beautiful I’ve ever seen. Their color is perfect—just like your face. Especially in the sunlight—it makes them even more mesmerizing. The sun doesn’t even compare to your beauty. In fact, it should be ashamed that someone outshines it.

The way your eyes sparkle when you’re excited—it lights up everything around you. And when you’re annoyed or mad, there’s this shadow that falls over them, and I swear even that is captivating. No artist could ever capture someone as gorgeous as you. They’d need years just to paint every bewitching detail of your face.

Amazing, lovely, charming, mesmerizing, ethereal, alluring, ravishing, heavenly—these words in the dictionary don’t just mean beauty. They mean you.

You’re breathtaking.

"And your laugh. You sound like a laughing troll!" My insides were begging me to shut up. What are you doing?!!

Your laugh is melody itself. I can't imagine how someone could laugh that graceful. It sounds like a choir of angels singing when you open that loud mouth of yours. But I'll never complain when you talk, of course. Far from that. That sweet voice of yours will be the last thing I want to hear when I get so old that I'm going deaf. Old, which means growing old with you.

Weird Sisters—or any song and band in that matter—can't compare to your laugh. It's music to my ears when I hear you babble about the recent romance book you read, or about the comeback you snapped at someone trying to bully you. You're so clever at that snappy comebacks of yours, no one could ever think of what to reply.

Especially me.

Definitely me.

"And let's not forget about your glasses. It looks like something my grandmother would wear."

Yes. I'm right, of course. Your glasses do look like something my grandmother would wear. But you make it look like an angel wears glasses.

You're the angel.

You rant about how you'll look prettier without your glasses, but I think the opposite. I think—no, I know. I know that you shine brighter than any definition of beauty. Your glasses? They’re just the frame around the masterpiece.

And when you took a step toward the front of the Great Hall in first year, I knew. I knew that you were the most beautiful person to exist in this cruel world. The whole world is imperfect except for you.

You're always the only exception.

Those large brown square-framed glasses of yours are the prettiest thing I’ve ever laid eyes on. Maybe it’s the stickers you used to put on them in your early years, or the slight cracks on the glass—caused by Merlin knows how many times you dropped them. It’s stunning. If you think otherwise, I’ll prove to you every day that you’re wrong.

They're perfect.

You're perfect.

And I think I like you.

“You’re terrible at insults, Malfoy.”

She stared at me with those beautiful eyes of hers—soft and piercing all at once. Merlin, I could lose myself in them forever. Her brows were slightly furrowed, a small frown tugging at her lips, her cheeks tinged red with what looked like embarrassment.

The wind from an open window blew through the corridor, sweeping a few strands of hair out of her face, and for a brief second, she looked like something out of a dream. We stood there—just the two of us—frozen in the middle of the hallway like the world had stopped spinning.

And she wasn’t moving.

Neither was I.

For what felt like an eternity, we just stared at each other. Studying. Searching. Like maybe we were both trying to understand something neither of us could say out loud.

Then she cleared her throat gently and broke the silence, her eyes shifting away from mine. No. Look at me again. Please.

“Excuse me.”

She brushed past me, and just like that, the moment was gone.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to run after her. I wanted to say something, anything—to pull her back and make her stay.

Don’t go. Not yet. Not like this.

But I didn’t move.

Because I’m a coward.

Because the truth is, if she hates me now—after the stupid things I kept saying—what would she think if she saw the real me?

The one who doesn’t hate her at all.

The one who’s been falling for her for longer than he’ll ever admit.

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

masterlist!

[jijournal]

"TOLD YOU I WAS" | D.M.

Summary: A quiet winter night of sulking turns unexpectedly sweet when Draco proves he’s been listening all along, surprising you with thoughtful gifts that melt your heart.

Word Count: 700+

A/N: kind of a part 2 of this fic. But it can be read as a stand alone. Enjoy!

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

It was a Saturday night, you lay on a couch near the warm fireplace of the Slytherin common room. Sounds of soft whispers made by other students around you and the crackling of fire are the only sounds you could clearly hear besides your own complaining.

It was almost December, the weather getting colder as each day passes. The green trees were now covered with white powder of snow and the black lake frozen. During day, first years can often be heard outside the castle, their laughter were loud as they threw snow balls at each other. You loved Hogwarts during this time of the year. It was nice. This was nice.

Draco was right beside you, his face buried on a thick book about potions mastery. A blanket was placed on his lap, while you snuggle near his chest. While he was reading, you kept complaining about the bad things that happened during this week, like:

"My special quill broke during charms..." you said pouting. "It was the prettiest quill I've ever had, Draco. And it broke!" you huffed.

"The pretty pink and blue flowers that were growing near the lake also withered now. The snow covered them all! Such a shame."

"And then, the WORST of all—the fudge flies were out! Again!" you exclaimed, your brows furrowed, your arms crossed on your chest.

You were expecting Draco to tend your complaining but instead you were met with silence. You looked up at him, his brows were slightly furrowed as he reads.

"Draco! Are you even listening to me."

His eyes flicked down to you briefly, lips twitching at your obvious sulking. “I am,” he said, voice even, though his gaze returned to his book almost too quickly. “I’m listening.”

You narrowed your eyes, not convinced at all. “Doesn’t seem like it.”

“I am,” he repeated, turning a page. “Trust me.”

But you didn’t. Not really. You huffed again, a little louder this time, and shifted away just slightly, hugging your knees to your chest. Draco glanced at you from the corner of his eye but didn’t comment, and the two of you sat in near-silence, save for the occasional crackle of the fire.

He’s definitely not listening, you thought, your pout deepening.

You stayed like that until you eventually fell asleep against him, still lowkey sulking.

⸻

The next morning, Draco was nowhere to be found. You looked for him at breakfast, in the common room, even near the library—his usual haunts. But nothing. By lunchtime, you were really starting to feel annoyed.

So much for him listening, you thought bitterly as you sat by yourself near the window in the Great Hall, picking at your food.

It wasn’t until late in the afternoon, when you were wandering aimlessly down one of the quiet stone corridors, that you heard footsteps behind you.

“Love!” Draco’s familiar voice called out.

You turned, about to scold him for disappearing, but stopped short. He was holding something behind his back, looking a bit smug but also… hopeful.

“What are you—”

Before you could finish, he stepped forward and presented a sleek new quill, the same color as your old one but somehow even prettier, with a shimmering silver tip and soft, elegant feathers.

“For the one you broke,” he said casually, though there was a tiny flicker of nervousness in his eyes.

You blinked in surprise, taking it gently. “Draco…”

He wasn’t done. With a flick of his wand, he levitated a small box into your hands. You opened it—and gasped.

“Fudge flies!” you exclaimed, eyes wide. “How did you—”

“They restocked early,” Draco interrupted smoothly. “I… may have asked them to."

You stared at him, at a loss for words now, but he was still moving. Finally, with a sheepish smile, he revealed the last surprise: a delicate bouquet of your favorite flowers, charmed to look as fresh and bright as if it were the middle of spring.

“They won’t wilt,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Not even in winter. I… I remembered you said you missed them.”

For a moment, you were too stunned to say anything. Then your eyes softened, your earlier sulking completely forgotten.

“You were listening,” you said quietly.

Draco’s smirk returned, a little smugger now. “Told you I was.”

You couldn’t help it—you threw your arms around him, the flowers crushed slightly between you. He hugged you back tightly, pressing his lips to your temple.

“You’re impossible,” you whispered, smiling into his chest.

“And you,” Draco murmured, holding you closer, “are far too easy to spoil.”

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

masterlist!

[jijournal]

THE THIEF | F.W

Summary: No one knows that you own a cute baby Niffler. It may be only a few months old, but his love for mischief keeps developing fast... really, fast.

Word Count: 700

Warnings: None! just fluff!

A/N: I want my own niffler sooo bad. Hope everyone loves this! 🫰

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

Most Hogwarts students had secrets—hidden crushes, forbidden snacks, or even secret passageways—but yours? Yours had fur, glittering eyes, a pouch that defied logic, and a criminal record longer than Filch’s temper.

His name was Niffy, a baby Niffler you’d rescued from a shady magical market stall during the summer. You couldn’t bear to leave him behind. So, obviously, you smuggled him into Hogwarts in your trunk. And obviously, that was a terrible idea.

Niffy was adorable. He was also pure chaos in a tiny, fuzzy package.

He had a knack for finding anything shiny—from Professor Flitwick’s silver quills to Lavender Brown’s lip gloss tin—and proudly presenting them to you, leaving you to apologize and sneak things back into their rightful places before anyone noticed.

No one knew about Niffy.

Well… no one used to.

It all went downhill the day Niffy mistook Fred Weasley’s pocket watch for a new toy.

You were halfway through your Care of Magical Creatures class, sitting and minding your own business, when you heard it.

“Oi! Has anyone seen my watch?” Fred’s voice rang out across the lawn.

Your heart stopped. You looked down. Niffy was curled up at your feet, gnawing happily on a very familiar gold chain.

Merlin’s pants.

You shoved him gently under your robes, trying to play it cool. You stood up, brushing off your robes. “Maybe you left it in your dorm?”

Fred squinted. “Nah, I had it just a moment ago.” He took a step closer, and Niffy, being the absolute menace he was, squeaked.

Fred raised an eyebrow.

You offered your most innocent smile. “Stomach. Hungry.”

He squeaked again.

Fred leaned in, playful suspicion dancing in his eyes. “You’ve got a Niffler in there, haven’t you?”

“No!”

Another squeak. Louder.

Fred grinned. “You totally do.”

“I—” you hesitated. Lying to a Weasley twin was a lost cause. “Okay, yes, but please don’t tell anyone. He’s harmless. Mostly. He’s just a baby!”

Fred crouched beside you and peeked under your robes. Niffy blinked up at him, then proudly spat out the stolen pocket watch like an offering to a deity.

Fred laughed. Not a mocking one, but a delighted, breathless kind of laugh that made your stomach flip. “Blimey. He’s adorable. What’s his name?”

“…Niffy.”

“You named Niffler Niffy?” Fred asked, beaming. “That’s perfect. So… how long has he been terrorizing the school?”

You cringed. “Since September. He’s... gotten good at hiding.”

Fred looked up at you, eyes soft with mischief. “I won’t tell anyone. On one condition.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Which is?”

“You let me help with the next heist. I want to see this little guy in action.”

You stared at him. “You want to help a Niffler steal things?”

Fred grinned. “I want to help you help a Niffler steal things. Big difference.”

Your face flushed. “You’re insane.”

“And you’re brilliant,” he said, standing up and brushing off his hands. “So? Do we have a deal?”

You looked down at Niffy, who was now curled up in your lap, already snoring, one tiny paw wrapped around Fred’s watch.

You smiled. “Deal.”

From then on, it became your thing. Midnight "training sessions" in the Room of Requirement. Bet-who-can-distract-Filch-faster competitions. Fred even sewed Niffy a tiny black mask one evening and insisted he was now a professional “heist baby.”

And somewhere in between the laughter, the glitter trails, and Fred catching you when you tripped over your own robes during a late-night escape, you realized you weren’t just falling for Fred’s charm—you were falling for him.

One night, after Niffy successfully “liberated” a stash of chocolate frogs from a locked cupboard in the kitchens, Fred turned to you, breathless with laughter.

“You know,” he said, gently tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, “this might be the weirdest, most wonderful secret I’ve ever been part of.”

You bit your lip. “Even weirder than the time you tried to hex Percy’s prefect badge off in third year?”

He smirked. “Okay, second weirdest.”

He paused, eyes warm. “But definitely the most wonderful.”

And before you could respond, Fred leaned in and kissed you—soft and sweet, with just a hint of peppermint and mischief.

From under the table, Niffy squeaked approvingly.

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

masterlist!

[jijournal]

JUST PRETEND | D.M

Summary: To get his parents off his back, Draco begs you to pretend to be his date for a gala. He swears it's just for a night, but by the end, he's wishing it wasn't.

Word Count: 1.5k

Warnings: None! Just pure fluff! ravenclaw!reader x draco malfoy

A/N: I love this, so I hope you guys love this too! 🫰

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

"Love!"

You groan, already knowing who that voice belongs to. The same voice that's been haunting your sanity for the past week.

You spin around, exasperated. “What now, Draco?”

“Come to the ga—” he starts, but you cut him off by pressing a finger to your lips.

“I’ve told you a million times, Draco. No.”

Lowering your hand, you turn on my heel and start walking away.

“C’mon, love. Please,” he calls out, jogging to catch up with you.

Draco Malfoy—Mr. Perfect Pureblood—was actually begging. Again. He wanted you to be his date to the annual Malfoy-hosted Pureblood gala. And of course, as always, no blood traitors allowed.

They didn’t know that your family was full of them. Didn’t know that you wore masks just to survive. Pretending to align with You-Know-Who just to keep your heads down and your status clean.

In a twisted way, it was easier being a Ravenclaw than a Gryffindor like the Weasleys. Sure, some Slytherins still looked down on you, but at least Ravenclaws were considered useful. Strategic. Worth tolerating.

You sigh, slowing your pace. “Why don’t you take Pansy? She’s in Slytherin. Your parents would—”

“But I don’t want her,” Draco cuts in sharply, eyes locking with yours. “I want you.”

Your eyes widen.

His eyes widen more.

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

“I mean—er—you know—it’s not like I want you or anything,” he stammers, clearing his throat and awkwardly running a hand through his hair. “I just think you’re a… better choice. Better than Parkinson, anyway.”

Wow. A choice. How flattering.

You raised an unimpressed brow, folding your arms across your chest. “Wow. So generous of you to pick me over your clingy little leech.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “She’s not—ugh, never mind. Look, I just need someone… tolerable. Someone who won't make me want to jump off the Astronomy Tower halfway through the night.”

“How romantic,” you deadpanned.

Draco rubbed the back of his neck, looking uncharacteristically nervous. “Please, just this once. One night. You show up, we act disgustingly cute for the press, my mother thinks I’m finally behaving like a proper pureblood son, and then you get to go back to your tragic little book club or whatever it is Ravenclaws do for fun.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “You're really bad at this whole ‘convincing someone to help you’ thing.”

“And yet, here you are—still listening.”

You hated that he was right. He was insufferable, arrogant, and had the emotional depth of a teaspoon most days, but Merlin help you, you found yourself softening at the sight of him all flustered and begging.

“All right, fine.” you muttered.

His eyes lit up like he’d just been handed the key to Gringotts. “Really!? You're serious?"

You rolled your eyes and turned to walk away. “Don’t make me regret this, Malfoy.”

“No promises,” he called after you, a smug smirk already returning to his face. “But I’ll have a dress robe ordered for you. Emerald green—it’ll bring out your eyes.”

You paused, just for a second, heart skipping a traitorous beat. But you didn’t let him see that. Not yet.

“Better not be ugly,” you shot back over your shoulder.

Draco chuckled, watching you walk away. “She said yes,” he whispered to himself with a triumphant grin. “She actually said yes.”

What neither of you knew was that one night was never going to be just one night.

⸻

The Malfoy estate was exactly what you'd expect: grand, cold, and intimidating enough to make even the most confident witch rethink her self-worth. You stood at the entrance, fingers twitching at your sides as your eyes swept across the glittering marble floors, the floating candelabras, and the polished guests draped in silk and smugness.

The ballroom was enormous—vaulted ceilings dripping with enchanted crystal chandeliers, casting soft golden light over the crowd. Velvet drapes in rich green and black pooled on either side of towering windows.

It was beautiful. It was suffocating.

You clutched the edge of your gown, suddenly hyper-aware of every breath. Every stare. The weight of your name, your family’s secrets, and the lie you wore like perfume.

But then—you saw him.

Draco stood near the grand staircase, locked in conversation with a Ministry official in plum-colored robes. His hair was slicked back neatly, and he wore deep green dress robes that made him look older. Sharper. Like he belonged here—born into this world of polished silver and cutting glances.

But his eyes weren’t on the official. They were flicking toward the door. Restless. Searching.

And then they found you.

He stopped mid-sentence. Literally. His mouth parted, words caught somewhere between his tongue and throat as he stared. Like the sight of you had knocked the wind from his lungs.

You met his gaze with a slow, knowing smirk. “You gonna keep staring or offer me your arm, Malfoy?”

“You—Merlin, you clean up…” He looked you up and down, eyes lingering just a little too long on the way the emerald green gown hugged your figure, the way it shimmered beneath the chandeliers. “Well.”

You arched a brow. “That sounded dangerously close to a compliment.”

“Don’t get used to it,” he muttered, ears tinged pink. He held out his arm, and you slid your hand into the crook of his elbow.

You tried to ignore the way your heart pounded. The way he smelled like something warm and expensive—cologne and faint ash, like he’d just stepped out of a fireplace.

As the two of you entered, the ballroom seemed to ripple around you. Heads turned. Conversations quieted. Every eye in the room was drawn to the Slytherin prince and his unexpected date.

Whispers followed you like smoke.

“Is that—?” “Draco’s date?” “She’s not even a Slytherin…” "How can he choose someone like her?"

And yet, none of them mattered. Not with Draco beside you, standing tall, head high, like he dared anyone to challenge his choice.

“Draco,” a familiar cool voice purred as his parents approached, their presence chilling and elegant. “And who is this lovely… surprise?”

Narcissa Malfoy wore frost like a second skin. Her gown was icy blue, her diamonds sharp. Beside her, Lucius looked every inch the power-hungry aristocrat, his cane gleaming in one hand.

You smiled politely. Controlled. “His date,” you said simply. “Thank you for having me.”

Narcissa’s eyes scanned you like a predator—calculating, cold. Lucius said nothing, but his lip curled ever so slightly. And yet, after a beat, she smiled.

“Tasteful,” she said finally. “Unexpected. But tasteful.”

“Mother,” Draco cut in quickly, his tone flat but respectful. “We’ll catch up later.”

With a graceful nod, Narcissa turned. Lucius followed, silent as a shadow.

You let out a quiet breath you didn’t know you’d been holding.

“Well done,” Draco murmured as you walked further into the ballroom. “They didn’t stab you with their eyes. That’s a win.”

You smirked. “Is that what this night is going to be? Surviving Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy?”

Draco chuckled low. “That’s part one. Part two is convincing everyone else I’m wildly in love with you.”

You turned to look at him, sharp. “Think you can pull that off?”

But something in his gaze had shifted. There was no smirk this time. Just a softness. A quiet intensity that curled low in your stomach.

“I think I already am,” he said softly.

It landed between you like a dropped glass. You blinked, heart stumbling.

Before you could say anything, a warm voice echoed through the hall:

“The dance floor is now open.”

Draco didn’t hesitate. He turned, extended his hand with a slight bow, that signature Malfoy smirk reappearing—only now it was laced with something warmer. “Shall we, darling?”

You took his hand, unsure if your fingers were trembling from nerves or something else entirely.

As he led you into the center of the floor, the crowd parted like silk. His hand slid around your waist, fingers brushing the exposed skin at your back, and your breath hitched. The music swelled—slow, deliberate, romantic—and the two of you began to move.

It wasn’t the stiff, practiced steps you expected from him. No. Draco held you like he meant it. Like you weren’t just some Ravenclaw in a pretty dress. Like he saw you.

Your skirts twirled softly around your ankles as he spun you, and laughter bubbled up—genuine, light, disarming.

“You’re not completely terrible at this,” you murmured, voice low.

“Don’t ruin the moment,” he teased, smirking again. “I’m trying to make all these pureblood snobs die of jealousy.”

You leaned in closer. “It’s working.”

The world fell away—faded music, fading whispers, fading walls. There was only the feel of his hand against your back, the way he was looking at you like you were the only thing in the room.

And somewhere between one step and the next…

You stopped pretending.

And Draco?

He’d stopped long before that.

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

masterlist!

[jijournal]

Complain Here, Complain There | D.M

Summary: You had a talent for endless complaining—fortunately, someone always seemed to have the full-time job of fixing whatever you whined about.

slytherin!reader x draco

part 2 (kinda) here

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

You were dramatic. Or at least, that’s what everyone always said.

But honestly, was it that unreasonable to complain when your shoes pinched your feet so badly you were pretty sure your toes were permanently damaged?

“I swear,” you huffed one evening in the common room, dramatically flopping into a chair and kicking off your battered shoes, “these are cursed. Walking around Hogwarts is like a medieval torture device.”

Your friends, used to your tirades, just laughed and kept chatting, not paying much attention.

But the next morning, something unexpected happened.

Sitting neatly on your bed was a box—wrapped in elegant silver paper, tied with a green ribbon. Your brows furrowed in confusion. Tucked under the bow was a small note, written in clean, slightly slanted handwriting:

“For your poor, tortured toes.”

No name. No hint of who sent it.

Cautiously, you opened the box—and your eyes widened. Inside was a pair of gorgeous shoes: soft, sturdy, and—when you tried them on—shockingly comfortable. Like walking on clouds.

You stormed down to the common room, holding the box high. “Okay, which one of you is my secret shoe fairy?”

Blank stares. Shrugs. Smirks. Everyone swore they knew nothing.

Strange.

And it didn’t stop there.

A few days later, you were crammed into the library, wedged into a tiny spot between two first-years, scowling at your overflowing notes. You muttered under your breath, “The library is always packed during exam season. I can never get my spot. Honestly, what’s the point?”

You didn’t expect anything to happen.

But the very next day, when you walked into the library, you nearly dropped your books in shock. In the far corner—a place you’d never noticed before—was a little tucked-away alcove. It was empty, despite the crowded room, and set up with plush cushions, soft lighting, and a perfectly organized desk.

Floating just above the table was a tiny enchanted sign that read:

“Reserved for annoying overachievers only. (who is mostly known as Y/N)”

Your eyes darted around, but no one seemed to be watching.

Later that week, after losing your hair tie for the third time in a single afternoon, you huffed loudly, “I keep losing my hair ties. It’s like they disappear into thin air. I’m cursed.”

You didn’t expect anything.

But the next morning, you found a little velvet pouch sitting right on your pillow. Inside were enchanted hair ties—smooth, shiny, and softly shimmering with magic.

The note?

“No excuses for messy hair now.”

At this point, your friends were obsessed with the mystery. “You’ve definitely got a secret admirer,” one of them said, grinning. “Come on, who wouldn’t like you?”

You’d laughed it off, but secretly… your heart was starting to race every time something new appeared.

Then, after a long day of running between classes and study sessions, chilled to the bone and completely exhausted, you slumped onto a bench in the corridor, groaning, “I never have time to get tea between classes. I’m going to shrivel up and die at this rate.”

And later that day, as you pulled out your books in class, you blinked down in surprise. Sitting snug in your bag was a self-heating mug—warm and steaming with your exact favorite tea.

The note?

“Can’t have you dehydrated now, can we?”

It was driving you crazy. Every complaint, every little offhand comment—you were starting to realize someone was listening. Really listening. And fixing things in ways that made your chest ache and your stomach flip.

But no one admitted a thing.

Then one night, sitting by the fire after a long day, you sighed without thinking. “Honestly, I don’t even know why I care about any of this. It’s not like any boy actually likes me.”

Silence.

The kind of silence that makes you look up, because something shifts.

And there he was—Draco Malfoy. Leaning casually against the wall nearby, watching you with a look you couldn’t quite place. His arms were crossed, and for once, his usual smirk was gone.

“Well,” he said, his voice low and careful, “for once, I can’t exactly fix that with a note.”

Your heart stumbled. “Wait… what?”

He pushed off the wall, stepping closer, rubbing the back of his neck—a surprisingly shy gesture. “It’s been me,” he admitted quietly. “The shoes. The library spot. The tea. All of it.”

You stared, stunned. “You?”

He nodded, meeting your eyes head-on now. “You never stop complaining,” he said with a tiny, teasing smile, “and I guess… I just wanted to make things better. Because I—” He hesitated, his usual confidence faltering. “Because I like you. I’ve liked you for… a while.”

You stared at him, your heart pounding, piecing together every note, every gift, every quiet, thoughtful act.

“Draco…” you breathed, stepping a little closer.

He shrugged, eyes flicking down. “So… I was hoping I finally fixed that last complaint.”

You grinned, your heart completely full now. “Hmm… not quite yet.”

His brows lifted. “No?”

You smiled, soft and sure. “I think a kiss might do the trick.”

For a split second, Draco looked stunned. And then he leaned in, catching your lips in a kiss that was gentle at first—almost careful—but quickly deepened, full of all the quiet feelings he’d been hiding for so long.

When you finally pulled back, he was smiling—a real, warm, genuine smile, eyes shining.

“There,” he murmured, brushing his thumb across your cheek. “Fixed.”

And for once… you had absolutely nothing left to complain about.

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

masterlist!

[jijournal]

LOVE ME AGAIN | D.M

Part 2 of Love Me Loud

Summary: After walking away from the boy who couldn't choose you, fate brings you face to face with Draco Malfoy once more. The feelings are still there, truths remain unspoken, and the question lingers—was it ever really over?

Word Count: 3k

Warnings: Just get your tissues ready.

A/N: Part 2 of 'Love Me Loud' is here!! Hope everyone love this! 🫰

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

Draco Malfoy had always believed silence was safety.

Until you walked away—and the silence screamed louder than anything he'd ever known.

The morning after the Quidditch match, the castle moved on as if nothing had happened. Students buzzed in the corridors, gossiping about the game, praising Draco’s win like it was a badge of legacy. But he didn’t hear them.

All he heard was your voice, raw and trembling in the cold air of the Astronomy Tower.

“I needed you to fight for me.”

He hadn’t.

And now, you were gone.

The weeks that followed were hollow.

You avoided him effortlessly, without making it obvious. You didn’t speak his name, didn’t glance his way in class, didn’t even acknowledge the shared air between you anymore.

Draco thought the silence would kill him.

Every hallway he turned into felt like a trap laid with memories. Every classroom you both shared was colder without your warmth beside him. Even the dungeons, once your quiet sanctuary together, felt empty.

You’d sit in Potions now with Ernie Macmillan. He laughed too loud, made too many mistakes—but he looked at you the way Draco wished he still could.

With pride.

With ease.

Without shame.

Draco still passed you ingredients sometimes, his fingers brushing yours like they used to—but now you didn’t flinch or look up. You just thanked him softly. Politely.

Like a stranger would.

By sixth year, the war outside had begun bleeding into the castle’s stone walls. The tension was no longer whispers—it was screams, in shadows, in headlines, in conversations that stopped when professors walked by.

And then came the Mark. Branded into his skin like a brand on cattle. Like ownership.

He hadn’t been asked.

He’d been chosen.

Because Lucius Malfoy had failed. Because the Dark Lord was cruel. Because Draco still hadn’t learned how to say no.

He stopped smiling after that. Not that he had much to smile about anymore.

He was losing weight. Losing sleep. Losing control.

You still hadn’t looked at him.

Not once.

Until that night in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom.

The door creaked open and you stepped inside. Your wand was drawn, expecting trouble, ready for a duel.

You weren’t expecting to find Draco—collapsed against the porcelain basin, his breathing uneven, eyes vacant and glassy.

Your heart stopped.

“Draco?”

He didn’t look at you, his voice low and almost brittle as he muttered, “Go away.”

But you didn’t.

Instead, you knelt slowly, cautiously. Your movements were deliberate, as if you were approaching something fragile—something broken. Because that’s what he looked like. Broken. Wounded. Not dangerous.

You reached for his arm, your fingers brushing his sleeve. He flinched, jerking away, but the movement was weak, like he didn’t have the strength to push you away. His face was pale, and his eyes were distant.

“I’m fine,” he mumbled, but his sleeve was soaked in blood—a clean, straight cut running across it, crimson staining the fabric.

“No, you’re not,” you whispered, your voice gentle, steady despite the shock twisting in your chest. “Let me help.”

For the first time in months, he looked at you. Really looked at you. His gaze met yours—raw, vulnerable—and suddenly, everything that had been buried came rushing back. The way you always saw through him, the way your eyes softened when everyone else turned away. Even now. Especially now.

You didn’t hesitate. You healed him in silence, your magic warm and soothing. It was steady and sure, but your hands shook slightly from the nerves you hadn’t known you still had. His gaze never wavered from you, as if he couldn’t tear himself away from the girl who had once cared for him. Who still might.

When you finished, you set your wand down, the soft glow fading as you sat beside him. Your knees were pressed to the cold stone floor, but you didn’t move. You both sat there for a long while, the silence thick between you.

Finally, he broke the stillness, his voice quiet, rough. “You shouldn’t be here.”

A faint, tired smile pulled at the corners of your lips, bittersweet and full of something both old and new. “Neither should you.”

His eyes dropped to the floor, guilt weighing him down. “I never meant for it to end like that.”

You didn’t respond. You didn’t need to. The hurt was still too fresh, still too close, and words would only cheapen it.

“You saved me today,” he said, almost as if he were speaking to himself, his voice thick with an emotion you couldn’t quite place. “Why?”

You glanced at him, your heart pounding in your chest. And then, in a voice barely louder than a whisper, you answered.

“Because I loved you once,” you murmured, your words fragile and broken, “and part of me still does.”

There were no more words between you after that night.

But something shifted. Something that neither time nor silence could undo.

The next time you passed him in the hallways, he didn’t look away.

And for the first time, neither did you.

⸻

The Battle of Hogwarts came without warning. The night burned with fire and fury.

Spells crashed through stone and air alike, the world split between blinding light and crushing darkness. Screams echoed down the corridors, and the floor was littered with dust, broken wands, and shattered pieces of the castle that once felt like home. You ran, lungs aching, heart a thunderous drum in your chest. Every turn of the hallway was another battlefield, every corner another gamble.

You hadn’t seen him since he left for Easter Holidays.

You told yourself you were over it. That the war had made you stronger, sharper. That you’d let go of the boy who let go of you.

But it wasn’t true.

When you rounded the corner into the Transfiguration corridor, wand raised, ready to fight, and you saw the Death Eater turn on you, his wand already mid-curse—you knew this might be the end.

“Avada—”

“Protego!”

A body slammed into yours, sending you both crashing to the stone floor as green light flew over your heads. The world tilted. You scrambled to your elbows, heart hammering, wand still clutched tight.

And then you saw him.

Draco.

Panting. Pale. His robes torn and smeared with ash and blood.

He stood between you and the masked man like a barrier—trembling slightly, but steady, wand raised.

The duel didn’t last long. Draco’s spells were fast, relentless. And when the Death Eater finally fell back, fleeing into the smoke, you were left staring at him, breath caught in your throat.

“Why did you save me?” you asked, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

He turned to face you slowly, his face raw with emotion. “Because I still love you.”

The words struck you like a curse—sharp and unrelenting, rattling everything inside you. You froze, your breath catching in your throat as the weight of his confession pressed down on you. For a moment, disbelief swallowed you whole, and all you could do was stare at him.

“Then why did you let me go?” your voice cracked, just barely.

Draco's gaze dropped to the broken floor beneath him, his shoulders sinking as if the weight of his words was too much for him to carry. He seemed smaller, fragile.

“I…” His voice wavered, breaking on the single syllable, as if he couldn’t quite believe he was admitting this out loud. His fingers clenched into fists at his sides, and for a long moment, the only sound in the room was the your steady breath and the distant chaos of the battle raging outside.

“I wasn’t brave enough,” he said, his voice rough and raw, a confession soaked in regret. His eyes closed briefly. When he opened them again, his gaze met yours, and there was something different in it now—something that wasn’t the cold, distant shield he had worn for so long. It was filled with a sorrow so deep that it felt like it could swallow him whole.

“I wasn’t brave enough to fight for you,” he whispered, his voice a strained breath. “I thought I could hide behind my family, behind my name, behind all of it... I thought it was easier to keep my distance—to push you away.” His eyes flickered with a flash of pain, and he exhaled shakily, as if the words had physically hurt to speak.

You watched him closely, your own heart aching at the sight of the boy you’d once known—strong, proud, full of arrogance. This Draco, though? This Draco was fragile. He was broken in ways he hadn’t let anyone see before.

“I let fear control me,” he continued, his voice barely audible now. “Fear of my father’s anger. Fear of losing everything I thought I needed. And I let that fear keep me from fighting for the one person who I actually needed.”

His chest rose and fell rapidly, like he was fighting to breathe through the weight of his admission. He took a hesitant step closer, as if testing whether the distance between you would close the space in his chest, too.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice thick with something unspoken—something deeper than the apology he couldn’t seem to finish. “I’ve spent years regretting it. The silence. The things I didn’t say. The things I never had the courage to do.”

The silence between you stretched, thick with everything unsaid. You looked at him—really looked at him—and you saw it. Not the boy who sneered across Potions class. Not the son of Lucius Malfoy. Just Draco. Scared. Honest. And completely undone.

But before either of you could speak again, voices shouted down the hallway—calls for help, orders, spells. Another part of the castle was collapsing.

Draco’s eyes flickered to the danger, then back to you. There was a moment—one second where it felt like maybe, just maybe, you would run together this time.

But he took a step back.

And you did too.

No words. Just that one last look.

And then the war tore you apart again.

⸻

It had been three years since the war ended—since that night of fire and silence, since the last time you saw him disappear into smoke and rubble. Life had moved on, though not without effort.

Draco never reached out. Not once in those three years did he spare a moment to write you a letter. You, on the other hand, wrote to him every month for a year after the war—letters filled with things left unsaid, with questions you were too afraid to ask. But you never sent them. Fear held you back—fear that he didn’t want anything to do with you, that the silence between you was deliberate. That was two years ago. You haven’t written since. You stopped letting yourself hope.

Now, you stood in the quiet warmth of your flower shop—your sanctuary, your dream since the first time Herbology had made you feel like something in the world could grow just for you. The air was rich with the scent of lilacs and lavender, sunlight spilling through the windows like a blessing, and for once, everything felt steady. Peaceful. Almost enough.

The bell above the shop door chimed softly.

You looked up from your counter, hands still wrapped around a freshly tied bouquet of pale hydrangeas. The scent of eucalyptus drifted through the air, mingling with the gentle charm you’d enchanted to keep the daisies from wilting. Sunlight filtered through the window, casting golden stripes across the polished floor.

He stood there. Like a ghost you’d tried so hard to bury.

Draco Malfoy.

No longer the boy with the haunted eyes, but a man. Taller, a little older. His hair shorter, his face sharper, more composed. But the storm in his eyes? Still the same.

“I didn’t know this was your shop,” he said quietly, stepping inside. “I was just passing through.”

You looked up from the bouquet in your hands, the ribbon still dangling between your fingers. For a second, you thought the air left the room. “It is,” you said, voice careful. “Been open for a while now.”

He nodded, slowly taking it in—how the light fell on the mahogany shelves, the soft hum of magic keeping the roses from drooping, the handwritten labels tucked into tiny pots. His gaze lingered on the charm above the door, the one that softly sang when someone entered.

“This place…” he said after a beat, “It’s beautiful. Feels like you.”

Your fingers tightened around the ribbon. “That was the idea.”

He moved further in, his footsteps soft against the wood, like he didn’t want to disturb anything. His eyes traced the petals of hanging lavender, then drifted to the tiny jars of Baby's-breath that floated just above the shelves. His fingers hovered near a jar, brushing the side, barely touching.

“I always thought you’d end up somewhere like this,” he said. “Somewhere gentle.”

You raised a brow. “After everything? I wasn’t sure I could be gentle anymore.”

He looked at you then, eyes heavy. “You always were. Even when the rest of the world wasn’t.”

The quiet between you stretched, weighted and warm. The scent of jasmine curled between the silences, familiar and almost cruel.

He took a deep breath. “I passed by here last week,” he admitted. “Saw the window. Saw the name on the sign. I wasn’t sure it was really you.”

You managed a small smile. “It’s me. Just… older. Wiser, hopefully.”

His lips twitched like he wanted to smile, but didn’t quite know how anymore. “You always had a thing for violets. Still do?”

You gestured to the arrangement in your hands. “Some things don’t change.”

He moved a little closer, standing just across the counter now, where the distance felt both unbearable and too much all at once.

He was quiet again. His fingers tapped the wood of the counter once, then stilled.

“I didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” he admitted, his voice barely a breath.

You nodded. “I didn’t think you’d want to.”

“I didn’t think I deserved to.”

Your throat tightened. You looked away, pretending to fix a petal that didn’t need fixing.

And then—so softly it was almost a thought more than a sentence—he said it.

“I missed you.”

You felt the words catch in your throat. The familiar ache of longing twisted inside you, but it was quickly smothered by the armor you'd built over the years.

You tried to keep the walls up, but the weight of his confession shattered something inside you. Your hands shook slightly as you set the bouquet down, the soft scent of the flowers mixing with the tension in the air.

You forced your gaze back to him, meeting his eyes—eyes that seemed to have never fully left you, despite everything.

For a moment, you almost said nothing. You almost pretended you hadn’t heard him, hadn’t felt the weight of the years between you. But the truth was, his words had cracked something open inside, something you’d buried deep for so long.

You exhaled a shaky breath. “I missed you too, Draco,” you whispered, your voice barely above a breath. It wasn’t just the words, but the way they felt—the vulnerability in them. A rawness you hadn’t allowed yourself to acknowledge until now.

For a moment it felt like nothing had changed. Like the years between the war and this tiny shop had never happened. Just the two of you. The ache still there, the words still fragile.

“Do you want to, maybe go with me to the Leaky Cauldron?” His voice cracked just a little, like he didn’t quite believe he had the right to ask. “We could—”

You cut him off, gently but firmly. “If you want us to get back together, I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”

His face drained of color. “What? Why not?”

You didn’t flinch. This time, you met his eyes without wavering—calm, resolute, and heartbreakingly sure.

“Draco… I’m getting married.”

He froze.

His mouth opened. Closed. And for a second, he looked like that boy again—lost, undone, silenced by the weight of a moment he wasn’t ready for.

You turned, reaching for a small arrangement of daisies and forget-me-nots you made earlier that morning—soft blues and whites, bound in a silk ribbon.

Forget-me-nots, for the memories that clung to your soul—enduring love that had once burned quietly between you. Daisies, pure and bright, symbolized release. Letting go. Letting go of him, and of the life you once imagined.

They were your way of saying goodbye without words—of embracing a future without him in it.

You turned back to him, eyes soft but resolute, and held the bouquet out.

“I made this today,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “It reminded me of us. I didn’t know why, until now.”

He took it slowly, his hand brushing against yours. The contact was fleeting, but electric with unspoken memories. His fingers trembled as they closed around the stems—his walls cracking under the weight of a thousand things he never said.

“I hope you’re happy,” he said at last, his voice low, hoarse. Strained. He couldn’t meet your eyes.

“I am,” you whispered. “I had to learn how to be.”

Your words weren’t meant to wound. But they did. You saw it in the way he blinked too slowly, as if keeping tears at bay. You saw it in the way his shoulders tensed—like he was preparing himself to carry the pain away with him.

Draco nodded once, slowly. His lips parted as though he wanted to say more, but no words came. He turned to leave. The silence between you felt heavy, sacred.

He reached the door, then paused. You could almost hear the battle in his chest, the weight of everything he couldn’t undo.

And then—he looked back.

And this time, you didn’t look away. You met his eyes, steady and brave.

You weren’t angry anymore. You weren’t lost. You were just… finally free.

Because this time… you weren’t the one who walked away.

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

A/N: I hope the ending wasn't too disappointing. I went for a more realistic approach. I hate to say this, but I feel like this is what Draco would realistically do. Hope you liked it!

masterlist!

taglist: @ladycaramelswirl @kammafffffff

[jijournal]

LOVE ME LOUD | D.M

Part 2

Summary: To the world, Draco Malfoy was untouchable—arrogant, cruel, and proud of it. But when you took the only empty seat beside him, you became the exception. Well maybe not that much of an exception... He cared more about what his family wants, and not what he wanted. Which was you.

Word Count: 1.5K+

Warnings: PURE ANGST! muggle born!hufflepuff!reader x draco

A/N: I recommend you guys listen to 'I love you, I'm sorry' by Gracie Abrams while reading. Listen to it twice and I swear the end matches up perfectly. (although it might depend how fast or slow you read 😓) Anyways, I hope everyone loves this! 🫰

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

The Greatest Heir of the Malfoys.

That’s what Draco Malfoy was born to be.

His life had always been shaped by that title—carved into his soul by the cold hands of legacy and expectation. Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy raised him to carry the family name with pride, elegance, and above all, power.

Power that too often came at the expense of kindness.

He wielded it freely—making people like Crabbe and Goyle his followers, bullying first-years simply because he could, and hurling cruel words at classmates whose bloodlines didn’t meet his family’s standards.

He was arrogant. Untouchable.

Until he met you.

It was third year. September 2nd. The first day of Potions class.

You arrived late. The dungeon already buzzed with that familiar mix of damp stone, potion fumes, and tension. Every seat was taken.

Every seat except two: one beside Zacharias Smith… and the other beside Draco Malfoy.

Both were terrible options.

Zacharias was a pompous git, sure. But Draco? Draco was dangerous—for someone like you.

A Muggleborn.

You hesitated. Weighed your choices. Then turned toward Smith.

But just as you were about to slide into the chair, Justin Finch-Fletchley slipped into it with a smug grin.

“Hey!” you exclaimed, frustrated. “I was going to sit there!”

“Looks like you’ll have to find somewhere else,” he shrugged, already turning to laugh with Zacharias.

You sighed and turned slowly… to the only seat left.

Beside Draco Malfoy.

You slid into the chair, tense and quiet, refusing to meet his gaze. You could feel his eyes on you. But he said nothing.

Snape’s voice sliced through the air. Class began.

At first, nothing changed. Draco acted as he always did—cold, aloof, tossing in the occasional jab when he thought no one else was listening.

But then… something shifted.

He started handing you ingredients. Offering quiet suggestions during assignments. He didn’t mock you when you got something right. And he didn’t insult you when you got something wrong.

When you sliced your finger on a shrivelfig root, he passed you a handkerchief—silent, but deliberate. His fingers brushed yours. Too long to be casual.

By October, you lingered after class together.

By November, you were exchanging secret smiles in the corridors.

By December, you were meeting by the Black Lake in the early mornings—hidden beneath scarves and snowflakes, sharing quiet words and cautious glances.

Then came the conversation. The one that defined everything.

You were alone in a forgotten corridor, surrounded by unused chairs and dusty shelves.

“We have to keep this a secret, alright?”

Your brows furrowed, confusion twisting into something sharper.

“What?” you scoffed. “Why?”

Your voice echoed too loudly.

He stepped closer, voice low and tight. “Because my parents…” He hesitated. “They don’t want me dating a Muggleborn.”

The silence that followed cut deep.

Your heart sank. “So what, you’re ashamed of me?”

“No!” He reached for your hand, gripping it tightly. “It’s not like that—my father would disown me. You don’t understand what it’s like to have your whole life already decided for you.”

And maybe you didn’t.

But it still hurt like hell.

Still… you stayed.

You let him keep you in the shadows. In corners, in secrets, in soft goodnights whispered between walls.

Because even if you were hidden, it was still him. Still something.

But slowly, you began to resent it.

You envied the girls who were held in public. Who were kissed in plain sight. Girls who were loved loudly.

You were loved in silence.

Draco never looked at you in front of others. Said it was for “safety.” But you knew it was fear. Fear that someone—his father—would find out.

You told yourself it was fine.

But it wasn’t.

The months blurred. And now it was fifth year. By now, your younger self had imagined the secrecy would be long gone.

But it wasn’t.

You were still a secret. Still his hidden truth. The light he kept tucked away in the dark.

Then came the most awaited day at Hogwarts.

Slytherin vs Gryffindor.

You sat with the Hufflepuffs, clapping politely—but your eyes never left him. Not once.

Then it happened.

He dove—fast and fierce—his Seeker cloak trailing like a storm. The crowd held its breath. Then—gold flashed in the light.

The Snitch.

Draco caught it.

“Yes!!” you screamed, adrenaline crashing through your veins. For a moment, you forgot everything—the rules, the fear, the hiding.

You ran.

Down the stands. Across the pitch.

Straight to him.

He turned just as you flung your arms around his neck.

“Oh, Draco, you’re amazing!” you gasped, breathless, proud.

He caught you. Spun you around, then smiled. Beamed, even.

For one perfect second, everything felt right.

Then his eyes flicked up—past you.

To the stands.

Lucius Malfoy stood at the top row. Motionless. His expression carved from ice. One hand on his cane. His lips curled in a sneer.

“Draco?” you whispered, the roar of the crowd fading into static.

He turned back to you.

His eyes were different now.

Guarded. Cold.

He stepped back.

Then gently pushed you away.

It wasn’t harsh.

But it still broke you.

“What—Draco?”

“Don’t,” he said. The word landed like a blade.

“Am I really that embarrassing to be with?” you let out a shaky chuckle, voice trembling.

He looked away, jaw tight.

“I told you… this can’t happen.”

And then he turned and walked off the pitch—Snitch still in hand.

The celebration swallowed him whole.

And you were left standing there, heart shattered beneath the sound of victory.

Because he loved you.

Just not enough to defy his father.

Not enough to choose you.

⸻

Later that night, long after the Quidditch celebrations had died down and the castle had fallen into a heavy silence, you found him.

The Astronomy Tower.

Of course it was.

Where else would a boy like Draco Malfoy go to fall apart without anyone seeing.

He was standing near the edge of the stone balcony, his back to you, silver-blond hair glowing faintly beneath the moonlight. His hands gripped the railing, knuckles white. His shoulders tense.

You didn’t speak at first. The wind did—soft and sharp, threading between you.

“I thought you’d come,” he said without turning.

You stepped closer. Voice low. “I wasn’t going to. I really wasn’t.”

Still, he didn’t face you.

You hated how beautiful he looked in the moonlight.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he murmured. “It’s not safe.”

You scoffed. “Right. Because loving me has always been dangerous, hasn’t it?”

He flinched.

“Don’t,” he whispered. “Please.”

You ignored it and kept walking.

“I came here to ask you something,” you said, voice raw. “I want you to look me in the eye and tell me what I am to you.”

He didn’t move.

“I deserve that much. After all the sneaking around. After letting you pull me into empty classrooms because you were too much of a coward to look at me in public.” Your breath caught. “Tell me.”

Finally, he turned.

And his face wasn’t cold anymore.

It was broken.

You saw it in his eyes—the war raging inside. Between the boy who loved you and the one his father demanded he be.

“You’re everything,” he said hoarsely. “But I can’t choose you.”

You stared at him. Not shocked. Just tired.

“You caught the Snitch today,” you said softly. “Everyone was cheering. You had everything. And the moment you saw him, none of it mattered. Not me. Not us.”

He looked down. Ashamed.

“You don’t know what he’s capable of.”

“I don’t care what he would do,” you snapped. “I care about what you did. You humiliated me like I was nothing.”

His hand trembled as he reached for you.

But you stepped back.

“No,” you said. “Not this time.”

Tears streamed down your cheeks. “Do you even know what it’s like? To love someone in silence for years? To hear people call you a mudblood and pretend it doesn’t hurt?”

Your voice cracked.

“To hear rumors about you and girls that aren’t me… and not be able to say a word? Because I can’t tell them you chose me.”

Your lip trembled. “Because you asked me to keep this a secret. And I respected that.”

You swallowed hard. “So can you at least respect me?”

“I never wanted to hurt you—”

“But you did,” you said, cutting him off. “And you will. Again and again. Because the truth is, Draco… you’re not strong enough to love me out loud.”

He opened his mouth—maybe to beg you to stay, maybe to take it all back.

But no words came.

Just a broken breath.

You stepped closer. Voice shaking.

“I needed you to fight for me. Just once. To look your father in the eye and say, ‘I don’t care what you think. She’s mine.’”

He said nothing.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

You smiled, tears blurring your vision.

“So am I.”

And this time… when you walked away, he didn’t follow.

He just stayed there, beneath the stars.

Too proud to run after you.

Too broken to let you go.

And you didn’t look back.

But he did.

He always would.

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

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masterlist!

[jijournal]

CONFESSION CANDY | G.W

Summary: When Fred convinces George to test their latest prototype, George has no idea the candy will shout out a confession he’s secretly been holding in for years. To his horror—and your shock—it blurts out that he's in love with you.

Word Count: 400+

A/N: A cute lil drabble for my favorite Weasley. Hope everyone loves this! 🫰

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

“We need a better name,” George muttered, frowning at the swirling, glittering sweet in his palm. “This sounds like a rejected Weird Sisters single.”

Fred snorted from where he lounged in a battered armchair, a wicked grin spreading across his face. “Alright then, Mister Marketing Genius, why don’t you test the prototype?”

George raised an eyebrow. “You serious?”

Fred leaned forward, his grin widening. “Deadly.”

It was a lazy Friday night at Hogwarts, the common room buzzing with quiet chatter and late-night laughter. Students lounged on couches, sprawled over homework, and huddled around games. You sat across the room from the twins, half-focused on your Charms textbook, though your eyes kept drifting toward their ridiculous candy experiment.

George hesitated, then shrugged like a man walking into battle. “Here lies George Weasley. Death by experimental confection.”

You smiled behind your book.

And then he popped the glittery sweet into his mouth.

For a second, nothing happened.

Then George turned his head, locked eyes with you across the room, and yelled—

“I’M IN LOVE WITH YOU!”

The room went dead silent.

You blinked. “...What?”

George froze, horrified, his eyes wide as if someone else had hijacked his mouth. “Oh no.” He slapped a hand over his lips. “Oh no no no—”

Fred was wheezing with laughter. “It works! Merlin’s pants, it actually works! This is brilliant!”

George groaned and collapsed backward onto the couch, burying his face in a throw pillow. “I’m going to die. Bury me in Zonko’s. Tell Mum I went out with honor.”

You just stared, your brain lagging behind your racing heart.

He said he loved you.

Was it the candy talking?

Or was it—?

Before you could think twice, you stood, walked over to the coffee table, and picked up one of the shimmering sweets still left in George’s hand. His eyes peeked out from behind the pillow, alarmed.

“Wait—don’t—!”

Too late. You popped it in your mouth. It melted like spun sugar, and warmth bloomed in your chest like sunlight after winter.

Your fingers trembled slightly.

Then you looked straight at George, heart thudding, and said, clear and certain—

“I’ve been in love with you since fifth year.”

The words hung in the air, shimmering like the candy itself.

Fred stopped laughing.

George sat up so fast the pillow flew off his lap. His mouth parted, stunned.

Your eyes met.

And suddenly, neither of you were laughing anymore.

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

masterlist!

[jijournal]

MASTERLIST!

ˋ°•*⁀➷ GOLDEN TRIO ERA

╰┈➤ HARRY POTTER

♡ I See You

As a Muggle-born Hufflepuff, you were taught to always be kind-even when it hurt. Years of people-pleasing left you exhausted and invisible, until Harry Potter reminded you that your worth isn't tied to how much you give. Now, you're learning that kindness includes being kind to yourself too.

♡ Worse Than Veritaserum!

Something went wrong while you and Harry were brewing Veritaserum—the potion you created now causes you to read each other’s minds.

╰┈➤ DRACO MALFOY

ˋ°•*⁀➷ SERIES

♡ LOVE ME LOUD

♡ Part 1: Love Me Loud: To the world, Draco Malfoy was untouchable—arrogant, cruel, and proud of it. But when you took the only empty seat beside him, you became the exception. Well maybe not that much of an exception... He cared more about what his family wants, and not what he wanted. Which was you. ♡ Part 2: Love Me Again: After walking away from the boy who couldn't choose you, fate brings you face to face with Draco Malfoy once more. The feelings are still there, truths remain unspoken, and the question lingers—was it ever really over?

♡ CRAZY RICH... WIZARDS?

♡ Part 1: Crazy Rich... Wizards? You find out your long time boyfriend is a... wizard? Was it a prank? a joke? some kind of unamusing humor? No. It was real. And now, he wants to introduce you to his parents. ♡ Part 2: Wands, Weddings, And Wicked Traditions: When your boyfriend drags you into a world of old money, ancient grudges, and fancy robes, you quickly learn that fitting in isn’t about magic—it’s about surviving family dinners. ♡ Part 3: Wealthy, Witty, Witches: After barely surviving a disastrous dinner with your wizard boyfriend’s parents, you’re forced to endure yet another nightmare—this time, with his ex. ♡ Part 4: To be Continued...

ˋ°•*⁀➷ STAND-ALONE

♡ Right Here All Along

Camellia Rose and Draco Malfoy, childhood friends bound by loyalty, love, and unspoken words. As Camellia is torn between loyalty and betrayal as she discovers that Harry Potter, the one person she trust most, has been using her all along.

♡ You'll Be In My Heart

Whenever Draco needs you, you're always there. That's an older sister's duty after all. When he was at his lowest throughout the years, you teach him an important lesson in life.

♡ Just Pretend

To get his parents off his back, Draco begs you to pretend to be his date for a gala. He swears it's just for a night, but by the end, he's wishing it wasn't.

♡ "You're Going Down, Malfoy."

After a playful late-night duel with Draco, you win a bet and make him hold your hand in public for five seconds. Maybe a little longer than five.

♡ "Jealous Much?"

You receive a letter with a gift every week, and your brother Harry and his friends won’t stop teasing you about a “mystery admirer.” Little does he know, the sender is the last person he’d ever expect.

♡ Complain Here, Complain There

You had a talent for endless complaining—fortunately, someone always seemed to have the full-time job of fixing whatever you whined about.

♡ "Told You I Was"

A quiet winter night of sulking turns unexpectedly sweet when Draco proves he’s been listening all along, surprising you with thoughtful gifts that melt your heart.

♡ Charm Me Up

You’ve made it a habit to give small charms to those who need a reminder that they’re not alone. But there’s one person you keep finding reasons to give them to—one boy who always seems to need a charm.

♡ Little Miss Collector

In which the strangest girl in Slytherin collects lost things in a heart-shaped box, and Draco Malfoy realizes she might be the only person who’s never truly lost herself.

♡ He laughs at her eyes, at her smile, at the glasses on her face:

Draco Malfoy hates you, or so you thought.

♡ Undressed

And I don't wanna learn another scent I don't want the children of another man To have the eyes of the girl I won't forget.

♡ Never Go Near A Malfoy

You were taught to never go near a Malfoy, ever. But how could you? He's very much unavoidable.

♡ The Greenhouse Effect

When you're paired with Draco Malfoy for Herbology, you expected eye-rolls and dead plants. But, you don’t expect that the most sudden pairings bloom brightest.

♡ Drop The Beat, Steal The Heart

Hogwarts’ most popular DJ gets summoned to throw the party of the year—but when the birthday boy starts watching you like your a spell he can’t resist, things quickly turn electrifying. Get ready for beats, banter, and tension that drops harder than any remix.

♡ The Eleven Word Question

Draco Malfoy would literally die for you—unfortunately, asking you to the Yule Ball might just kill him first. When he finally gathers the courage to do it, you politely decline… thanks to a spectacular misunderstanding. Now, with his pride bruised and his heart set, Draco is determined to win you over—properly, this time.

♡ Fight Or Flight (Coming Soon)

A fierce academic rivalry brews between you and Draco Malfoy—your greatest competition for second place behind your bestfriend Hermione. But after years of witty insults and tension, one unexpected moment changes everything, revealing a spark even Harry and Ron never saw coming.

♡ You, Before The War (Coming Soon)

Being forced into becoming a Death Eater because of your family's name was unbearable—but betraying the love of your life to spy for the other side, all for the greater good, was far worse.

╰┈➤ RON WEASLEY

♡ A Weasley Gift

Ron surprises you with something very special in the Weasley household.

╰┈➤ GEORGE WEASLEY

♡ My Very Own Cupid:

Valerie Valentine, known as “Hogwarts’ Cupid” for her matchmaking prowess, finds herself heartbroken upon finding out George Weasley, her crush since 4th year, likes Angelina Johnson. This leads her to abandon her romantic endeavors, only to later discover something unexpected.

♡ Confession Candy

When Fred convinces George to test their latest prototype, George has no idea the candy will shout out a confession he’s secretly been holding in for years. To his horror—and your shock—it blurts out that he's in love with you.

♡ Hired Matchmaker (Coming Soon)

As a professional "matchmaker"—as people say—Molly hires you to find George the love of his life after Fred's passing. You both don't realize that the "love of his life" was standing in front of him, helping, all along.

╰┈➤ FRED WEASLEY

♡ The Thief

No one knows that you own a cute baby Niffler. It may be only a few months old, but his love for mischief keeps developing fast... really, fast.

♡ Prank Wars

You and Fred Weasley had been bickering since first year, locked in a never-ending war of (mostly) harmless pranks. Why is it that he's so obsessed with tormenting you? you’ll never know. The petty rivalry drags on for years, until your sixth year, when one of Fred’s pranks goes completely wrong… or maybe completely right.

╰┈➤ CEDRIC DIGGORY

♡ A Promise Kept

Before the Triwizard Tournament, Cedric makes you promise that, no matter what happens, you won’t cry over him. After his death, you struggle to keep that promise—until you find the letter he left behind.

♡ Another Chance

If you are given another chance to go back and prevent him from entering that stupid tournament, would you do it?

╰┈➤ OLIVER WOOD

♡ The Quidditch Bet

You and Oliver are captains of rival Quidditch teams, and the competition is fierce. But when a bet forces the loser to take the winner on a date, you realize that maybe you don’t hate him as much as you thought.

♡ Thicker Than A Broomstick

Quidditch is brutal, but nothing compares to Oliver Wood’s hopeless attempts at flirting—too bad the only person who doesn’t realize he’s asking you to the Yule Ball is you.

♡ Lovely To Be Rained On With You

Angry love confession in the rain with Oliver Wood.

ˋ°•*⁀➷ MARAUDERS ERA

╰┈➤ JAMES POTTER

♡ Back To Friends

Best friends weren’t supposed to fall. But after one night and a thousand unspoken words, James Potter chose Lily Evans—and you were left remembering what it felt like to be loved, even if only for a moment.

╰┈➤ REMUS LUPIN

nothing to see here yet...

╰┈➤ SIRIUS BLACK

♡ "Bet You'll Fall For Me" (Coming Soon)

One lazy afternoon in the Gryffindor common room, Sirius makes a bold bet—he claims he can make you blush in less than five minutes. You're certain he (kinda) doesn't stand a chance.

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

enjoy reading!