mallfoii

[mallfoii]

SOFT(ish) ANGST PROMPTS

“  i thought you were gone.  for good. ”

“  you left and—  i thought you weren’t coming back.  ”

“  i miss you.  i know i’m not supposed to,  but.  i just had to see you.  ”  

“  please don’t scare me like that again.  i can take a lot of things,  but not losing you.  ”

“  i can’t even take the very thought of you getting hurt.  ”

“  you could’ve gotten yourself killed! you could’ve— fuck!  you scared the shit outta me.  ” 

“  yes.  i am telling you what to do.  i’m telling you not to pull something like that again because—  ‘cause fucking hell.  i care about you.  okay? ”  

“  i found myself driving home and then.  well i was on my way here.  ‘cause i guess…you’re still my home.  ” 

“  please,  tell me why you’re upset.  tell me who did this?  ”

“  you don’t have to come over here and take care of me you know.  i can clean up my own messes.  ”

“  don’t talk.  just get the fuck over here and hold me.  ”

“  loving you is like having my heart just out in the world.  outside of my body walking around.  every time i see you hurting,  it kills me.  ”

“  i made you cry.  and i hate myself for that.  i swore i wouldn’t be one of the people who left you hurting.  ”

“  you really hurt me this time.  but i want to let go of that.  i really do want to forgive you i’m just scared you’ll hurt me again.  ”

“  i know you’re mad at me right now,  but i’m the one who’s here.  let me be here.  let me help.  you can be angry later.  ”

“  i’m here now.  i know i wasn’t before.  but i should’ve been.  and i’m not going anywhere.  i’m not gonna let that happen again.  ”

“  it’s time to come home now.  ”

“  that’s enough.  you’ve got your revenge.  let’s go.  ”

“  i know you’re hurting.  and i can’t fix that.  but i can refuse to let you hurt alone.  ”

“  i’m never letting go of you.  i missed you so fucking much.  ”

“  look at me,  you’re safe.  and you’re not alone.  and i’ll never let you be alone again.  you understand?  ”

“  i broke my promise to you once.  i’ll never do it again.  ”

“  i don’t need you to go white knighting and fix all this.  i just want you here.  with me.  that will make me feel better.  ”

“  just stay still and let me hold you.  ”

“  you don’t have to hide your tears.  let it out.  then we’ll move on,  together.  ”

“  i just.  needed to talk to you ‘cause.  somehow you always know what to say.  ”

“  don’t bury your feelings.  sadness.  hurt.  rage.  feel it.  acknowledge it so you can decide what you want to do with it.  not what it will do to you.  ”

“  i miss your smile.  and not that sad one you try to fool everyone with.  the real one.  the one you used to show me.  ”

“  come here.  i’m taking care of you tonight.  and you’re gonna let me.  ”  

1) our muses reunite after sender thought receiver was dead. 

2) our muses reunite after receiver thought sender was dead. 

3) sender shows up at receiver’s house drunk after they’ve broken up. 

4) receiver shows up at sender’s house drunk after they’ve broken up. 

5) our muses are on bad terms but reunite after one of them nearly dies. 

6) sender finds receiver crying and approaches,  clearing the tears with their hands while demanding to know what happened. 

7) receiver finds sender crying and approaches,  clearing the tears with their hands while demanding to know what happened. 

8) our muses haven’t been speaking,  but sender rushes to take care of receiver after they’ve been injured or fell ill. 

9) our muses haven’t been speaking,  but receiver rushes to take care of sender after they’ve been injured or fell ill. 

10) sender hurt receiver in some way,  which led to receiver doing something reckless and sender shows up to stop them/or deal with the aftermath. 

11) receiver hurt sender in some way,  which led to sender doing something reckless and receiver shows up to stop them/or deal with the aftermath.

12) our muses are in a fight,  but cuddle anyway because they don’t like sleeping alone. 

13) receiver wakes sender from a nightmare. 

14) sender wakes receiver from a nightmare. 

15) sender wakes up in the hospital and finds receiver at their side,  who is in the same clothes as the day they were admitted because they’ve refused to leave their side. 

16) receiver wakes up in the hospital and finds sender at their side,  who is in the same clothes as the day they were admitted because they’ve refused to leave their side. 

17) our muses are currently on the outs,  but receiver goes through something traumatic and sender pushes past their friends to get to them. 

18) our muses are currently on the outs,  but sender goes through something traumatic and receiver pushes past their friends to get to them. 

[mallfoii]

— Margaret Atwood

[mallfoii]

: updated my pinned post to include general rules & most importantly verses, at least initial ones.

[mallfoii]

Perhaps it was fitting karma that, as soon as he’d left Granger behind, Draco had been sent on a mission that consumed the better part of a week. He had combed the North of England, searching for Order members and potential werewolf alliances. One might assume such a task would leave no time—day or night—for his mind to wander back to the fact that they had snogged. Yet, despite his best efforts, there were moments when his thoughts betrayed him, conjuring images he should have long forgotten but couldn’t seem to shake.

He had no idea what their next meeting would look like. If he were sane and reasonable, he would have put an end to it already. He could ignore it entirely—though knowing Granger, that would be impossible—or pass it off as a lapse in judgment, which is precisely what he had tried to convince himself it was.

And yet, the memory lingered. He had been so desperate to escape everything that, in that fleeting moment when she pressed against him, all he wanted was to lose himself in her—grab that unruly hair of hers and never let go. It was selfish, raw, and far more honest than he had allowed himself to be in a very long time.

The week eventually passed, though. He barely had time to see his mother, shower, and change before their next meeting loomed. He found himself torn—eager to see her and, at the same time, wanting nothing more than to avoid her.

This time, at least, he had something to offer. Information. They needed to talk, no matter how much he childishly wanted to avoid it.

She was already there when he arrived. For a few painfully long seconds, all he could do was look at her across the room.

“I have information.”

That was safe—wasn’t it? But it wasn’t what he wanted to say. He wanted to rush toward her, to pick up where they had left off. Did she want that? Should he ask? No, that sounded idiotic.

Instead, he stepped forward and placed an envelope on the table near the fireplace. Inside was intelligence about a potential attack on one of the Order’s safe houses, along with updates on the creatures who had pledged their allegiance to the Dark Lord.

“Do you have any information?”

IT'S EVERYTHING SHE HADN'T KNOWN SHE'D NEEDED. Hermione doesn't have the time or the capacity to be surprised when he kisses her back. Far too busy indulging in the smokey taste of firewhiskey on his tongue, wholly encompassed in gripping every inch of him that she can get a hold of. How many times had she caught a waft of his intoxicating cologne? Unwittingly chased the ghost of it in the wake of his leaving? Now it surrounds her like a thick blanket, dizzying her, stripping her mind of all that had occurred the day before.

Hermione's mind wanders. Dark brown eyes staring lifelessly skyward. Thick, black hair glossy with blood. A river of red running from beneath the body.

The frustration from earlier seeps into the kiss, and Hermione makes a noise of distress, clawing at him with more desperation. The wicked harshness of reality stands before her and he's the only thing standing between them. A lifeline in the face of that cold abyss.

Her mouth chases his when he very suddenly pulls back, confusion and irritation in the heavy set of her brow, pulling at his shirt in an attempt to coax him back to her. It's useless. Hermione doesn't have to follow his line of sight to know what he's looking at, and that he'll leave whether she likes it or not.

Tongue darts out, wetting her swollen and bruised lips, tasting the remnants of him on them. She doesn't know what to say but it doesn't matter. He doesn't wait around, and she's left reeling in the wake of his apparition, the second kiss ringing in her mind.

As it stays in the week that follows. Every second of it replaying on repeat. The obsession the only thing keeping her afloat. Other than that, she goes through the motions mechanically. The last skirmish had been a rough one for both sides and it seems that everybody was recouping their losses, the week turning into one of those tediously bleak ones that drag by. Multiple makeshift funerals a day, each depressing affair punctuated by long bouts of nothing but sitting around waiting for the next shitty thing to happen.

And in all those hours she finds her anger only festers, mingling with her desire for him into something she isn't sure she has any control over. He'd told her to take what she needed from him, and she had, only for him to leave before giving it to her. Leaving her with a taste and denying her more. Hermione had been longing for something in that moment. Pain, pleasure, a distraction... Anything. Instead he had left her with nothing but an increasingly confusing situation to obsessed over. It's irrational - of course he couldn't stay when Voldemort was calling - but she resents him for it anyway.

When their next meeting comes around a week after their kiss, she finds herself pacing the familiar room in wait for him, frenetic energy pulsing off her in waves.

[mallfoii]

The rough bark of the tree behind him pressed uncomfortably against his back. No matter how much he shifted or adjusted his position, it never felt right. His shoes and socks were still damp, his left pant leg was torn, and nightfall was approaching. Soon, the music would play, and they’d learn how many tributes had died.

The thought of his parents watching this made him want to laugh. Earlier in the day, before they’d stumbled across fresh water, there had been a fleeting moment where he felt almost giddy about dying—not because he wanted to die or wasn’t afraid, but because the idea of Lucius Malfoy watching his prized possession, his only son, die miserably on live television held a dark, ironic humor.

Now, however, with exhaustion and hunger gnawing at him, all he wanted was to curl into a ball and sleep. Somehow, he felt certain he’d manage to drift off, despite everything.

“About what? You’ll need to be precise in your accusations.”

The two of them hadn’t gotten along before the Games began—not that Draco had come here to make friends. With his District 2 partner and the pair from District 1, it felt like their alliance didn’t need to expand. Teaming up with anyone else would only add unnecessary baggage they’d have to discard later.

Now, a little over forty-eight hours since the first cannon fired, his life before the arena felt like a distant memory. Ten kids had died on the first day, probably within the first three hours alone. A few more had fallen today, though neither of them had encountered anyone else yet. But that wouldn’t last. That wasn’t entertaining to watch. They’d be herded into close quarters soon enough.

“Don’t tell me you still have energy to argue,” he scoffed, though there was a trace of amusement in his voice.

“If that’s possible with anyone, it would be with you.”

mugglebrn asked: you were lying the whole time. / MEME - accepting!

[mallfoii]

It wasn’t that he’d expected anything—but perhaps, in that small, secluded part of himself he kept hidden away, he’d hoped she might do exactly what she had done. Her bony fingers clutched at him ungracefully, rough and forceful enough to hurt, gripping his shoulder and the back of his neck. He obliged, lowering himself and letting her take the lead. The kiss was frantic, frenzied, all grabbing and urgency, as if a bomb might detonate at any moment—or perhaps already had.

It felt that way. He was sure he could hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears, the rush of blood flooding his face as his eyes fluttered shut. The last image burned into his mind was the determined scrunch of her face, so quintessentially Granger in its intensity.

He wasn’t gentle, either. One arm snaked around her slim frame, pulling her forward with a swift, unrestrained motion. Their bodies collided, hard and unyielding. If he had the capacity to think about anything in this moment—anything beyond the heat of her body pressed against his or the revelation of how Granger kissed—he might have reflected on how this moment had felt inevitable for some time.

They’d been circling each other, their exchanges buried under layers of insults and occasional, literal blows. But beneath the surface, something had been simmering, plain for anyone willing to see. And he had seen it. In quiet moments of brutal honesty, he’d admitted to himself what it was—and that he wanted it to happen.

Perhaps he was insane. Maybe the torture at the hands of the Dark Lord had finally broken him, or the events of the last few years had transformed him into something unrecognizable. He didn’t know. In this moment, none of it mattered. Granger was soft, warm, and kissing him with reckless abandon, her tongue tracing the edge of his mouth.

His left hand slid to her backside, and it felt good. Better than anything had in a long, long time. He could imagine peeling her out of her clothes, pressing her into the half-decent sofa in the corner, and sinking into her until he forgot everything else.

But before he could move his fingers beneath her shirt, a sharp, searing pain shot through his arm. His mark.

Gasping, he tore himself away, his eyes darting to the source of the burn. “I have to go.” The words were heavy with reluctance, his gaze flickering between her mouth and his arm. For a fleeting moment, he considered ignoring the summons. But he couldn’t—his mother depended on him.

“Next week, same time.” His voice was firm, but his eyes lingered on her lips, unable to look away. Acting on impulse, he closed the gap and kissed her again, harder this time, pouring everything he couldn’t say into that brief, stolen moment.

Then, taking a step back, Draco turned and apparated.

EACH DEFLECTED HEX ONLY INFLAMES HER TEMPER, frustration finding a home in her alongside it. Hermione is unrelenting - weak and erratic - but unrelenting. There's something about it that turns even more desperate as he approaches, every step in her direction feeding this panic she can't place. It's not fear of what he might do to her. Despite their past, she's reasonably confident that he'd not harm her. It's something else. Something crackling in the air between them, a spellbound static that ripples off her in waves and finds home in him.

A glass vase on the other side of the room explodes as he takes the last step left between them, close enough now that she can feel the heat radiating from his skin. Near enough that her chest brushes against his on each ragged inhale.

It's once he's there, looking down at her with those blazing grey eyes, that she realises what it is she's afraid of. Herself.

Her wand arm lowers slowly, chest heaving as she watches, silent but for her laboured breaths and his murmured healing spells. Malfoy's magic is like warm honey dripping over her skin, soothing each wound visible to him, mending her with a practiced deftness. It's not unknown to her, (how many times had he struck her with a stinging jinx), but it is the first time his magic presses against her with good intention and there's an addictive quality to it.

Take what you need from me...

For maybe the first time in her life, Hermione turns off her brain. Doesn't think. Doesn't plan. Just does. Her wand slips between her fingers and clatters to the floor abandoned, and she reaches up to yank him down to her, meeting him halfway in a clash of mouths so frenzied she feels her teeth clack against his on impact. It's violent. It's greedy. The kind of reckless move that belongs firmly with somebody of her school house designation. Hermione kisses him with a fervour she'd never felt before, not even bracing herself for his reaction. It didn't matter what it was. Best case, he kisses her back; he fucks her right here on the persian rug. Worst case, he pushes her off and calls her some awful name; tells her he'd sooner face the cruciatus curse than sully himself with a mudblood. Either way, at least she'd be feeling something other than the grief that has taken root in her chest.

[mallfoii]

PROMPTS FOR LIES, DECEIT, AND SOME VILLAINY *  assorted dialogue, adjust as necessary

would i lie to you?

i've never lied, not even once.

that sounds like a you problem.

you believe me, don't you?

i always get what i want.

i've never led you astray.

you promised you'd let them go.

i'm not playing around any longer.

hand it over. i know you have it.

we can do this the easy way... or the hard way.

have i ever let you down before?

you can trust me.

you were lying the whole time.

you're the reason they're dead.

i've got no reason to lie.

you double-crossed me.

you spat on my kindness. now face my wrath.

that wasn't a very good lie.

i never should have believed you.

i thought you told me everything.

you lied to my face.

well. i lied. good luck with that.

why did you keep this from me?

you should have listened to me when you had the chance.

i honestly thought i could trust you.

the plan is working.

how dare you say that to me.

you know me. i would never lie about something like this.

please, you have to believe me!

i'm telling the truth, i swear!

i told you everything i know!

you gotta believe me!

you're a traitor.

you're just going to leave me here?

had you only listened to me... none of this would have happened.

that's all there was! i swear!

you turned me into this monster.

prove it to me.

what's behind your back?

tell me everything you know.

if you don't tell me the truth, i swear...

that's the last of it! i promise!

you're going to die down there.

ah, ah, ah... it's not that simple.

don't ever cross me again.

you could have just told me the truth.

look what your lie has done.

this is all your fault.

i gave you what you wanted! let me go!

you fell into my trap!

i gave you a chance, and you squandered it.

i blame you for everything.

look at what you've done.

you failed. accept it.

i shouldn't trust you. not after what you did.

you betrayed me.

i'll never look at you the same way.

you won't get away with this.

you're a horrible liar.

not so fast!

i don't believe a word of what you just said.

that's a lie and you know it.

give me what i want, or your friends are dead.

now i feel like a fool for trusting you.

now look what you've done.

over my dead body!

you didn't think it'd be that easy, now did you?

[mallfoii]

Maxton Hall: The World Between us S1 E4 — The Moment of Truth

[mallfoii]

“I think I’ve noticed…” He smiles, his grip firm and unyielding as he leans in, almost brushing his lips against hers before trailing them along her jaw, moving slowly up to her right ear. There, he takes a gentle bite—not enough to hurt, but just enough to make her gasp the way he knows she will.

“You really are full of surprises, Granger,” he murmurs, his tone teasing. “All terrible organizational skills and a very skillful mouth. If only I’d known sooner…”

For a moment, he pretends. Pretends they are just two ordinary young people, capable of indulging in something not steeped in blood and the lingering grime of dark magic. Pretending that the world outside their stolen moments doesn’t exist.

It’s in these fleeting intervals—when nothing beyond their embrace seems to matter, or when they can fool themselves into believing it doesn’t—that they are simply Malfoy and Granger. Draco and Hermione. No war. No sides. No casualties. Just simplicity. Stupidly addictive simplicity.

Almost as addictive as learning all the little details about what Miss Know-It-All likes.

“Now,” he says, his voice tinged with reluctant amusement, “before you distract me again, tell me more about the curse. Did the book I gave you last time help?”

Unwinding himself from her, Draco steps back, slow and hesitant, as though tearing himself away requires actual effort. Another step, and then another, until the desk stands between them, a barrier he isn’t entirely sure he wants.

THEY STILL DUELLED REGULARLY. STILL DABBLED IN THE DARK ARTS, MASTERING CURSES THAT MADE HER SKIN CRAWL. That made her feel powerful. This cottage had seen its fair share of powerful magic, and even more bickering between them, but lately it had become home to some other behaviours too. Sex, for one. Frantic and bloody. Desperate and grasping. Two people clutching at some tiny facet of pleasure in the world of hurt. Then, when they were fully satiated, able to finally tear their hands from each other's bodies, they turned to strategizing. Something he's exceedingly good at, like Ron. And while Hermione had never had a strategist's mind, she was good for research, for bouncing ideas off.

A grin tugs at the corner of her mouth as he approaches, careful to avoid toppling her carefully arranged towers of books, organised in a way that makes sense to her mind (and she was surprised to find out, wasn't completely lost on him). He encircles her waist, caging her to him, and she leans back a little, eyes roaming over him, observing the ego etched into his features. "I think you'll find I like being bossed about under very specific circumstances," fingers curl around his biceps, holding him to her as much as he grips onto her and she meets his lean halfway, bumping her nose against his, her lips hovering just shy of touching.

[mallfoii]

She’s blushing, and he can hear the rush of blood under her skin. It sings to him—divine, poetic, and warm. The sound is so enticing that he wants to abandon all notions of control, of humanity—if he even has any left—and wrap himself around her like the cardigan she wears. To be jealous of a piece of inoffensive clothing is a new low, even for him, but he is. Jealous.

Her voice breaks through his daze, snapping him out of it. Relief washes over him, immediately followed by irritation. Draco moves to sit on the windowsill, putting as much distance as the cramped office allows between them.

Is this all the Ministry gives its war heroine? He glances around the small, stuffy space buried deep within the bowels of the building. How unseemly. How unfair. But of course, she had probably agreed to it, thinking she didn’t deserve anything better. She hasn’t changed.

“And what exactly would that mean for me, Granger?” His voice is sharp, tinged with mockery. “What would I be allowed if I were to be... as you say, governed like any other member of the wizarding world? I assume there are some benefits—freedom of movement, perhaps? Or better yet, not having to ask for Ministry approval every time I wish to travel.”

His upper lip curls, exposing perfectly white teeth—and a single fang. He inhales deeply through his mouth, then straightens his back and rises from the windowsill.

“And what do you need from me?” His tone grows colder, sharper, as he narrows his eyes. “I’m guessing you’ve done your research on my kind,” he spits, the words tasting like ash. “On how we’re treated in other countries—what measures other Ministries have taken to keep everyone safe from the likes of me?”

He knows all too well. He’s done the research himself, and what he found was anything but promising. In Britain, France, and Denmark, they bury his kind in bureaucratic red tape, forcing them to ask for permission for even the smallest things. In Russia and other Eastern European countries, the policy is far less subtle—imprisonment or outright execution.

In some parts of Asia, there’s marginally more freedom, but nowhere are non-wizards truly treated as equals.

He glances back at her, still flushed, and the sound of her heartbeat fills his ears again, taunting him. He looks away, frustrated by the push and pull of his instincts and her presence.

HE MAY BEAR IMMUNITY TO THE COLD, BUT SHE SURE AS SHIT DOES NOT. Frigid, autumn air flows through, ruffling her curls and sending a lick of cold down her spine, causing her to shiver. While her instinct is to protest the unilateral decision to open the window in her office, the hunger in his eyes has ebbed and she understands why. If the warmth of the tightly cramped room had been stifling enough that she could smell the citrus and jasmine of his cologne to a dizzying intensity, she can only imagine what it was like for him with his heightened sense.

Relenting, she turns to reach over her desk, scooping up the cardigan hung over the back of her chair and pulling it tight around herself, giving it a discreet sniff, self-conscious as she suddenly is about what exactly she smells like. Vanilla, lemon, earthy herbs, and light musk; nothing that smells offensive to her. Thank merlin.

There's something about that comment that causes her to flush harder, blood hot in her cheeks, skin darkening. Had anybody else called her accommodating she'd have not thought twice about it, but something about when Malfoy says it causes her to become all the more flustered. "Right, um," Hermione clears her throat and nods, picking up the law proposal from her desk.

"It'd probably take me hours to go through to finer points of it but... to sum it up in one overarching regulation change," she's already anticipating that if this were to be passed, it would take decades to enact everything she wants. Change to this level could not happen overnight. "As you know, vampires, while considered a dark being rather than a creature, per se, are still regulated under the umbrella of the DRCMC. I'm proposing they - you - be recognised as part of the population. Governed the same as any other witch or wizard."

[mallfoii]

“Oh, I had no choice in the matter,” he replies, picking up one of the cakes from the table and taking a bite. Peach filling—he’s not sure how he feels about it. Chewing thoughtfully, Draco takes a few moments before continuing.

“Hogwarts was deemed far too soft in its teachings, and my father had some choice words about its current administration and headmaster.” He remembers the plan clearly, though his parents—well, his father—had ultimately decided that Durmstrang would be a far better option for the Malfoy heir.

“Astronomy Tower—during the day.” He repeats the words with a small smile, understanding what she’s hinting at. It’s amusing that she thinks that’s his goal, though he isn’t surprised. She will be, Draco muses, considering just how seriously he’s approaching his courting and what it truly means to him. He’s probably far more old-fashioned than most of the boys around her, a thought he quickly pushes aside.

“Ah, the charms, of course.” He explains them in detail—the protection spells already embedded in the locket. One acts as a shield against minor hexes, though it wouldn’t hold against stronger magic. Another charm ensures the locket moves toward an exit if she ever gets lost, while a third can heal minor injuries.

Then there’s the connection to his ring. If she holds the small golden moon on the locket and thinks of him, his ring will grow warmer, and vice versa. While the jewelry doesn’t allow them to send messages, it does provide one critical function: a signal if they can’t make it to a meeting. Tapping the locket three times would make its twin grow cold.

But Draco keeps one detail to himself—the locket’s final ability. He can always use it to find her location if necessary, though he sees no need to mention that.

“It’s getting late, unfortunately,” he says with a hint of regret. “Since you’re far better versed in secret passageways, let me walk you to your common room. We can meet again the day after tomorrow.”

"APPARENTLY SO. I DON'T THINK I'VE EVER SEEN QUITE SO MUCH FUSS AROUND A VISITING STUDENT," the way the Slytherin's had flocked around him was like he was being welcomed home, everybody eager to impress, desperate to get in his good graces. It wasn't until after she had seen it that she had done her research into the Malfoy name and discovered how much power and influence they had over Wizarding Britain. And she has a feeling that's only the half of it. After all, wasn't most control exerted behind closed doors?

"Is that why you chose to go to Durmstrang instead of Hogwarts? To get some distance from your parents?" Although at the tender age when first entering school, she wonders how much influence he'd had over the decision. Even as she asks, she realises it's far more likely his parents had made the decision for him.

Curiosity blooms within her as he pulls out this little box and pushes it in her direction, trying not to seem too interested as she opens it up - she is still trying (and steadily failing) to hold him at arm's length after all. "Dinner, jewellery, and the promise of exclusive libraries? You really do play to win, don't you?" It's simple, but beautiful. Hardly anything to draw attention or make obvious it was a gift from a boy who shouldn't be giving her gifts. Hermione looks upon it in a quiet sort of appreciation, her index finger tracing the shape of the moon.

"How about the astronomy tower?" it felt fitting, given the design of the pendant. "Obviously it's in use in the evenings, but during the day it's off limits. I just happen to know a secret way up there," courtesy of the Marauder's Map. "It should do well enough, especially considering I don't expect there to be any midnight meetings," her tone is pointed, letting him know that the grovelling thus far had not been enough to allow him those kinds of privileges.

"What kinds of charms have you put on it?" she asks, her curiosity so clearly burning, wondering what he's come up with and how they compare to her own musings, inspired by muggle instant messaging technologies.

[mallfoii]

He recognizes it almost instantly—the desperate, gnawing sense of loss and hopelessness reflected in her ever-open face. He had seen that look far too many times to mistake it, every time he dared glance at his own reflection. Especially after the raids he was forced to endure.

When he’d stumble back to the Manor, running up the stairs and practically crawling into his room on hands and knees, sweat and blood dripping from him, dark magic clinging to his skin and seeping into his core. The stench of death lingering in his nostrils, the haunting image of their eyes before they died etched into his memory. Some nights, he’d collapse on the floor, his fingers breaking with the force of his nails scratching at the wooden boards. Too hollowed out to change or shower, too sick to eat or drink.

He’d strip his clothes from his body in a haze, leave them discarded, and curl up naked in the corner of his room. A fetal position was all he could manage, his body too weighed down by what he’d become.

She doesn’t want to fight him, but whatever she wants—he’s not sure he can give it. What could he possibly give anyone anymore?

Draco deflects her hexes. They’re weak; she’s unfocused. She doesn’t want to hurt him—if anything, it seems like she’d sooner hurt herself. As he parries her feeble attempts, he closes the distance between them, step by step, until his body is almost pressed against hers.

It’s stupid, and he knows it. He’s already regretting it, and later, he’ll find some excuse to explain why he did this. She’s useful; he needs her for after the war. The Order needs her whole, in better condition. But none of that matters now.

With a practiced flick of his wand, the wounds he can see—on her neck and arms—begin to close. He cleans the blood and stains from her shirt and pants, then stands there, unsure of what to do next. She looks as small as he feels.

“Take what you need from me…”

He puts his wand away. If she decides to hurt him, he won’t even care.

HE COMPLIMENTS AND THEN INSULTS HER IN THE SAME BREATH. Implying how crucial she is to this war (even though she feels useless) and then implying she's an idiot not five seconds later. Good to know some things never change. "You've had plenty of opportunities to kill me, Malfoy," every time they've sparred, really. He could have easily hit her with an avada rather than a stinging hex and she would have never seen it coming. "I hardly think you're going to do it now."

Her jaw ticks, teeth grinding together so hard she can practically hear her mother's chastisement ringing in the back of her mind. He always had a way of getting under her skin, but this is different. Rawer. She's frayed apart from the last twenty-four hours, a veritable gaping wound for him to pour salt on. She feels her magic swell with her flash of anger, the glass ornaments on the fireplace mantle shaking, threatening to explode into a million tiny shards.

She hadn't bothered to heal herself. And no one had offered. Last night she had gotten back from the mission, crawled into her moth-eaten sheets, and cried herself to sleep. And when she'd woken in the morning, bleary-eyed and exhausted, she'd picked a fight with Harry and then come right here. To the only place she'd been thinking of since the streaming sunlight on her face had so cruelly pulled her out of her dreamless slumber (and how thankful she was for that, to see Parvati's lifeless, staring eyes a second time over so soon after the real thing would have been too much).

The glass shakes again, and her wand raises so whip fast that it nearly put his usual speed to shame, throwing a hex right at him. The magic weak, but there. "I'm fine. Now fight back," her blood rushes through her veins, heart racing in her chest and ears ringing. A second hex. Then another. And another. Unrelenting in the way he usually was.

Hermione isn't sure what she wants. To hurt him. Or for him to hurt her. All she knows is that she has this endless well of anger and grief and nowhere to put it. She needs somewhere to put it. An outlet.

[mallfoii]

He understands now—she thinks she’s gotten better at being a deceiver. A part of him is almost grateful, relieved that she hasn’t. If she changed too much, became more like the rest of them, it would feel as though the last remnant of something good had been destroyed.

While the Order looked at Potter as some sort of muggle saint—sent from the heavens to save them—they should have placed their hope in her instead. At least she would have deserved it. Both of them are hiding so much now—almost everything that truly matters. But she wouldn’t have asked the question if something significant wasn’t happening, and that alone makes his pulse quicken.

What is she going to do? Better yet, what has she volunteered to do? She’d do anything for Potter and Weasley. Hell, she’d probably give her life for any other member of that blasted Order. So whatever it is, it must be dangerous—more dangerous than anything else. And he doesn’t care about the rest of them; he’s never pretended to.

But now, he cares about her. She’s made it impossible not to.

And it’s not just the sex. It runs far deeper than that.

“What’s happening, Granger?” The fragile peace he’d been holding onto shatters. Turning to face her fully, Draco stares at her, as if the truth might be written somewhere on her body. He could look—inside her mind, take the answer from her—but no, he can’t. Can he?

“What are they making you do? Are you going to play at being heroes with Potter? I can help. Tell me!”

The thing about sitting in silence is that one had plenty of time to think, and Hermione had been doing nothing but thinking since the moment they'd caught their breath. It always happened like that. The last remnants of her orgasm would ebb away, and the outside world would creep back in. The dire state of the world pushing to the forefront once more now that she's not wholly entranced by the everything of him. Especially when he'd pressed that chaste, but surprisingly tender kiss beneath her ear as he pulled out, the gesture achingly intimate.

They don't talk about that kind of thing, even as these moments became more and more frequent between them. Like now, as she lounges in nothing but his unbuttoned shirt and her knickers, leaning back against the arm of the settee, her bare feet tucked beneath his thigh and a glass of muggle whiskey (he'd so thoughtfully acquired) being nursed as she watches him. As she thinks.

Hermione wonders how he'll take it when she doesn't show tomorrow.

"No reason, I suppose," she lies easier these days. She'd learned that from him.

Tomorrow she'd leave in the morning twilight with Harry and Ron. The three of them off to do what they did best - stumble their way into (hopefully) saving the day. Between her research and Harry's hunches, they thought they might know where two of the few remaining horcruxes were. They'd be going it alone. Not willing to risk the information getting out. It's too important. Not to mention dangerous. She doubts that he'll forgive her for lying to him, but she hopes he'd forgive her if she died. "I mean, other than the ever-looming threat of death that hangs over us daily."

[mallfoii]

That familiar look in her eyes only made him feel worse. He had come to know it well since his return—broken and changed. His mother had always doted on him, perhaps more than she should have, certainly more than his father would have ever approved. But now, she looked at him differently, and that was why he hated having her around. She no longer looked at him like a mother seeing her son. It was as though she saw a wounded animal that had wandered into the house, wrecked the furniture, and now elicited too much pity to be cast out.

It was impossible to escape what he had become when he saw himself reflected in her eyes. Even if he tried to delude himself into thinking he hadn’t changed so much, that he was still something resembling his former self, her gaze shattered the illusion. Each time she looked at him, it became painfully clear: Draco was no longer who he once was.

At least Lucius didn’t bother. Small mercies, he supposed. For once, his father’s emotional distance was a blessing. Once, he had nearly begged for his father’s approval; now, he could only be grateful that he received none of it. That kind of attention would be suffocating.

“Alright, soup, and then we get paraded in front of the cameras,” he said with a smile—or something he tried to pass off as one. He was sure he had used the right muscles, but it felt wrong, like his face had twisted into a grimace beyond his control. “Running keeps me in shape, Mother. You wouldn’t want me lying about and getting fat now, would you? That wouldn’t be seemly.”

Appearances had always been the Malfoy family’s primary focus. One must present oneself with an air of superiority and polish at all times. None of it mattered to him anymore, though. It wasn’t difficult to play the fools in the Capital. Playing their games was what had gotten him this far—what had kept him alive.

“So, is Father going to be at the reaping?” he asked, walking over to the table and sitting down, his eyes fixed blankly on the cutlery. Perhaps Lucius would be too busy. Not that it mattered. His father didn’t care which two children would be chosen for slaughter this year, and neither did he.

And he was supposed to mentor them? What could he possibly do to help? Make sure they ate well and slept comfortably before they died? That was likely the only thing he could offer.

for days on end before draco's victory, narcissa slept very little. when oblivion did claim her, she slept fitfully, picking her way past eddies of murky flame and collateral destruction, so that when she woke it was often to a deeper exhaustion. she'd clung madly to the screen in an insomniac binge, every nerve honed by desperation and a staggering feeling of helplessness that she so despised. what was happening around her was never entirely in her grasp. when draco finally won, it was with a great relief that narcissa sunk into her chair, her knuckles pale and bloodless — as if the weight of the weeks had been lifted all at once and she no longer knew how to carry her own body. he's done it, she'd thought, beginning to breathe, it's over.

how very far that was from the truth. in the days that followed, she'd observed in him an irrevocable change that she no longer knew how to tackle. draco was bitter; he was reluctant to see his family in the darkest of his days. narcissa, alert to every mood in her son, was acutely aware of this. she recognized his grief — for the children he'd slaughtered and for an old self — as something she, too, had been familiar with.

still, his aloofness hurt, and she wept at the thought of it embarrassingly often. but the fact still stood that narcissa loved her son, and so for draco's sake, she'd not let the sting of his distance affect the attention she gave to even the smallest and most unspoken of his needs.

when she cooked for him, it was with great care and great precision, as if his spirit would return to her if she'd just cut the carrots smaller, thinner, if she'd just simmer the soup for longer. she took dinner to his new house in victor's village, hoping for the days when he'd feel placid enough to let her share his meal and time.

the cold air bit into her cheeks relentlessly until they rouged. it'd been months now, and today would be the new annual reaping. narcissa had accepted this new state of being as her existence: cooking, purchasing, wrapping, all for a son she could not heal. how useless she was. how terribly she'd failed as a mother.

when she entered draco's home, she'd found it unrelentingly chilly. narcissa pulled her fur-lined cloak tighter around her shoulders and set down the numerous containers of food she'd brought from the home she shared with lucius. how could draco live like this? the house had the grandeur of victor’s village, but there was no warmth here. narcissa's lips pinched together. her gloved hands reached up to smooth over the fabric of her shirt, though there was no need for smoothing.

"draco," she called, though he'd already said he'd come down, "i've brought soup. it will warm you up."

when no response came immediately, she let her gaze wander, taking in the evidence of his discomfort: the windows open to the freezing air, the faint smell of damp from wet clothes likely left too long in a pile. narcissa exhaled slowly, a familiar ache in her chest. she resisted the impulse to start tidying, to make the space look less forsaken. instead, she moved to the sitting room, where a threadbare blanket was tossed across the arm of a chair. it wasn't one she’d chosen — but of course, she had so little control over draco's life now.

her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of his footsteps descending the stairs, slow and deliberate. he looked thinner than she'd remembered — though it had been only a mere few days since she'd last visited. he was trying to mask his exhaustion, she could tell, standing taller and keeping his gaze level.

"you’ve been running again," narcissa said softly, "you shouldn’t exhaust yourself like this before the reaping."

silently, she'd hoped to see something other than frosty resentment in his eyes.

"please, darling," she whispered, "at least let me pour you some soup before the cameras arrive."

at least let me do something. but narcissa didn't say this, only clasped her thin hands together until he gave her the green light.

@mallfoii

[mallfoii]

A playful shrug as he takes a step forward - slowly he takes a sip out of the drink he had been holding in his hand, having no reason to hurry or answer her question. He can’t help but smile at the look on her face, it’s far better than what he had imagined. Anger and focus. Those two things he can work with. Ignoring him came with a cost, and Granger should learn that paying him no attention was out of the question moving forward, especially since they’ll have to work so closely on the committee for the rest of the school year.

“ Ah, you’ve noticed my additions - and what do you think? ” Doesn’t have to really ask, doesn’t even have to guess. It’s all written plainly on her face. She hates all of it, which is a shame. Draco had made sure to improve on the matter in his own way - it wasn’t like he had sabotaged her, which had occurred to him.

He could have made sure that the violinists never managed to arrive at school, or that the catering served spoiled food or something completely heinous. But he did not do such a thing - he had added more fun elements for all the guests to enjoy. She should be grateful. “ As you remember I am also one of the people in charge of this event, I’ve told you - well I’ve tried to tell you my ideas, but you refused to listen. Made sure to ignore and bypass me altogether. So I had no choice you see, had to take the matter into my own hands. ”

IT'S WHEN THE MUSIC SWITCHES FROM STEREO TO LIVE THAT SHE REALISES SOMETHING IS WRONG. Where the strings of a violin being played by a former student had been expected, a band begins instead, bringing a decidedly different angle to the refined event. After checking with the students she'd put in charge of setting up acoustics (and gaining no insight on where the mix up had happened), Hermione goes in search of other committee members.

Only to find herself staring at a woman shoving flaming swords down her throat. All after being asked if she'd like a glass of champagne by not one but three court jesters within her walk from the grand hall to the lesser. By which point she's almost certain she knows who is behind the changes, going off in search of the pompous git.

She finds him in one of the quieter hallways which leads to a common area intended tonight to be used for respite from the noise of the great hall. "Of course! I knew you were behind this!" indignation burns hot in every syllable, trudging down the hallway towards him. "What gives you any right to mess with my event?"

[mallfoii]

Far be it from him to expect anything more than childish taunting—not that he had earned anything better. It wasn’t as though he’d sought out Potter for some sort of reconciliation, or even to make amends. Draco honestly couldn’t care less about his forgiveness—and doubted he’d receive it anyway. At worst, he’d get pity, and he wanted that about as much as he’d want to be scratched by a hippogriff, again.

“I’ve come here for a reason... obviously.” With a sigh, he shifted in the uncomfortable wooden chair, crossing his long legs beneath the table. “The Ministry has decided to summon my mother for—well, they’re calling it an interview. Something about unanswered questions or whatever flimsy excuse they’ve come up with.” He knew perfectly well they were searching for any opportunity to extract more Malfoy gold—or perhaps to dole out yet another punishment to his family.

“Whatever your feelings are toward me, my mother is different. She even saved your life in the end. So, I’m here to ask for... assistance in this matter. Information.”

❝ you had not expected this. ❞ from @mallfoii

"I don't know what to expect with you Malfoy." Green eyes examine his one time rival, truth be told he had no idea where they stood now and part of him didn't care. "Is that why you're here? Rub it in my face that you're not the same..."

He paused, the smallest hint of a smirk, "Foul little cockroach I believe was the term Hermione used? Paraphrasing and all that." But he knew that antagonizing the other wouldn't actually make him feel better. "What do you want, anyway?"

[mallfoii]

Draco Malfoy from “Let the dark in” by @senlinyuwrites