draco-dormiens

[draco-dormiens]

FOR ALL THAT IS RIGHT AND JUST - Chp. 3

auror!draco x auror!fem!slytherin reader / post-war au

warnings: descriptions of a fight, mild violence, injury, mention of blood, strong language

wc: 2145

tags: @yeolsbubbles @send-me-styles @shinytalent @malfoylover4l @satorulevi

tag list open!!

masterlist

Memorial in the Great Hall

Once the train had pulled into Hogsmeade Station, passengers made their way from the platform and onto the Thestral drawn carriages that would carry them to Hogwarts. The other Auror officers Harry had dispatched as extra precaution were at the station when you arrived, and immediately sprung into action upon learning of the incident on the train. Draco handed over the newspaper, the briefcase and the wand to a Ministry official, and your account of events was taken down by a fellow officer. The train then pulled away from the platform to transport the criminal back to London for investigation, along with the evidence and two other officers. Cerberus was standing by the entrance to the ticket office, twirling his wand between his fingers, watching the events unfold on the platform.

"Stroke of bad luck, huh?" he said as you both approached him, "not even at the school yet and already there's trouble. Fungbury and myself have been stationed here since early this morning on Potters orders. You better owl him as soon as you can about what's transpired here."

"I have already sent notice with Buckle. As usual, he showed up just at the right time," you explain, smiling to yourself about how your childhood owl still remains loyal to the day, and how his snowy white, unusually small body just happened to be gliding by your carriage window not long after the ordeal, "he has a knack for finding me in the most peculiar of places, as if he knows I need him somehow. He should reach the Ministry within good time."

"Where's Fungbury, then?" Draco asks as the three of you begin to walk towards the last empty carriage, "and why him? Berrycloth would've been better, and he's an idiot."

"Potter said Dorian was better suited if a duel takes place," Cerberus explains, holding the door for you the climb inside the carriage. You thank him softly, "his dueling skills are unmatched, Malfoy. No matter your personal feelings," Cerberus gave Draco a stern look, "and he's up at the castle. Potter owled McGonagall with notice of our attendance and the need for extra security measures yesterday. I believe he's in charge of wand examinations."

Draco huffs irritably, and clambers in the carriage beside you. His dislike for Dorian Fungbury stems from the man's insatiable need to flirt with every and any woman that either works in or walks in to the Auror office. His slick and smooth nature with women would make any man sick, and it most certainly does Draco. Especially when he's managed to get that rosy glow to spread across your cheeks. It practically makes him feral at the thought of it.

The carriage ride towards the castle was otherwise rather peaceful. It brought back many memories of returning after a holiday, stomachs growling from the long journey, ready for the feast that awaited you up in the Great Hall. As you draw nearer, the castle grows larger, with its tall, sky-scraping turrets and magnificent stained glass windows. Draco hops off first, holding his hand out for you to take, and you do so, gracefully stepping down off the carriage. In the viaduct courtyard, Dorian Fungbury is overseeing searches on the guests. Wizards and witches were being asked to present their wands, so that Auror's tasked with casting Prior Incantato could check the last spell used. Once he spotted the three of you approaching, he flashes one of his dazzling smiles at you. It wasn't as if you were blind - Dorian was an attractive man. Chiseled features with curly, dark brown hair and vivid green eyes. He was very well groomed; always suited and booted, not a hair out of place and a natural, soft blush to his cheeks. It was just a shame his slimy flirting massively put you off.

"Afternoon," he chirps, "Malfoy, Langarm, and, of course, Miss Y/L/N." He winks in your direction, and you simply sigh at his behaviour. Dorian then turns his attention to the two men either side of you, "may I see your wands, chaps?"

"You can't be serious," Draco laughs in disbelief, "we're Aurors, Fungbury."

"Can I not be suspicious of Polyjuice Potion?" Fungbury said seriously, "for all I know, you could be anyone but Malfoy. Not that I think anyone would willingly digest the hair from your head," he said, purely to rile up Draco, "now, wands. Please."

"Just do it." Cerberus mutters to Draco, and they both hand over their wands. Dorian eyes them in suspicion, and then passes them to the other Aurors to check. You pass yours along too, but he simply places his hands over yours.

"Oh, no, not you, darling," he says in a sickly sweet tone, "how could I suspect a lady of your calibre?"

"Are you having a joke, Fungbury?" Draco then steps forward, but your arm stops him. The look in your eyes tells him to stop whatever he was thinking. Immediately.

"It's not the time or the place," you snap at the two of them, and then pull your hand from Dorians gentle grip, "just check it, Dorian. We have important business here."

Once your wands had been checked and identity cards passed over, the three of you made it inside the entrance hall and through to the Great Hall. Inside, there were benches lined up for guests to sit on. Banners in the house colours decorated the ceiling and walls. At the doorway, there was a place to light a candle in remembrance of those lost during the battle. You tug on Draco's arm, and he lights one alongside you. The three of you take a station around the hall - one at the entrance, one either side of the room. As the last remaining guests filter in, along with professors new and old, you greet a few of them you had known during your years as a student. Eventually, all hushed conversation came to a holt, and Headmistress McGonagall took to the golden lectern. A few moments of silence, and then she began to speak.

"On behalf of the students and faculty, I would like to thank you all for joining us here today," she begins, "this memorial service is a time for mourning and reflection. A time for all those affected by the events ten years ago, to come together and find comfort in the prayers of others." She pauses for a brief moment, "today, we remember those who fought bravely, in selflessness and righteousness, in order to bring peace upon our world. We are able to gather here and honour their memory, thanks to the efforts and sacrifices of so many individuals."

As McGonagall speaks, over a silence so thick you could hear a pin drop, you notice from the corner of your eye someone rush by the doors to the hall. Your head snaps in that direction, and Draco, who is stationed at the entrance, locks eyes with you. He furrows his brows at you, and you nod towards the gap in the large oak doors. He turns to look, but the figure is long gone. Cerberus, on the other side of the room, notices your interaction, and begins pacing around the side of the hall. He makes a gesture signalling for you to check out what has raised your suspicions, as Dorian enters the room. He takes Draco's place by the door, and you follow Draco out into the corridor.

"What's got your attention?" He ask as you pass by him, rushing on ahead.

"I'm not sure," you say honestly, "but I saw someone walk by the entrance. It might be nothing, but as far as I'm aware all students and teachers are currently in the Great Hall, meaning there shouldn't be anyone just taking a stroll."

"House elf?"

"Too tall."

"Caretaker?"

"Too small."

As you take the corner at speed, you suddenly hear water running. You stop, and Draco stumbles as he comes to a holt behind you. The trickle of several taps is coming from the girls bathroom just up ahead, and you cautiously enter with wand at the ready. Draco remains at the doorway, as you carefully tread through the water collecting on the ground.

"Hello?" your voice echoes off the walls, but no response follows. You begin kicking in the doors of the toilets, to be met with empty lavatories. When you get to the last one, you hear Draco yelling at someone to stop outside. You rush through the rising water, splashing it up and soaking your tights, and enter the corridor where the water is gushing out and running across the stone floors. Quickly, you cast a spell towards the sinks to stop the taps, and run in the direction of Draco's voice. "Draco?" you call out, but his voice doesn't reply.

You pace through the halls, unlocking doors with Alohomora and checking inside, every now and then hearing the distant sound of his voice, to find nothing but empty desks and darkened rooms. Your search takes you down into the dungeons, somewhere you're overly familiar with, calling Draco's name to no avail. Eventually, you come across the wide open door to the potions classroom, and another wave of nostalgia hits you alongside the gut feeling that something wasn't quite right. Slughorn was in the memorial service, and he wasn't one to leave his room completely accessible like that. Slowly, you enter, wand brandished forward, and call for Draco one last time. No answer, no one in sight, but when you're about halfway inside, the door slams shut behind you.

Spinning on the spot, you shout out to ask who's there, but another wave of deafening silence falls over the room, until a spark flies across the space and hits the far wall. You duck behind one of the desks, heart in your mouth, and slightly look around the corner to see a person in a hooded black cloak, similar to school robes, and a black masquerade mask covering their eyes and nose. It was only a few seconds, and then another spark of magic flew out of their wand, straight towards you. You duck back behind the desk to protect yourself, before quickly counteracting their spell. It misses them by an inch, as they throw themselves behind a desk at the far end. It falls deathly quiet for a long moment, so you crawl from one desk to another, looking through the gaps in the tables and stool legs to try and get glimpse of your opponent.

Suddenly, a spell comes rushing past your ear, and as you turn, the hooded figure is directly behind you. In a instant, you jump to your feet and launch a spell, and an all out duel begins in the potions classroom. Sparks fly everywhere, ducking behind whatever you can to dodge the spells coming at you from all directions. With Protego, you shield yourself and send the most damaging spells towards the walls, bottles shattering and equipment smashing on the floor. The hooded figure swings a levitated cauldron your way, and it barely misses you, just grazing your arm but cutting it in the process. You clasp your hand over the wound, and launch a nearby stool as you fall back behind a desk, blood seeping through your fingers. A thud and a wailed cry later, it's quiet again for a moment, but then the mysterious person, in desperation and possibly hurt, lets off another smoke bomb like the one of the train. Black dust and smoke begins to fill the room and your lungs, as you cough and splutter. Arm bleeding and eyes obstructed, you clamber to your feet and make for the door out of memory. The door had been busted open, and your duelling partner had disappeared by the time you got out into the corridor.

"Y/N? What the- are you okay? Fuck, you're bleeding-" Draco, in a state and looking just as dishevelled as you, wastes no time in sitting you down against the wall and loosening his tie. He wraps it around your arm, making sure to stop the bleeding as best he could.

"Draco," you pant, grimacing from the pain in your arm, "where were you? Are you alright?"

"Am I alright?" he said in shock, "your fucking arm is bleeding and you ask me that? I'm fine. Got into a little spat, but before I knew it the bugger had gone. Another one of those-"

"Smoke bombs. Yeah. Got me with that too." You say a little breathlessly, "thanks, and sorry about your tie. I'll get you a new one."

"Shut up," he said in a soft tone, scooping you up in his arms and holding you close, "I can replace ties. I can't replace you." He looks down at you with such love in his eyes, you sometimes wonder if it's the kind you wish it was, "c'mon. Let's get out of here before they show up again and report to the others. Hold on, yeah?"

disclaimer: i do not own harry potter or any of the characters or storyline associated with it

[draco-dormiens]

The Hound // D.M x reader

Request: I was wondering if you would write about a fem!reader heading to bed after a shower, and she sees Draco on their bed moving his patronus around the room. Ofc the reader is shocked but Draco discloses that he finally has enough happy memories to conjure one.. And all those memories are with her?

Word Count: 1k

Author's Note: I thought for a LONG time about what Draco’s patronus would be. A lot of people on the internet went with a ferret (as a joke) or a dragon (hence his name) but I kinda enjoyed the idea that it was a hound dog (or something that correlated with old money?) They’re bred specifically to assist hunters, track down game with their senses or tools. They endure long hours of challenging terrain and have high intelligence. Friendly, stubborn and independent. Very interestinggggggg

— If you could give Draco a patronus what would it be and why?? I’d love to know :) -- 

[masterlist]

Much Love, Saige 

———————————

Lathering your hair, you stood just out of the water, the warm embrace of the steam soothing the tension in your body. Taking a deep inhale of the shampoo, you relished in its scent; it was Dracos. A crisp masculine fragrance, similar to that of old leather and citrus. You mentally thanked him for letting you take a quick shower in his dormitory. You invited your curiosity to guide you through a routine, the idea of his own body in your place.  How he used his hair products, his body wash, his facial cleanser; which you were surprised he had at all. All of it is his (and yours for the time being). 

He was always so sweet to you. A gentleman through and through. It took a few months but he finally had trust in himself to open his space to you. His bedroom was always such an isolated part of his psyche that was sealed shut to any of his friends; or even his past partners. It was his and he loved it, but he also fantasized of a simple life with you, inviting you into his dormitory was a taste of a life outside of school. 

You rinsed off the conditioner, taking an extra second to bathe in the hot water, already dreading the feeling of stepping out into the cold atmosphere. You couldn't remember if you had been in there only a few minutes or an hour, the stagnation of time overtaking all of your senses the moment you turned on the shower.  Reaching down, you turned the knob halting the water, an immediate shiver ran over your body as the final droplets fell from the shower head, knocking you back to reality. 

Wrapping yourself in a towel, you stepped out carefully, suddenly aware of the silence that now filled the room. Dracos bedroom, only a closed door between you, was eerily quiet, just before filled with light sounds of rain and music, the ambiance of white noise helping him relax into sleep. You tiptoed around the bathroom, drying yourself off and applying moisturizer before cautiously putting your ear up to the doorframe. 

Nothing

You wondered if the batteries had died, the small muggle radio you gifted him now sat in a hush. Slowly reaching to the handle, you turned it cautiously, so as to not make much noise. To your amazement, Draco was awake, your presence not yet known to him. 

Watching him from the corner of the room, he sat with his back to his headboard, his eyes following a small white wisp, slowly evolving into a sniffing hound, its ears high and pointed as it galloped around the room. Draco’s face was unwavering, a small smile flickering as he watched it bounce in the air. Your heart swelled, the implications of the magic now settling in your mind.

”Hi love.” You whispered, leaning against the doorframe. Draco turned to you, his wand still elevated towards the dog. His smile was now wide, eyes traveling over your scantily covered body. 

“Hello darling.” He mused, his empty hand now outstretched towards you, inviting you to join him. You blushed, adjusting your towel before meeting him at his bed. Sitting on the corner, you held his hand, both of you watching the dog playfully bark and canter invisible obstacles.  

“What are you thinking about?” You whispered, leaning your head lightly on his shoulder. Draco exhaled lightly, finding the courage to be vulnerable. Ever since he met you, there was a burning urge to try and try again at his patronus. He was always envious of you and your ability to produce one. He hated that he had no true happy memories, no time of childhood that stood out. He loved his parents deeply, but the memories he held as a child were soiled by their now entrapment with the dark arts. There was only you, a guided beacon of light that truly made him feel at peace.

“Um.” He cleared his throat, his eyes shifting to yours. ”I was just thinking about us. About you.” His hand squeezed yours tightly. He dared not let go as if he would, you and the patronus would fly away. A deep blush crept over your face, nestling your head further into his neck. 

“He’s pretty cute huh.” Draco added, his eyes still on you, watching how you admired the dog. It now sat in front of you both, patiently waiting. You nodded, the thought of your relationship bringing him enough peace and happiness to create the canine was almost unbelievable to you. You both had gone through so much, but never left each other's side. You stayed quiet, enjoying the moment as thoroughly as possible, unable to find the words. 

“I love you so dearly y/n.” Draco muttered, his thumb brushing small strokes against your knuckles. “No one has made me feel so…...safe.” His declaration flowing out slowly, made your eyes well, the dog became brighter with every word. 

“I love you Draco, so very much.” You lifted your head from his shoulder, looking deeply into his eyes. His hand released yours, brushing your cheek tenderly. Looking into your eyes, he swore he would do anything in this world to keep you by his side. 

Anything.  

[draco-dormiens]

Half-Blood Prince Draco will always have my heart

[draco-dormiens]

SLYTHERINSLUT0’S KINKTOBER

october 8th. tom — somno / free use kink.

KINKTOBER MASTERLIST. | 2024.

summary: tom riddle is a god at many things. you’ve never felt more alive than when you’ve reduced him to something lesser.

warnings: 18+, SMUT MDNI, free use, sleeping kink, a lot of reverence for more biblical tom riddle that i genuinely need to choke me unconscious, PIV, fingering, multiorgasm, overstim, slight bondage, dubcon but not really i mean this fic speaks for itself. tom is kinda soft here???? what happened to me??

Tom Riddle, you'd determined, was obsessive before he was anything else. You saw it long before you knew him—intimately, at least—his compulsions, the meticulous way in which he carved out his time, handpicking what fit his ambitions best before pouring himself into them until he was empty.

Tom never moved with half-measures, a man that brilliant does nothing halfhearted.

You didn't expect to become his fixation—didn't know what it meant to be seen by someone who never stopped searching—never stopped dissecting—until the moment when his eyes lingered just a second too long and his hands followed suit—the moment he taught you the meaning in the only way he knew how.

Benevolently.

Tom Riddles need is tempered but there's always something burning underneath, something that flickers to life when his breath catches against your neck—when his fingers trace delicate lines along your skin—something that feels a lot like a thank you. The magical world gave him power—dominion—but in you, he found control. The kind you give freely, without even knowing it, the kind that he takes with the same reverence in his hands he applies to everything he touches.

There’s always been a mutal give and take between you—one formed without words and you solemnize this unspoken vow because he leaves you no other choice.

And it's not by force, not by demand, but by the sheer intensity of his regard, that sacred hunger in the way he looks at you, like you were made for this. For him. To be unmade, piece by piece, worshipped in the ruins of what you once were and stitched back together by his grace alone. When he kneels at your feet after a day that's worn him thin, his eyes sharp with exhaustion— when he spreads you open as though you're a book of scripture, when his hands steady you and his mouth finds its way between your thighs—there's nothing left for you to do but hold onto him. Your fingers in his hair, letting him take—letting him consume you in ways only he can.

He is both salvation and sin. Saviour and ruin. You're not sure how it's possible but he ensures you believe it.

And it started with secret moments—stolen glances, brushes of fingers, impromptu study sessions. But it grew into something more, and then something more still, until one day he's slipping into your flat as though it's his own, finding you before you even realize he's there.

You'll be cooking dinner and without a word, he'll flick off the stove with a twitch of his fingers—a breath of magic—his appetite insatiable but not for any caloric substance. You pretend, for his sake, to be surprised by his power, the way he moves without moving, but he knows better now—knows that nothing he does surprises you anymore, not after the way he loosens the strings of your corset with just a blink, how his teeth scrape your ear in a smile as he works a spell between your thighs. Not after he waits until you're thoroughly ruined by his magic—malleable just the way he likes you before he's merciful, allowing you the honour of his touch—allowing himself the honour of breaking you further.

There's no shock left in it because you've already accepted that whatever you think he's capable of—there's more.

There will always be more with Tom—a knowledge that is a sweet, endless ache. He is reasoning made lucid. You could never define all that he is capable of.

And foolishly you thought after all these years you'd have come to understand him, but Tom Riddle is not easily deciphered—he's a mystery even to himself, a disposition of contradictions. He doesn't need to be understood; he only needs to feel as if he is, to which you do your best. But when you're finally asleep after a long day and feel the bed dipping behind you in the quiet hours—a large, rough hand grazing timidly up your thigh, comprehension of Tom Riddle becomes even more of a distant accomplishment.

There is no logic in him when it comes to you, just instinct. No explanations, just need.

Tom has always had his compulsions, but you are his favourite fixation, and so you give. There's hunger, and there's devotion. There's desire, and then there's worship. You let him choose which ones he wants from you.

On this night you stir, half-conscious yet not quite aware of what's happening as his fingers move slowly, finding the heat between your legs and spreading you gently. There's never any urgency in his movements, though the fervour is palpable—a kind of feverish desperation thrumming beneath the surface, a pulse you can feel in his flesh, in the way his breath catches as if this is the only way he knows how to breathe.

Perhaps the only certainty about Tom is that you know he wouldn't be here if it weren't a necessity.

And he does this often, though sometimes it's more—the plush of his lips, the slick slide of his tongue—but this time, he chooses to wake you to the steady push of his fingers inside you, two of them stretching you, deliberate in their rhythm, curling deep, coaxing you open. It's his mercy, his crafted version of tenderness—you know he could easily just cast a lubing charm and press right in—but he doesn’t. He paces, he savours.

It’s a patience he continually allows himself which you know he doesn't have to give.

And some nights, when you wake to his touch—he whispers for you to sleep, to let him have you quietly, other times he'll make it clear that's the last thing he wants.

Tonight—

You shift against him, instinct guiding your body, but he hushes you, gentle, soft—a tut of warning, a shushing breath against your ear. You don't know how long he's been inside you, how long his need has burned quietly beside you, but by the time you realize, it's the wet sounds, obscene, that draw you from the haze of sleep, drowning out the sharpness of his breath. You're half-gone, face pressed into the pillow, drooling— and your lips part on a moan that never fully forms.

When your hand reaches instinctively for his wrist, his growl curls low in your ear—

"Sleep," if the command was a weapon it'd be a feather—he casts a binding spell on your wrists, drawing them above your head. "I've got you."

You swallow another moan, throat dry, choking on air as you fight to rip free from whatever remnants of slumber you're clinging to. His fingers are slow, pumping in and out of you, dragging you deeper into his need—and you're shaking in a way that is as involuntary as it is habitual. You know from experience just how much he loves this— the way he reduces you to fragments, the way he breaks you apart until there's nothing left but the shattered pieces of your pleasure—the mess he can make of you in minutes, even absentmindedly.

He slips an arm under your head, pulling you closer, impossibly close. The room is dark, and though you can't see him, you imagine his face—the hunger in his eyes as his skin sticks to yours, the hard evidence of his need against your ass.

"T-Tom—" your voice stumbles, a choked whisper of his name. His hand curls over your mouth, silencing you.

"Quiet," he mutters. "It's just a dream."

His breath ghosts over your neck, and your back arches in response. Wherever he was earlier, he came back starving, and this is part of it—sometimes he wants you silent, sometimes he wants you loud. Tonight, he wants you like this.

"Stay still," he murmurs again, and you shudder, your climax pulled from the edges of sleep by the slow drag of his fingers inside you. "Just a dream..."

A dream, he says—somewhere inside you, buried under a fog of grog you know it isn't, and he knows you know, he's not trying to trick you but it's all part of the game—coaxing—the way he devours you a little more each time, not just physically but mentally too.

With your lips muffled by his hand and his fingers buried deep, you do what you always do—you let him.

"T-Tom—" you whimper through the cracks in his digits. Your body is soft, boneless, melting into his touch, aching for more. "Please—"

As much as he wants you quiet he wants his name broken in your mouth all the same. He rewards you with a bitten-off moan, a crack in his control, a slight hitch in his breath—you clench around his fingers and his palm tightens over your mouth just a little too hard before he realizes and eases up.

You did say Tom's need was tempered—but sometimes, there are exceptions.

"I said quiet." His hips rut against your ass, fingers slow dragging at your walls, scissoring in your slick. "Let me give you this."

You push back into him, desperate, needy. "But—"

"Take it." His fingers on your mouth slide past your lips and over your tongue, reaching toward the back of your throat. Tears spring to your eyes as you gag, the sound smothered by the moan you make as a spell, swirling and tightening, pulses against your clit. "With the way I'm going to fuck you, you need this...you'll thank me later for it..."

Tom doesn't waste words. His tone may be soft but it's also sharp, which tells you everything you need to know—that he's had a wretched day and you're the only thing that can make it better. That he's going to fuck out his frustrations on you.

You moan around his fingers at the thought.

"You'll want to be nice and stretched for me, won't you?" A statement, not a question. "You don't want it to hurt. You know I don't want to hurt you."

Though he'll deny it, he's not as emotionless or as lacking in empathy as he'd like to believe. It's one of the many things you've come to know about him—or should you say, one of the many things you've struggled to understand about him—but the way he says it, like he's reminding himself not to be cruel—it's all very Tom Riddle.

"I don't want to hurt you.." he repeats in a murmur, as if he's trying to convince himself. You can't speak, though you're not sure you could find the words even if you could; the only indication you give him that you understand—that you hear him—is the quiet whimper that slips past his fingers. "Just need you."

The spell on your clit is as overwhelming as the drag of his fingers against your walls and it's only moments until you're cumming hard around him and he's groaning hard in return—you know his eyes are closed and you know he's inhaling every single sound you make as though he could house them in his lungs. The darkness clings to you like a second skin but Tom clings to you worse—not relenting even as you're twitching and whimpering with aftershocks.

"There we go." You're squirming and Tom fucking loves it. "Good girl."

Overstimulation is charging in—you have no where to run from it. You bite down on his digits in your mouth and he punishes you by intensifying the spell on your clit. "T-Tom—Tom—"

All he offers is a shush. His fingers curl deep.

"I need...I need you...need this.." he's mumbling, mantra-like, almost like a prayer and perhaps that's the closest he's come to one. You can count on one hand the amount of times you've heard him say it but you know there's no one else he'd be saying it to—no one else he'd want to. "You know, I thought of this all day...having you, like this..."

You sob around his fingers in your mouth as he rips another climax from you—you think you're seeing stars and you know if you are, they were hung there by him.

"Couldn't focus.." his teeth find your jaw, just under your ear, biting just a little harder than he usually does. "No matter what I did, I just kept thinking of this...of you...of you like this for me.."

Tom Riddle is a greedy man—in all ways—but he's not only greedy in the way he takes from you, he's greedy in the way he gives to you too, and though he would never admit it—he'd rather die first—this moment feels as close to worship as he'll ever come.

As you said, there's reverence in everything he fucking touches—you know you're lucky you get to experience it.

"You have this effect." He swallows hard, you feel it against your shoulder. "You have this effect on me...I—I can't stop wanting you-“

—and he's just a man, after all. No matter how well versed in dark spells and manipulation, no matter how cold and calculating he's able to be, beneath it all he's so very mortal. He tells you he was never made for love but when he buries his face in your neck and talks this talk it sure feels like maybe he was.

And all it does is make you want him that much more—knowing that you do this to him—you make him weak. You make him want and need and yearn.

"I don't even know what you've done to me," his voice is destroyed—his thoughts cut off by the evidence of your desperation for him, the lewd sounds coming from your pussy as you suck on the fingers in your mouth. "Fuck, you're so wet."

You groan, helpless and needy as a whore. Tom digs his teeth into your shoulder. It's all too much. There are many ways to come apart and this is Tom's only true undoing—in the aftermath of the destruction he causes, and you are—his collateral.

"Fuck—oh, fuck—" you're garbling, the words don't sound like words. "T-Tom—"

You're not sure how long you've been awake or how many times you've cum—how much oxygen you've inhaled since this all started but the one certainty is that you know Tom has very little patience left—if any.

"Fuck." He shifts, grinding against you. "Can you take me? Can you take me right now?"

All you can do is nod—your eagerness evident in the pace of it—drool dribbling down your chin and instantly the spell fades from your clit, his fingers pull out of your cunt and he's lifting your thigh up toward your head, fingers still hooked in your mouth. There's a moment of movement—trousers and boxers pulled down and then he's there—thick and heavy and warm between your thighs. You tense.

You'll never get used to the size of him. His ego made flesh. Though perhaps the greatest pleasure is in knowing he'll never get used to you, either.

"Gonna—gonna fuck you." He mutters against your neck as he glides along your slit—you're soaked, slick coating your thighs and the sheets and him but it never matters much because it always stings when he takes you. Especially like this. "It won't be soft."

You moan and he finally pulls his fingers free from your mouth, dragging them down to your throat, nails against your skin that feel more like claws because for all the human Tom Riddle is he's just as much animal.

He's never known soft—only with you—but you wouldn't have him if not for all his jagged lines and sharp edges. You let him take.

"Please, Tom-" words fail you, they always do when he's like this. "Please, gods—fuck me-"

Tom growls and it vibrates up your spine. You rarely curse when you can help it—so when you do, when you can't do anything to stop the pathetic vulgarities—he likes it too goddamn much and you know he's going to give you what you want because you give him what he needs.

A mutual give and take, as all the best things are.

"No god could compare to me." He doesn't say it with arrogance, just with certainty, like a letter he's written a thousand times. Then, he's flipping you onto your stomach, wrists still bound above your head as he lines up and presses inside you—all at once, deep and full and breathtaking. "Oh, yes—"

You cry out but it's muffled by the pillow, your cunt trying hard to adjust to the stretch—Tom is never cruel, but he is brutal, and perhaps the two get confused. There is a difference, though you know he would prefer to remain ambivalent on his own harshness, it’s the only way he's managed to survive this long—but here, with you, he thinks he can allow for a bit of mercy.

And he gives it, in his own way, only because you gave it first. It's as close as he'll come to offering himself without asking anything in return. To you, it's still a pretty close second.

"I'm going to make you feel this," he murmurs, lips against your shoulder, teeth against skin and if you had any tears left, this would be when they fell. "You'll think of this all day tomorrow. You'll think of me all day tomorrow."

He pauses inside you—he's taking it slow and the implications of that fact are far out of reach right now.

"I'll think of you anyway, Tom," you grit through your teeth, voice cracking on his name as he pulls out—only halfway—ensuring you feel that emptiness before he presses back in. "I'm—ohh—a-always thinking of you."

He makes a sound, a broken sort of sound, the same one you've heard him make only a handful of times—a raw, vulnerable, almost pathetic sound and all it does is make you want him that much more. He's still moving too slow, too methodically, drawing pleasure out from deep under your skin.

You clench around him because you know he doesn't want you to—he warns you against it with a cervix-piercing thrust.

"You're always thinking of me." His hand snakes around your throat, his lips to your ear—"and are you proud of that?"

You know that's a loaded question, the answer to which he doesn't truly care to know. But it's one you'll answer truthfully, regardless—because you know it'll affect him either way.

You nod, just once—and the grip on your neck tightens, cutting off an almost sob. His hips piston faster now, as though you've chipped off another piece of his control.

"Proud enough, then," he growls, his pace unforgiving, and that's enough to tear another broken sound from you—from the both of you. His fingers twist painfully around your throat, digging into your skin like a man possessed, and you know that means he's done holding back. His mouth is next to your ear, you can feel his smirk. "M'sorry—I'm—sorry—"

He says he's sorry but you know he's not. Not with the way he's groaning into your ear, not with the way he's driving his cock fast and deep. He is a manmade monster and a self-made god trapped inside a mortal man who needs so much to feel human. He knows to be nothing but intense. It's a wonder how the three can exist in him all at once.

"T-tom-" your voice fractures around his name, the only word you know now. "F-fuck—s'deep—ohh-"

His teeth sink into your neck as he cranks your head back with a pull of your hair, bared teeth on preyish flesh and you hardly have time to worry how deep he might devour because you feel his magic on your clit and you see those stars again—distant yet creeping closer, drawn down to your orbit by his power alone.

"M'sorry—" he mutters again, as though he was saying it to your cervix. "Fuck—"

You scream out again as the spell on your clit swirls faster—the sensation unfathomable each and every time—he's fucking you so hard you're burning underneath him and though the pleasure is as white hot as the flames that now cover every inch of you, you don't fear burning as much as you fear it's passing.

He's a fire in your veins, in your blood, and if he stops now you'll die of the cold.

"So good for me," he says, as soft as he can muster for being so lustdrunk— "so—perfect. You're perfect."

Perfect. You whinge and squeeze your eyes shut—choking on your breath. The words are more painful than his thrusts because time and time again you’ve failed to decipher their meaning—you know he doesn't believe in perfection, the concept too weak and foolish for his sake—but he's said it before, always in times like this—you are perfect.

You're perfect under his hands. You're perfect when you shatter apart for him, in the darkness, under the light of those stars he dragged down for you. 

"Ohh—fuck—Tom—" another climax wracks you, splitting you at the seams. "I'm—I'm—"

It feels like an earthquake and you're the epicenter, all the power and destruction Tom thrusts into you radiating from within you outward. His hand moves from your throat to your jaw, tilting your face back so he can kiss you, messily, open-mouthed and with teeth. But it's still a kiss. Something he rarely does.

"Yeah, yeah. Good—" he grunts into your mouth. "Mmfff—fuck—tight—“

A second later, he's cumming, a broken string of profanity tumbling from his chest into your mouth, release spilling deep inside you, warm and thick and he holds you tighter for it as you whimper and throb around him. Tom has always had his reservations. Always had his long list of fixations—and like you said, he pours himself empty into the ones he's chosen. It's in moments like these where you feel it more than ever—as his hips slow and his cock stops twitching inside you—the way that he's made you part of that list.

And when he's done moving through you—when he's done taking what he needs—he pulls away, yet he's still there. Freeing your wrists and rubbing them gently, curling you against him as you both descend.

"Thank you." He murmurs, face in your hair.

You tell him he doesn't need to thank you but you know it makes no difference. After all, he's still a man. A man with something to prove, even under a sky full of stars he dragged down for you.

Tom is a god at many things. You've never felt more alive than when you've reduced him to something lesser.

[draco-dormiens]

SLYTHERINSLUT0’S RIDDLEMAS. | 2024

andddd we’re back. join me in my little twist on kinkmas where i provide you with more of the depraved tom riddle smut you have all been craving. it’s gonna be a white christmas this year, for more reason than one.

please note the following: some of these works may contain triggering content and kinks that might not be for you, do not click on something you aren't comfortable with, and as always, chars are 19+, minors please do not interact.

MASTERLIST FOUND UNDER CUT. | ⋆｡˚❆˚ ｡⋆

full fics & blurbs. | full masterlist. | lmk if u want on the taglist🤍

dec 4th - admit it.

bondage, teasing, begrudgingly sub!tom (revenge).

dec 10th - come here.

oral sex, inexperienced reader x experienced tom.

dec 16th - give me another.

overstimulation, cockwarming, sub!reader (payback).

dec 20th - take it off.

wet dreams, house rivals, size kink, rough fucking.

dec 25th - i had a dream.

breeding kink, creampie, sleepy sex/somno.

dec 31st - riddle me this.

mattheoxreaderxtom threesome, eiffel tower.

there’s a high chance that this can be subject to change. thank you loves for the suggestions🤍

[draco-dormiens]

SLYTHERINSLUT0’S RIDDLEMAS

dec 4th. tom riddle — bondage, begrudgingly!sub tom.

RIDDLEMAS MASTERLIST. | 2024

summary: revenge is sweet—but getting tom riddle to beg is so, so much fucking sweeter.

warnings: 18+, SMUT MDNI, reader gives tom a lust potion in retribution, PIV, desperate sex, tom so out of sorts he doesn’t even know what he’s saying, so much teasing it’s painful, dirty talk, light bondage, choking.

All is fair in love and war.

This might not be love, but it isn't just war, either. It's something messier, something darker, something with teeth. Every time you and Tom Riddle play this game it seems to follow the same trajectory, almost like a dance—step, feint, clash, retreat—a push and pull, a ritualistic give and take until someone takes a little too much and the tension boils over to something like this. 

A locked door. A stolen breath. His body pressing yours into some surface and his hands on your throat, or in your hair, or at your waist with—

"You did something to me." Growled at your neck. 

Right now, expectedly, is no different.

"What could I possibly have done to you?" You drawl, bored blowing off your breath. "The great Tom Riddle himself."

You want to sound dismissive, condescending—just enough to light a match to his already fraying patience—but Tom is too keyed up to take the bait, and that alone thrills you. You can feel the heat radiating off him. Smell the clean, addictive scent of his hair, the musk of dark magic religiously woven into his skin. 

He smells intense, and it makes you dizzy.

Makes you reckless.

"You’re funny," he exhales, the force of it stirring your hair. He's ripping off his jacket now, rolling up his sleeves like he's ready to wrestle the devil himself. "This is your idea of revenge, isn't it?"

There's a shrug, something vindictive set in your shoulders just to get under his skin that much more—spurred on by the sheer state of him before you; those perfect curls a mess, onyx eyes burning with something primal. 

"This, meaning what, exactly?" You watch the corded tension in his neck tighten as he shoves his hair back, hands visibly unsteady. "You'll have to be more specific."

He lets out a stifled groan from somewhere deep in his chest at that—he's struggling, and he knows you know it, a delicious little factoid that has his patience stretched so thin it's almost see-through—

"You're enjoying this," he snarls, forcing himself over to a nearby loveseat and slumping down into it. His voice is half-hoarse, strangled by the effort it's taking him to keep this much distance between you. "You—fuck."

There we go. 

Unable to stall the grin off your lips any longer, you move forward with something predatory—something devious in each step perfectly placed just to spite him—a deliberate sway of the hips, the slight rise and fall of your chest—anything, really, just to break him that much faster. 

He's right. This is your revenge. 

"Oh, Tom," you creep around behind his chair, lips leaning toward his ear. "Are you feeling alright? You're looking hot."

You take note of the way his jaw pulses as he grinds his teeth. The way that one simple word from your mouth—spoken in the type of low, sultry tone that could make even a dead man hard—affects him.

"You're wicked," his head falls back to look up at you, lips glistening like he's salivating over the mere sound of your voice. Still, he's fighting it—still trying to deny you the satisfaction. "Did you know that?"

"You love it," you murmur, fingers slipping their way over his shoulders, down his chest. You lean closer, catching sight of the sharp bulge straining against his trousers. "Look how much you fucking love it."

Another stifled groan. 

"You don't want to do this, sweetheart," he hisses—and there's the nickname, the nickname you've told him you hate. His way of retaliation. "Not now." 

"And why not?" Your fingers dip lower, tracing over the definition of his abdomen. "Because you're not in control? Or because I am?"

He's fighting himself—you see the war play out on his face in the way his brows knit together—the way his lips part briefly only to swallow back whatever words were about to crawl out of them. 

He's never been very good at being at anyone's mercy, least of all yours. 

"You think you're in control," the words rasp against his throat, as if speaking them too loud might shift the balance. "You're delusional."

"Maybe," you whisper, lips brushing his cheek, the curve of a smirk curling into your voice. "Maybe I'm absolutely batshit." Your hand slips downward, slowly, over his stomach to his belt, fingers ghosting the buckle. "But we both know why you dragged me in here, Tom. Don't we?"

He scowls.

"You—" 

The moment you brush against his bulge with the barest touch, his hips jerk forward—words disintegrating, raw instinct betraying his restraint.

"God, look at you." You nearly choke on the heat between you. If this isn't the sexiest fucking thing you've ever seen. "Just admit it, Tommy. Admit you need me to fi—"

You don't get to finish. Something in him snaps—

"Fucking—" he's moving on auto-pilot, hands reaching up to seize you and yank you closer. "—fix this, then." 

In a blink, you're in his lap with his grip on your hips and he's growling—one hand slipping up to the back of your head to fist your hair and force your mouth to his before you get the chance to snap back—

And as soon as your lips collide it's a fight for dominance—teeth clashing as your tongues tangle, both of you biting and pulling at each other like animals. You're grinding against him and he's excruciatingly-hard beneath you and you can practically hear the intensity of it, both of you caught up in the sheer feral force of this—no rhyme or rhythm, no control—just hunger, desperate and unrelenting, like something unleashed that neither of you can put back in its cage.

After all but an eternity of this, you wrench back with force, breaking the kiss and shoving yourself upright. His head falls back against the chair, chest heaving, his lips slick and parted, pupils blown wide and glittering with fury—or lust. You’re sure it’s a bit of both.

He's trying to gain control, his hand still fisted in your hair, arms trapping you in place like he thinks he can still win this. 

But you see him now, raw and undone, and you know better.

"You want me to fix this," you murmur, skating your fingers over his chest lightly enough to make him twitch. "Then put your hands on the armrests."

He wants to fight that, you can tell—wants to yank you back into him, wants to wield that weapon of a tongue—but other things take precedence now, like you, here, on his lap—so close to giving him everything he needs.

You think, to him, the demand must sound less like an order and more like salvation. 

He all but slams his hands down onto the armrests.

You smirk. "Good boy."

Unsurprisingly, he scowls again, a dangerous flash in his eyes—but that doesn't stop his hips from jerking greedily when you grind down against him—fingers digging into the leather underneath them, twitching like they want to make you do it again. 

That doesn't escape your notice. 

"Mm. Just incase." Pulling out your wand, you cast a spell that binds his wrists to the chair. "I know how you are." 

His expression shifts instantly, lips curling back into something like a snarl as he yanks at the invisible binds. They don't budge—your work is seamless—his own spellwork mastered and turned against him.

"I'm going to fucking digest you," he spits, all venom and heat, eyes blazing as he pulls harder. "When I get out of this chair, you'll—oh, you'll beg for-"

You shut him up with your mouth, crushing your lips to his. It's all teeth and tongue, desperate and wild, as your nails rake down his chest and he arches into you—

"Who says I don't like it when you make me pay, baby?" You breathe, biting his bottom lip hard enough to draw a groan from deep in his throat. "Maybe it's my favourite part."

For a moment he doesn't respond—he knows that's true. You love this game too much not to toe the line when possibilities arise. He's pulling uselessly at the binds again as you roll your hips against him, dragging him further into ruin.

"You are," he chokes out, head tilting back as your teeth scrape along his jaw, "an infuriating, wicked little witch."

You huff against his skin, against the pulse point at his throat and the sensitive area under his ear—he's squirming—making strangled, animal sounds that have you seeping through your panties. 

"You're only just noticing?" You’re drinking in his hypersensitivity for all it's worth. "You're losing your touch."

He scoffs, or tries to—it comes out closer to a moan stuck between shallow breaths. 

"Noticed it...the day I met you," he gasps, hips jerking up as you rock against him. "But, fuck—you've gotten a hell of a lot worse."

Perhaps he's right. Perhaps it's the company you keep—specifically, the one pinned beneath you. 

"You're just mad I'm beating you at your own game," you’re grinding down harder, fingers drifting to the buttons of your blouse. "You're a terrible loser."

"And you're—" he starts, but his words falter when you pull the last button free and shrug the fabric off your shoulders, exposing black lace and soft skin. "—an insufferable winner."

"I think the real problem," you toss your shirt to the floor, hands returning to slide down his chest again, undoing his buttons now. "Is that you secretly love losing to me." 

You'd think that would earn another snarl from him—or perhaps a sharp retort about how he'd never lose to anyone, or how he’d never enjoy being at your mercy—but he's clearly too far gone to keep up with even that as he watches you, all but trembling at your touch. 

"Stop—“ he twitches when your fingers glide over his exposed chest, trailing lower. "—talking."

"Make me," you make your way to his belt buckle, taking your time to undo it, sliding the leather free before moving to the zipper of his pants, dragging it down even slower. "Oh, wait. You can't."

He’s helpless to fight the growl you force out of him at that—a vicious sound that makes you clench. His fingers tighten around the armrests, yanking hard against the bonds holding him in place. Useless, you both know, but it doesn't stop him from trying, from straining against them like he might will them to break through sheer desperation alone. 

He exhales through his teeth. "Stop teasing." 

"Now where's the fun in that?" you dip your hand below the waistband of his boxers. He jerks beneath you as your fingers tease just enough to make his breath catch. "You should be grateful l'm taking pity on you—" your tone as soft as it is mocking, "—being oh so kind to help-"

Another groan, another almost snarl. "Stop. Teasing." 

Oh, how the tables turn. You know precisely how he's feeling—you've been here like this, with him, a million times before. It’s the sweetest torture. One you’re sure he doesn't want you to stop—not really. Not with a lust potion dripping from his pores. 

He fucking needs this.

"And what happensssss," you drag your words out as your fingers glide slow, featherlight strokes up and down his rock of an erection. "If I don't?"

His response is a wrecked string of profanity—some of it strangled, some of it guttural, and none of it in English. He's not even remotely coherent anymore, and you're not surprised. Eloquence had abandoned him long before you'd even stepped into the room.

"I will—" he hisses through clenched teeth as you tease your thumb over his leaking tip, "— fuck—I will fuck your ass so hard—“

Now that gets a moan from you—the filthiness of his words, at the way his voice drops so dark and low it should probably be a fucking felony. He's swearing, writhing, desperate, and you're absolutely dripping from it—from the way Tom Riddle has unraveled into this devastating, feral thing underneath you.

"Is that what you're thinking about right now?" Another murmur, lips brushing against his ear as you shift to tug his pants and boxers down. "Fucking my tight ass? Punishing me?"

"Without mercy," he spits, breath hitching as you free him—his cock springing out, thick and throbbing, twitching in time with his shallow gasps. "Fuck—"

You pull away to get a better look at him—and god, the sight almost makes you lose your mind. The man always so put together, always so self assured and smug and in control of every goddamn thing—reduced to this. 

"Such a vulgar mouth, for such a pretty face," leaning forward, you lick a slow, deliberate stripe up his neck. He tastes like sweat and sin. Just how you like him. "Tell me more."

"Fuck," his head tips back involuntarily, exposing his throat to you like it's instinct. He's twitching as you grind your slick heat along his shaft, soaking him, teasing him until his hips buck up against you. "Put me inside you—"

You're barely holding onto yourself, every roll of your hips against him leaving you dizzy and aching—but you drag it out, grinding down harder.

"That's an order, isn't it?" You breathe, catching his earlobe between your teeth. "You giving me orders now?"

"I'm giving you pleas," he rasps. "You fed me a potion that's made me so hard it physically aches, and now you're sitting here—fucking teasing me—"

"Retaliation," you reply with a smile. "You're the one who thought it was a good idea to feed me a truth serum before dinner at Malfoy's."

That night still lingers in both of your minds—things involuntarily said that can't ever be unsaid. Things that still make Draco avoid your eyes at every turn.

"A mistake," he grits out. In any other moment, you know he'd be smirking. "A mistake—I'll admit it, fuck-"

"You're not the type to make mistakes," it’s a true statement, one overridden by the feeling of his dick twitching as your hips still, going maddeningly idle. "You wanted the Malfoy’s to know I'm yours. And now, well, now I have to show you that you're mine."

There’s a moments pause at that. One that makes you realize just how loud your pulse is pounding in your ears. Tom looks at you, holding your eyes until—

"I am," he concedes, finally throwing in the towel with a gasp that's half desperation, half devotion. "Yours. So fucking take what's yours."

"Oh, baby," you purr, cupping his cheek in your palm. He leans into it without realizing, like he's starving for your touch. "I always do."

And with that, you rise up—slick soaked inner thighs leaving damp spots against his half pulled down trousers—humming with a smirk as you slide a hand over his chest, nails raking over his skin, holding him down against the chair—

"Be still," an order. "Or I'll take it a hell of a lot slower."

His whole body shudders at that—but does what he's told and keeps still—chest swelling with each shallow breath as he watches you—dark eyes flicking from your lips to your tits to your cunt—muscles straining and wrists firm against their binds. 

"Just—do it," he mutters through parted lips and clenched teeth—squeezing his eyes shut. "Please."

The world stops. Time freezing to nothing. You swear you'd forgotten how to breathe.

Please. Like it's a holy thing, a sacred word to be used only in worship. Like he's said something he's never uttered in his life. Please. Like a prayer, like a begging benediction. You'd never loved the sound of anything from his lips quite like you do that. 

You will hear it again. You long to make him say it until he forgets every other word he knows.

"How could I refuse that?" His eyes fly open as you reach down, gripping his aching length and gliding the head against your soaked slit. "Fuck, you're so big. So hard."

"Hard," he echoes as his hips buck involuntarily, seeking more friction. "Because this is—torture."

"And whose fault is that, Tommy?" You taunt, just barely sinking down, letting the tip of him sit against what you know he wants. "Oh, that's right. Yours."

"Mine," he grunts before his patience finally snaps in half and he jerks his hips up—shoving his cockhead inside you with a strangled moan. "Fucking mine."

Oh, Merlin help you.

Your head falls back with a moan, eyes slipping shut as the sensation steals the breath from your lungs. He stretches you in the way only he can, and for a moment, you think you should punish him for disobeying you by taking back control—but you can't bring yourself to care about anything other than how fucking good it feels.

"Yours," you breathe, rolling your hips to take him just an inch deeper. "All yours."

"More," his voice cracks, the veins in his neck straining. "Take more. Please."

Theres the word again—please. It makes you weak, makes you greedy. Makes you break and give in on the sheer knowledge of how much it fucking pains him to say it. 

"Oh, gods"" you moan, shifting your hips to take him deeper still, inch by aching inch. "Fuck."

"Take it," he sneers, as if it's his turn to taunt you. Even like this, he's still the same bastard. "You can take more than that."

You curse lowly and sink your nails into his chest for it—because it's the kind of challenge you can't win, even like this you know you'll still lose. He knows it too. 

"I can," you hiss, sinking another inch deeper, and then another. "But can you?"

"Can I?" There’s a mocking lilt to his voice that knows. "Release my wrists, and we'll see."

Christ. That's a question you don't want to answer because you know anything other than yes would be a lie. It's tempting. You know as soon as you let him go he'd put those beautiful hands to use—he'd take back control and you'd immediately let him. Like a lamb to the slaughter. 

Even if this is supposed to be his punishment.  

"Be," you gasp, sinking down all the way and clenching tight as he kisses your cervix. "Quiet."

He lets out a sharp, strangled curse—a guttural string of something you think might either be Latin or Parseltongue—something rough and beautiful all at once—and you decide, right then, that it's undoubtedly the most sinfully delicious thing you've ever heard. 

"I love it when you swear," you manage to breathe out through moans, rolling your hips and savouring the stretch, the ache, the impossible fullness of him inside you. “And I love it even more that it's in languages I don't know—makes me wonder what you're saying."

"Things that'll get me slapped," he grunts, and the tone he uses is the one that promises trouble—trouble, if you let him go. "Or hexed, perhaps."

"Mm. I should hex you right now. I’m considering it," you’re gasping between moans, pleasure buzzing in your brain. "So hard."

"I think, right now," the words split between a groan as your nails leave faint red lines on his shoulders—as you clench around him again, dragging your slick walls up and down his shaft in rhythm. “If you tried to hex me, I’d let you. If it meant you’d keep going.”

You almost take him up on it. You love him like this far too much. So much it’s almost pathetic.

"Good boy." You force the words out, fighting through the sting on your cervix every time he bottoms out inside you, slamming against it. "So. Fucking. Good."

"Jesus Christ," he chokes, muscles taut as the veins in his neck strain. His hips jerk up to meet you at every bounce, greedy for more. "Don't stop."

"Oh, I won't," you dig your nails deeper into his skin for balance. The sting shoots through his body, his reaction delicious. "Not until l've made you swear to every god in the sky."

"Shouldn’t take long," he hisses through his teeth, shoulders cresting as your pace grows faster, more erratic. "I'm practically praying now."

"Good," you breathe, thighs burning as the heat coils tight and relentless inside you, every roll of your hips making you feel fuller, wetter, closer to falling apart. "I want to hear you pray my name."

"You're sadistic," he hisses. "Fuck."

"Pot, kettle," you taunt, biting lightly at the curve of his neck—not hard enough to bruise, but just enough to make him feel it.

The sound he makes—half moan, half growl—is filthy.

"Oh, you like that, don't you?" You murmur, dragging your lips toward his ear, breath molten. "You like pain. I know you do."

"I'd like to inflict some right about now," his voice breaks as you nip at his earlobe. "My hands on your throat. That smart fucking mouth—"

"Mmm," you hum, rolling your hips slower, deeper. "And what would you do with it?"

"Fill it," his voice is broken, head tipping back as his body begs for release. "Fuck. I'm so fucking close."

"You're filthy when you're desperate," you whisper, dragging your hand up to his throat, fingers wrapping around it, squeezing just enough to make his breath hitch. "I fucking love it."

His eyes flash—for a moment, you're not sure how he'll take it—your hand curling around his neck, fingers pressing against the pulse hammering beneath his skin. The unpredictability of him—always teetering between fury and something far more intense—makes you hesitate, even in this state. You wonder if he'll snarl, buck you off, or somehow counteract the spell to rid of the restraints entirely—

But all he does is swallow against it, hips jerking up, cock pressing bruisingly deep—dark eyes fixing on your lips, wild and glassy with want—

And then, he fucking grins. "Tighter."

"Freak," you moan far too loudly, heat pooling low in your belly as you oblige, tightening your grip. You bounce faster, adrenaline fuelling you, panting growing sharper with every wild bounce. "Cum for me."

"Like I have a choice," he rasps, voice shredded, his teeth gritted as his eyes squeeze shut. "Fuck—ffffff—"

The sound he makes when he finally breaks—guttural, filthy, your name torn from his lips—is fucking devastating. Devastating enough to drive you directly to your own orgasm, eyes rolling back and crying out words you aren’t even aware of as he shudders and jerks and tenses underneath you.

"Oh, fuck-yes," you breathe, riding him through it, clenching hard until the aftershocks start to fade out, as you slow your pace. “Tom—“

"God," he gasps, his head falling back in exhaustion, voice stumbling over the word. "God. Fuck."

The incoherence coming from his mouth is a treat—and through your fog, for only the most fleeting of moments, you wonder who exactly he's praying to when he says that.

His chest is rising and falling like he's just run miles, sweat-slick skin glowing in the low light. His head rolls forward, eyes still heavy-lidded, and when they meet yours, there's something feral still dangling in their depths. A lingering hunger that makes your breath hitch.

"That's what you wanted, wasn't it?" He finally speaks after he finds whatever oxygen is left in the room. "To ruin me?"

You're still seated on him, still full of him, and even now, you can feel him twitch inside you. Strong potion.

You exhale with a smirk, feeling your pulse slow. "You're still in one piece, aren't you?"

He laughs—dark, deep, and utterly sinful. It's the kind of laugh that promises you haven't won anything at all. His wrists flex against the bindings, and you swear the leather creaks.

"For now," his tone is almost gentle, but the fire in his eyes betrays him. "But if you think I'm going to let you walk away after this..." he grins. "You're more delusional than I thought."

Oh, Tom. If you only knew.

[draco-dormiens]

SLYTHERINSLUT0’S RIDDLEMAS

dec 10th. tom riddle — oral sex, experienced!tom.

RIDDLEMAS MASTERLIST. I 2024

summary: your ex couldn’t make you orgasm, so you were certain you were broken. tom shows you just how wrong you are.

warnings: 18+, SMUTTT MDNI, tom riddle can eat me aliv—sorry who tf said that?, tom riddle is such a realist; he sees a problem and he finds a solution, tom is a munch, praise kink, oral f!receiving, experienced tom, hufflepuff!reader.

Months pass, and your project remains the only thing Tom ever prioritizes when it's you asking.

Progress is slow—slow because you're usually far too busy talking to actually focus—yet, he always stays. He listens, even when the things you say should bore him, even when they mean nothing at all. He sits there—giving you hardly the barest scraps of himself in return as you fill the space between you with everything that crosses your mind.

Things he'd never waste a second hearing from anyone else.

And tonight, to no-one's surprise, you're doing it again—rambling on about nothing and everything all at once. You've got this way of talking—weaving tangents into something almost poetic, and usually, he lets it fade into the background as he works. You're saying something about the differences between the seasons, or maybe it's just some other kind of sentimental nonsense—at this point, he's not entirely sure.

It's easy to tune out. He tells himself he's not really listening.

Until—

"Actually, I guess I should clarify that—it's all hypothetical. I don't date," he doesn't know what you said before this, but he's certainly intrigued by it now. "And really, it has nothing to do with like, self esteem or anything, I'm just broken. Best to save someone the trouble."

That stops him cold. It's not so much the declaration that you don't date—he could have guessed that himself—but more so the way you've just called yourself broken.

It's not a word he's ever heard you use before.

"What do you mean, broken?" He asks, the question coming out far more blunt than he probably intended.

It just seems so out of character for you—you've always been an optimist, far too annoyingly positive to speak of anything this way. He blinks when you freeze, and blinks again when a moment of self consciousness seems to pass over your face—and he notes how that's a first for you, too.

"Broken...as in, uh, not normal," your eyes flit down to your lap, tracing the wood beneath where you're seated on the floor in his dorm. "My ex made that very clear in his assessment of me."

The mention of an ex is something he'd been anticipating—you're in your twenties, after all—but it's the idea that your ex is the source of you calling yourself broken, that he can't quite swallow.

"You're 'broken' because of one ex?" He says, and he can't stop how derisive and skeptical his voice sounds. He doesn't care to try. "I'm not following."

"I'm what you'd call, damaged goods, I think," you murmur, and there's an almost self-deprecating smirk on your face. He can't help but think how he's never seen that look on you, either. "I've got a slew of unhealthy baggage that comes along with me. You know, childhood traumas, abandonment issues, daddy issues—"

He snorts at that—daddy issues—and your head snaps up, smirk deepening despite yourself.

"Don't snort at my daddy issues," you huff, and there's a familiar annoyance in your voice that puts him at ease. "They're valid and real."

"I'm not denying their validity," he counters, his own smirk beginning to surface. "But daddy issues? Come on. You're not some tired cliché ripped out of a teenage romance novel. I refuse to accept your declaration of brokenness until you give me factual reasoning."

You laugh at that—alive and genuine—and for a moment, he's reminded of why he even tolerates you in his space at all.

"Fine," you cross your arms over your chest. "What do you want to know then?"

He makes a low, contemplative sound at that—because there's a million questions that come to mind with the words damaged goods—and after a moment, he settles on the one that falls out first.

"What is it, precisely, that makes you broken?"

You sigh, a bit theatrically—he knows you're just putting on a show and he wants to laugh at you for it—but he reigns that in, for now, while you figure out how you're going to respond to that.

The truth is, you don't know how to tell him the real reason you're broken—the part that has nothing to do with the laundry list of emotional baggage you could rattle off with ease. It's something...different.

Something more physical.

"I don't know, okay?" You're getting defensive. You're not sure why but you are. "Just—forget I said anything. We have this assignment to—"

"You dodging the question tells me it's more than just psychological," he cuts you off, leaning back into the couch. The way he's looking at you makes it clear—there's no way he's letting this go. "You getting defensive tells me you're embarrassed by it."

You sigh again, leaning back on your palms to mirror his body language, though it doesn't feel half as natural on you as it does on him.

"And you, being an insufferable arse, is telling me I never should have mentioned it in the first place."

His smirk at that makes you want to glare at him.

"Stop dodging," he says. "You brought it up. You don't get to take it back."

It's a challenge—the gleam in his eyes is practically screaming so. You're not sure why the sight of it makes something low in your stomach clench, and you're even less sure of why you want to tell him something like this—something you haven't told anyone else—not friends, certainly not family.

Whatever the reasoning, you can feel yourself relent.

"Maybe," you pause, the look on his face makes you second guess yourself. "...maybe I don't want to tell you because I'm afraid you'll look at me differently." You glance down at your lap, fingers twitching against the yellow pleats of your skirt before finally meeting his eyes again. "And I kind of like the way you look at me now."

Something like curiosity passes over his expression at that—but it's quickly hidden by the type of skepticism that tells you he still doesn't believe you're being serious.

"You're overthinking it," he replies, unmoving. "Whatever it is you think you're going to tell me, I'm not going to look at you differently. You're still you—no filter, unabashedly verbal—"

"Too verbal. Too positive, too loud," you finish his sentence for him—because you know that's how he thinks of you. "Too annoyingly optimistic. Far too hufflepuff for your cold snake skin. I know."

"Exactly," he says, tongue running over his bottom lip in attempt to quell his smirk. "So I reiterate. There's nothing you could tell me that would change that."

"Fine," you relent, giving in begrudgingly because you know there's no other option. "But don't say I didn't warn you."

He just lifts a hand at that, as if to say; whatever you think it is, I can handle it. The action makes you suck a breath into your lungs, trapping it there.

"You're right," you say after a long exhale. "I have a slew of psychological bullshit that would take the span of a year for me to fully go over in one sitting—but, I'm fine with it. That's...that's not the thing that made me call myself broken."

He says nothing, just makes a motion with his eyes for you to keep going.

"It's, uhm...physical." You whisper, and your brain is moving too much and too fast and you're not even completely sure how to say it without sounding insane. "And...I don't know, I just...I can't orgasm. No matter what. I just can't—it's frustrating and embarrassing and it's the reason my ex ended things."

There's a silence that follows, and he knows if it were anyone else, they'd probably find a way to comfort you. Reassure you. Tom, however, isn't anyone else—

"You're joking," he says, and his tone is incredulous again.

A self-depreciating laugh leaves your lips involuntarily, the sound of it making you almost want to cringe.

"Would it be less embarrassing if I was?"

He's still just watching you, dissecting your words as if waiting for you to crack a smile and confess this was all some stupid joke—and the vulnerability of it aches like a stab to the gut.

"This is the reason you think you're broken?" Is what he goes with when he finally realizes you're being serious. "Because you haven’t orgasmed?"

The bluntness of it makes you flush, makes you wish you could sink into the floor. "I know it's not normal, okay—"

"It's not an abnormality, either," he asserts, with casualty. "You might just have a disconnect."

You blink, caught off guard—not just by his choice of words, but by how matter-of-fact he sounds, like this isn't the mortifying confession it feels like.

"A disconnect?"

"A disconnect," he repeats, looking you over, something clinical slipping into his eyes. "Between mind and body. And considering how loud your thoughts are—"

"Hey—" you snap, suddenly feeling a bit indignant, but he just continues on.

"—it's not surprising that you can't get out of your own head."

You open your mouth to argue, to tell him he's not a therapist, so what the hell does he know? But the certainty in his expression makes you pause. He doesn't look patronizing or condescending, just...assured. Like he knows exactly what he's talking about.

You hesitate, lips parting, a protest forming on your tongue. Before you can say anything, though, he raises a hand to stop you.

"Come here," he says, standing up from the couch.

You blink, trying to decipher what the hell he's implying—because if anything, the last thing that's going to make you less paranoid about intimacy is proximity.

"What?"

He just looks at you, making a motion with two fingers, beckoning you to stand.

"Don't ask questions. Just come here."

It's an order, and it makes your spine tingle in a way that's definitely not comfortable—but you get up from the floor, and move closer to him anyway, closing the distance between you with only a few steps until you're close enough to him that you can practically feel the heat that seems to come off him in waves.

It's weird—he's suddenly too much all at once—you're so much more aware of him being in front of you than you think you've ever been before and it does not help that he's just looking at you—as if studying you—blinking only once as he raises those same two fingers to your neck, resting them against the pulse point at your throat.

Your entire body tenses. His touch is far more gentle than you ever imagined it being, something disarming that makes your pulse beat faster against his fingers as a result—and because this is Tom, with all his smug and certainty—he gives you a look that tells you he can feel it before he slides his fingers up to rest on your forehead.

You scowl at the motion, but he clicks his tongue, the sound as condescending as it is amused.

"I told you, you're an overthinker." He murmurs, eyes dipping to your lips. "Too much noise."

You want to refute that—mostly because you're not overthinking, you can't be—he's just so unequivocally overwhelming—

"I'm not—"

You start, but he moves his fingers from your forehead and places them against your lips—

"Quiet." He scolds, and that makes something low in your stomach clench. "Your body knows what to do. You're just letting your thoughts get in the way."

You long to protest again, just for the sake of defiance—but then his fingers are against your collarbone, and that motion in your stomach becomes a bit more of a squirm—

"Your body is trying to tell you something," he whispers, watching each little hitch in your breath. "But you're too busy talking over it to hear what it's saying."

You realize—with a sort of horror that's laced with something a little more uncomfortable—that he's right. Your body is trying to say something. It's communicating through the unsteady force of your breaths, through the clench of your fists against your skirt—

Of course, he notices. He's noticing far too much.

"Relax," he murmurs, and now he's trailing those same two fingers in an unhurried path down your shoulder. You suddenly regret every decision that led to you wearing a T-shirt. "I'm not going to bite you."

Something about the way he says it makes you wish he wasn't quite so convincing—the familiar banter you long for gone with the sharp exhale that comes out of your mouth as his fingers encircle your wrist—

"Your pulse is racing," he says casually, far too casually for how much effort it's taking you not to scream. "Does that seem broken to you?"

Gods—you want to respond—you really, really do— but your thoughts flatline when you realize his touch has shifted. He's no longer just holding your wrist; he's guiding your hands to rest against his chest, and—

"There you go," he whispers, and the tone of it tells you he knows exactly what it is he's doing to you. "See? Your body's doing exactly what it's meant to do. You—" his fingers trail up your arms, and his voice gets lower. "—are not broken."

You swallow hard, acutely aware of your hands on his chest and the way your palms are clammy against the fabric of his shirt. He's shifting you now, deliberately crowding you, and it's only when you feel the edge of the couch press against the back of your calves that you realize—perhaps a second too late—exactly what it is he's doing.

You stumble back onto the leather, and he follows—crushing his lips to yours.

You gasp, startled, because despite everything you truly hadn't seen this coming. The kiss is messy, clumsy, and his hand finds the nape of your neck, tugging at your hair with just enough force to make it sting. And inevitably, when you gasp again, he takes it as an invitation to work his tongue into your mouth, other hand slipping under your shirt—trailing up your stomach.

You're trembling now, and he makes a low sound at the realization. Your brain is racing to catch up, and the irony of this isn't lost on you—he'd just claimed you weren't broken, but he might as well be destroying you himself.

He parts from your lips only to trail his own across your jaw—

"You're shaking," he murmurs with a smirk against your throat—as if he's taking immense pleasure in the fact—you hate how smug it makes him sound. "Do you want me to stop?"

You want to tell him he's being a bastard, but then his lips press to that spot on your neck—the one that makes your breath hitch and your pulse stutter—and you find yourself whimpering at the sensation.

"No," you breathe, and you'd be embarrassed by the pleading tone in your voice if you weren't so lost in the moment. "Don't stop."

He makes another low, satisfied noise at that.

"Good," he whispers. "No thinking. Just feel."

You swallow—throat dry. It's unfair how easily he's dismantling you with nothing but his mouth and hands. Unfair how he's leaving you breathless and unraveling while somehow making you feel seen in a way you can't explain, even with your eyes shut.

"Tom," you find yourself whimpering, and you aren't even sure what you're asking for—you just know you want more as his lips trail lower—as his fingers work to tug down your skirt. "Gods."

"Shh. Feel me," he murmurs, almost possessively, his lips brushing lower, grazing over your stomach, then your pelvis. "Let your body do the talking."

You've got your hands tangled in his hair before you even know what you're doing, and you hate the fact that you're pretty sure you'd melt into a puddle if he weren't holding you together.

"I feel you," you whimper as he kisses lower. "You're all I feel."

He makes another low sound at that, and you just know it's the response of ‘yeah, that’s right’—but then he's between your legs, panties shifted out of the way, and the first sweep of his tongue against your clit makes all coherent thought shift to static.

"Oh! God," you gasp, the word barely escaping before dissolving into a whimper when he does something with his tongue that makes your vision blur. "Tom—oh, fuck."

He just makes that smug, satisfied noise against you again before his tongue swirls over your clit and you find yourself almost cursing whatever deity made him so good at this, because it's not fair how quickly he reduced you to a whimpering, shaking mess beneath him and—

"Don't stop," you find yourself babbling, digging your nails into his scalp and knowing you look like a goddamn wreck as he makes a meal out of you—tongue lapping up your slick and swirling your clit before sealing his lips around it and forcing your back off the leather beneath it. "Please, don't stop, please—"

It's all you can manage to say. Your thighs are shaking now, and you're sure he's got you dripping all over his face with how soaked you are. He knows you're falling apart and he just keeps going— your brain ceasing function in favour of just focusing on how fucking close you are—how close you are to something you've never felt before in your life—and you're not even sure what you're begging for anymore but it's incoherent and loud—

"I need—" you whimper, your hands tightening in his hair, pulling just enough to make him groan against you. You don't know what you're asking for, but you know he has it. "I need—I need—“

"Let go," he murmurs against you, the roughness in it vibrating up into your belly. "I dare you."

There's still a little bit of you functioning on autopilot, just enough to tell you that when he murmurs those words—vibrations rattling up your cunt and into your chest—you're completely done for.

It’s merely a few seconds later that your high reaches its peak and he just keeps lapping as you shake apart beneath him with an intensity you've never felt before in your life—orgasm shredding you apart at the seams. Your thighs clamp around his face, your eyes squeezed shut, ears ringing so loud you barely register his low, muttered praises: "good girl," "so good," "there you go."

You’re fairly positive your legs will never be able to support you again when you finally come back down, feeling entirely like jelly as he pulls back, tongue flicking over his lips to clean off whatever's left of you.

And without thinking, you grab him and pull him up, crashing your lips against his in a messy, desperate kiss. He tastes like you, like him, like something you can't quite describe—and it makes everything feel intense and unbearably real all at once.

He gives you a moment, as if letting you recover, just languidly kissing you back—and you have to be honest with yourself and admit that this kind of makes you want to scream.

"A disconnect," he smirks against your mouth, the tone still smug. You manage a weak smack to his shoulder, though it does nothing to wipe the satisfaction off his face. "Still sure you're broken?"

You hate that he's right. Hate that he's managed to pull a reaction from you that you didn't think was possible. But as you sit there, shaky and spent, you know you can't deny the truth: no, you're not broken.

"Not broken." You whisper back. "You will be though, if you don't stop smirking at me like that."

[draco-dormiens]

Draco Malfoy Fic Recs I 🐍

New Beginnings by @sapphicwhxre

Not Really Mine by @gobletofweasleys

Draco Malfoy Masterlist by @iliveiloveiwrite

Do You Know? By @omg-imatotalmess

Worthy by @thegryffindorprincess

Possessive by @potterlyimagines

Shake On It  by @avnkin

Wardrobe Malfunction by  @avnkin

It’s Only Quidditch by @adorerdraco

New Me by @fanfics4all

I don’t have a name for this by @delilahsroses

Whole Lot of Red by @adorerdraco

Not My Type (Like You) by @adorerdraco

You by @socontagiousimagines

Im here by @adorerdraco

Two In A Bed by @thegryffindorprincess

Being Draco’s Best Friend and Crush Would Include by @mellowsobri

Not What It Seems by @avnkin

SHE by @ginnyweasely

Skin  by @mirclealignr

Ravishing by @afeb

saccharine sunshine. By @thepuffyeyedpuff

looking at the moon, but seeing you by @rekrappeter

you don’t love me the way you love her by @theshiningg

Bored  by @malfoysstilinski

Draco Malfoy Oneshots Masterlist by  @Sapphicwhxre 

Draco Malfoy Masterlist by  @iliveiloveiwrite

Ravenwood by @will-on-the-internet

I Am Home by @afeb

dating draco malfoy would include… by @reidsmalfoy

Demanding Little Thing by @nebulablakemurphy

Potent by @baby-blossoms

sweatshirt by @badfvith

Distractions and O.W.L.S by @adorerdraco

Not Funny by @pufflyhallows

Not Funny by @somenewsarah

My Moon by @afeb

Dating Draco Malfoy would include.. By @essenceoflumos

engraved  by @dracowars

Kiss It Better by @fandomsfeelsandfanfics

sweet mornings  by @scvrllet

Stargazing by @scvrllet

in her debt by @mirclealignr

Bad Faith  by @nebulablakemurphy

Betrothed by @somenewsarah

Close by @dracoscene

Connections by @randomoutsiders

YOU AND ME  by @dracoscene

back off  by @scvrllet

Spoiled  by @wondernimbus

four a.m by @malfoysstilinski

two sworn enemies by @wondernimbus

Yours and Mine; by @occlumencyneville

Healing Heart by @adorerdraco

the greatest seducer by @youralwaysandforever

Beautiful Ghosts by @missdawnandherdusk

Scars by @fuckingjimin

The Basilisk by @coffee-imagines

My Son by @miamlfy

Masterlist  by @socontagiousimagines

Happy Memories; by @occlumencyneville

Something There by @wizardwritings

Protective by @daydreaming-away-reality

Amortentia by @elena-reina

everything you didn’t say by @wondernimbus

Breaking point  by @wondernimbus

The bet by @shysneeze

Umbridge; by @occlumencyneville

Battleground by @wondernimbus

another summer morning by @wondernimbus

Rita Skeeter by @drac-ho

Fake kisses by @harrysweasleys

Dating Draco Malfoy Would Include.... By @siriusly-lovely

Drowning  by @wreckofawriter

Maybe  by @wondernimbus

Words hurt  by @elena-reina

[draco-dormiens]

maybe i was born to read fanfic and obsess over fictional men idk

[draco-dormiens]

Masterpost

 DRACO MALFOY x Y/L• ENEMIES-TO-LOVERS• •POSSESSIVE!Draco • RIVALS•SLOW BURN•Fluffy•angsty•

"What do you think you are doing?" You whispered against his lips. "Giving them a show" You would have believed him had his heart not have been beating this wildly under your palms. His chapped lips pressed gently against yours. You felt his hands cup your face tenderly, and you let the world melt away.

•Chapter 1

•Chapter 2

•Chapter 3

•Chapter 4

•Chapter 5

•Chapter 6

•Chapter 7

[draco-dormiens]

FOR ALL THAT IS RIGHT AND JUST - Chp. 2

auror!draco x auror!fem!slytherin reader / post-war au

warnings: mild violence, draco is an insufferable flirt, mutual pining, drama!!

wc: 2762

tags: @yeolsbubbles @send-me-styles @shinytalent @malfoylover4l @satorulevi

tag list open!!

masterlist

Suspicious Wizard on the Hogwarts Express

Draco made sure to meet you outside of your apartment complex that morning. As much as his sarcastic and humorous nature shone through, he was also a very worrisome person, especially when it came to those close to him. Within his circle of remaining friends, it was safe to say that you were the most precious and cherished one of them all.

Many years ago, as you grew up in the countryside of England, you had met Draco Malfoy for the very first time. Perhaps four or five years old, hiding behind your mother's skirt as the Malfoy family graciously welcomed you to their home one New Years Eve. Draco's mother, Narcissa, was one of the most elegant women you had ever seen, and you remember thinking how she looked like a lady from your fairy-tale books. She knelt down to your level and introduced herself, little Draco holding on to her hand, as she kindly asked your name.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," she said softly, "this is my son, Draco. What's your name, dear?"

From that moment on, it was as if you had known Draco in a past life. The two of you, along with children from other pureblood families, played in the ginormous garden that backed onto the magnificent Malfoy manor, and hours were lost hiding in the hedges from one another and running, screaming and laughing until the sky went dark. You would sleep in his four poster bed with silky green bed sheets and throws knitted in the Slytherin house colours, attend birthday parties, Christmas parties, and all matter of occasions at Draco's home. Life was a bottled dream of endless fun and contentment, and the first five years of school were just as momentous.

It wasn't until your third year that you started seeing Draco a little differently. When he'd returned from his family holiday and met you on the train platform, a new feeling erupted in your body and took the words right out of your mouth. You distinctly remember how long you embarrassingly stared at him, upon realising that the little boy you once knew was growing into a fine young man. His hair was different; not long and slicked back, but framing his face in the most wonderful way. He was taller, his body more refined from Quidditch, and his facial features had matured. In fact, he wasn't Draco at all - he was a handsome boy you'd just met for the first time in your life. He laughed at your gawking expression, before playfully pushing your shoulder and saying, "You'll catch flies, Y/L/N," before embracing you in a bone crushing hug. And it was in that moment, when he hugged your body against his, that you knew the feeling blossoming in your chest was different.

Unbeknownst to you, however, Draco was having just as hard a time absorbing the look of your maturing self. Your uniform fit different now, and your hair was silky and neatly presented. As you were growing up, certain elements of adolescence were kicking in, and Draco was starting to forget the little girl that would cry when she scraped her knee and ran around after him claiming he was far too fast to keep up with. Now, he was seeing a young woman, and realising how undeniably pretty his best friend truly was. In fact, he thought you were simply divine.

And he still does - to this very day.

"Ah, there she is," he announces, as you appear from the entrance to your building, rolling your eyes as he dramatically holds his arms out towards you, "the most wonderful woman in the world. Do me the honours of a hug, would you, ma'am?"

You oblige him, of course, still completely oblivious that his sarcasm was in fact his honest truth. He seemed more relaxed than yesterday in Harry's office, but you knew it was his most trained ability to bury his emotions. It was a sad reality, really. The two of you had cared for one another in a way that surpassed friendship for so long and yet, here you still were, hugging as friends. The fear of losing what you had built throughout your lives together; the friendship, the bond, the trust  - it was terrifying to think it could all be lost at sea if you pursued those bottled feelings, just to end up severing the golden ties that had kept you together for so long. The unknown of it had kept you the same all these years, trying to feel that fire with other people and getting a cold, frosty breeze instead.

"Draco, you're squishing me." You mumble into his shoulder, and he lets go, smiling down at you with a toothy grin, "we have to do our best today," you then tell him seriously, "going back will be... hard, but we have an important job. Harry is depending on us."

"Do you have no faith in me?" he holds a hand over his chest, looking completely devastated and ignoring how you were trying to make him feel more at ease with returning, "how could you say such a thing, to your best friend? Honestly, I like to think myself rather serious."

"You know that's not what I mean," you then say, slightly softer, and he swallows thickly, the sarcastic look he was so well known for wiping from his face immediately.

"Let's not start with that," he then smiles, as if he pressed a switch and his steely exterior was back in place of his much more vulnerable one, "Potter's depending on us, like you said, right?"

Platform 9 3/4 was practically teeming with people. Students you had known as teenagers now fully grown adults, some even with families and children, all arriving to take part in the memorial that afternoon. Professors from past years and even representatives from other wizarding schools were all waiting to board the train to Hogwarts. Being back there after so many years felt very foreign. So many memories, good and bad, were shared on that train. Tears were shed and smiles were shared on the platform where you stood. You feel Draco's hand on your waist as he leaned in to whisper something.

"Don't be alarmed," he said lowly, "but I've already seen someone I'm not too keen on."

"Where?" you ask quietly, and Draco tells you to look towards a man dressed in a tweed suit, smoking a pipe as he leans against far wall. By his feet is a briefcase, in his hands the Daily Prophet. The front cover had large letters that read: Memorial at Hogwarts: Ten Years On. "What's raised your suspicion, Malfoy?"

Draco begins to walk you along the platform, hand still on your waist. "First," he begins, "he's alone. Do you see anyone else standing by themselves? He's deliberately standing out of the way, covering most of his face with that paper. Second, he has a briefcase. What would he need that for? Staying for a few nights at Hotel Hogwarts? Don't think so." He stops you both at the entrance to one of the carriages, "and lastly, I just don't care for his demeanor. Something feels off about the way he's watching everyone. It's like he's looking for someone in particular."

Sometimes Draco reminds you why his talents as a Auror were renowned. Thanks to his family's name, much like your own, the war had affected him in ways others couldn't comprehend. It was his chance to make a difference and break out of the mold that his family had set him in, and his success is proof that he's not the cowardly accomplice everyone once thought he was. You admire him for a moment, in awe of his observation skills. When his eyes meet yours again, he gives you a lopsided smile. "Like what you see?"

A furious heat spreads over your cheeks as you pull your eyes from him. You can feel the way he's looking at you in such a smug way, knowing full well how much of a kick he gets out of casually flirting with you. You push his hand from your waist.

"Shut up," you snap lightly, "None of your... jokes, Draco. If you feel strongly about what you said then we should keep an eye on him. Watch what carriage he gets into."

The whistle on the Hogwarts Express bellows throughout the station, signalling its passengers to get on board. Carriage doors open, and people begin piling on. Both you and Draco hang back slightly, taking a mental note of where the suspicious man enters the train, and follow the crowd that he boards with. As he takes his seat at the farthest end of the carriage, Draco leads you to a seat just behind him, but with enough of a view to keep a watchful eye. You both sit, eyes flickering to the man every so often. You notice how no one interacts with him, as if not a soul on that train knew him. He opens up the paper once more, and stays on the same page for a curious amount of time. With so many people around, it was hard to communicate with Draco to see what he was thinking, but with one wink in your direction, you knew he was on the same page.

"Can't remember it taking this long," Draco says in your ear after some time chugging along the English countryside, "how did we pass the time back then?"

"I remember playing eye spy with Daph and Pans," you smile at the memory, "you, Blaise and Theo just talked about girls mostly. Or sometimes the next Quidditch season."

"Blaise and Theo had way more ladies than me," Draco then defends himself, and you look across at him, head resting against the seat and another one of those smirks on his face, "I can't even remember dating anyone back then."

"I thought you had a thing with Pansy at one point?" You laughed quietly, and he grimaced.

"That was... yeah. Not fond of that memory." Draco shakes his head and scrunches up his nose. You giggle that sweet sound he's always been so fond of, "anyway, what about you? Remember Marcus Flint? He had a huge thing for you."

"Flint?" you exclaim softly, "oh Merlin, Dray. I can't get into that."

He adored when you called him that. A little piece of your school years that never left. It may have only been a nickname, but it was said with such warmth that he'd long to hear it. Even now, he cherishes the moments it falls from your lips. Then a rather sickly feeling starts to swirl in his stomach, remembering that recently, you'd gone out on a date with a guy called Eddie Carmichael. Eddie was a Ravenclaw in the year above you. It was a shock to hear from him after such a long while, but he had recently visited the Auror office regarding some miscalculations in his business he couldn't quite explain, and his case was assigned to you.

Three dates later and he was ready to be serious - unfortunately for him, that was never on your agenda. He was nice, and would surely treat someone right one day, but that someone just wasn't you. Eddie tried to owl a few times since, but had given up not too long ago. Draco, after eyeing the man you were watching and noticing he hadn't move a muscle, had the sudden urge to ask you about it. He didn't usually pry on your dating life. After all, he'd rather not know.

"So, Carmichael," he says, his usual confident tone masking any sincerity, "are you a thing?"

"I haven't seen him in a month," you say dismissively, wanting to talk about anything other than this topic of conversation, "he was nice and all. Just wouldn't work out."

Draco nods, and then a thick silence falls over the both of you. It was awkward for a moment, as it normally was when either of your romantic escapades were mentioned. Then you decide to give him a taste of his own medicine.

"Anyway, I heard you took a Hufflepuff out," you say as casually as possible, "take it she was just for the night, then?"

Draco laughs and runs a hand through his hair, worried that you might hear how hard his heart was thundering against his ribcage. His romantic life was anything but that; mostly made up of one night stands and unanswered letters, and he hated that you knew that. It wasn't his proudest trait, but he just hadn't found anyone to settle with.

His mind was always everywhere but the person in front of him.

"She was alright," he clears his throat and looks out the window at the passing fields, "not much to talk about. She's much better off dating someone else."

You decide not to say anymore, already regretting the decision to ask. The conversation was quickly forgotten however, when the castle appeared over the brow of a hill, basking in the sunlight of the Scottish highlands, as majestic as ever. People in the carriage began to point and comment on its beauty, as the man who you were watching began to get up. You nudge Draco hard, and his attention snaps to the man now walking down the aisle of the carriage. The two of you rise, the commotion about the castle acting as a smoke shield to your movements, and follow him, at a distance, through your carriage and into the next. You both take a seat at the back of the next carriage, in case he turns to see you behind him. As he walks, he appears to drop a small piece of paper on the ground. You look at it suspiciously, and before you can say anything, it bursts open with a thick, black cloud of smoke that begins to fill up the carriage to the ceiling. The passengers begin to panic, confused voices and parents desperately calming their children. Draco grabs your wrist, as to let you know he's still there. Feeling your way through the smoke, you eventually end up at the door to the next carriage. Draco's hand is still around your wrist, and you feel him pull you into his chest as he leans over and opens the carriage door. The smoke begins filtering out, and as it does, you notice the man from before, desperately trying to detach the carriage connection.

"Oh no you don't." You shout, and kick your heel into his hands. The man retracts with a wailed cry, and looks up at you with disgust in his face. Draco grabs his wand as the man draws his own. You tell the passengers to get back into their seats, as a spark of red spurts out the end of the man's wand. Draco deflects it expertly, but the man wasn't finished. He opens his mouth, raising his wand in the air as the forbidden words begin to leave his lips.

"Avada-"

With the wind whistling through the carriage, the train flying along the track at break-neck speed, passengers screaming, Draco decides to resort to the old fashioned way of doing things before the man can finish the curse. He grabs the man by the collar and drags him back into the carriage, all the while the speed of the train causing his white-knuckle grip to loosen against the side of the carriage. As soon as the man hits the floor with a thud, you point your wand and yell; "Petrificus Totalus!" The man freezes, Draco slams the door shut, and for a moment, an ear piercing silence falls over the carriage. You look up at Draco, his chest heaving, leaning against the door with his hand in his hair.

"Who is that man?" a woman asks, clutching her child to her side, "how did he get on here?"

"Don't worry, ma'am, we're from the Ministry," you take your badge out of your pocket and relief floods her face, "I can't answer any questions yet, but I can promise that you are safe with us."

Draco lifts himself off the door and wanders over to stand above the frozen man on the floor. He plucks the wand from the man's hand and inspects it before shoving it into his pocket. He then takes the newspaper sticking out of his briefcase, and kicks the briefcase along to you. You stop it just under your foot. He then reminds you why it's best to be on his good side, as he flashes the nastiest, tethering on evil smile you've ever seen at the culprit.

"Thanks old chap," he says in a condescending tone, "hope you haven't done the crossword."

disclaimer: i do not own harry potter or any of the characters or storyline associated with it

[draco-dormiens]

Hello!

I finished reading your draco x ravenclaw reader series earlier and oh my god I HAVE SO MUCH TO SAY.

first of all I need to kiss your hands for how beautifully you wrote that, every word had me sooo captivated genuinely!

From the start I was so hooked on every chapter and also you have written draco so well, most of the draco fics I read [there are barely any good ones I can find honestly...], they don't characterise draco very well, they will show him too rude or make him turn insanely sweet all of sudden which isn't true to his character at all cause god he has such a complex personality, and YOU WROTE HIM SO WELL!!!

The way you showed him rude at first to him warming up, to him finding a friend in reader to him yearning to be around her and every little step you took towards him loving the reader GOD it was just perfect.

I am so happy I got to read such a good work by you and I am so so excited to read other of your works too!

Thank you for writing this and letting us enjoy your writing, I wish you the best in everything you do <3

Love ya!

hello!!

thank you so much for taking the time to send this! I love reading your thoughts :) I’m so glad you enjoyed tsop, I had such a good time writing it. my favourite enemies/friends/lovers I’ve ever written :)

and I know exactly what you mean about Draco, he’s a rather complex individual and in my opinion, his personality is rather diverse and interesting. so I enjoy trying to portray that through my writing.

I hope you stick around to read my newest fic :) thank you so much once again ♡

[draco-dormiens]

😆☝

[draco-dormiens]

this… this is so unbelievably kind, and it’s truly made my day to read it!!

thank YOU so much for reading, honestly it’s comments like this that make putting out my work so worth while. it’s a pleasure to share my writing with people like you ♡

THE STRANGEST OF PLACES MASTERLIST

draco x fem!ravenclaw reader / postwar au series

“We start to find comfort in the strangest of places.”

The war has ended, and life is getting back to normal, or least supposed to be. For returning half-blood Ravenclaw Y/N Y/L/N, her only focus is to finally have a year without fear and uncertainty, until professor Slughorn asks her the question the rest of the room is dreading: “I trust you will be Mr Malfoy’s partner?”

Draco Malfoy returns to Hogwarts the same as any other past seventh year student. He wants to complete his education and ensure himself a good future, one better than his previous years, but there is one slight problem: he’s Draco Malfoy. For his family’s involvement in the war, Draco attends school feeling alienated and resented, spending most of his time alone and suffering his guilt in silence. When Y/N starts coming over to the manor, they begin a rocky work relationship, and often argue

After a small but grand gesture, they decided to become friends. Neither of them realise, however, it was about to get a whole lot more complicated than that.

Keep reading

[draco-dormiens]

FOR ALL THAT IS RIGHT AND JUST - Flashback

auror!draco x auror!fem!slytherin reader / post-war au

warnings: strong language, angst, implied mental struggles, negative self deprecation, alcohol use, mild descriptions of wounds

wc: 2162

tags: @yeolsbubbles @send-me-styles @shinytalent @malfoylover4l

tag list open!!

masterlist

Draco's Story

Late July, 1998

"I've decided, Dray." Your voice is soft but laced with determination. He sits beside you, on the roof of his parents mansion, the window to his room just below your dangling feet, a cool night breeze licking his skin as the July heat still lingers in the air. "I'm going to become an Auror. After everything I've seen, after uncle Travers..." you pause for a long moment, staring up into the dark navy sky, dotted with glimmering white specs where, thousands and thousands of lightyears away, stars burn; big, bright, dazzling orbs, "I can't let it happen again. I can't allow other children to go through what we have, what you have. Even if it just a small change, I want to help make it."

He's silent for while. The bottle of Fire Whiskey you'd both been sipping on rests just between his knees. Bringing it to his lips, he takes a long drink before setting it back down. There are bruises on his knuckles, cuts on his arms, a nice gash to his forehead from where he'd managed to make contact with the floor outside of the Room of Requirement. If not for the boy he'd spent the last seven years envying with a seething jealousy, he would no doubt be dead. He owed Harry and his friends his life, and that, although a cold hard fact, did not settle well in the young Malfoy's stomach. He was bitter, scarred, and lost. Where did he go from here? All he had come to know, everything his parents had made him believe, was nothing but blind faith and complete ignorance.

Once a bully, preying on the weak and snarling insults at those he deemed lesser. Once a boy of great talent and expectations. Once the seeker for his house. Then a Death Eater, a coward and no better than those who tore the school to pieces.

He was no better, and he was no one. Not anymore; but he feels now, despite his prejudice over the years, that he wasn't really anyone to begin with. When the mark, that now is nothing but an ugly scar on his milky skin, was first placed upon his arm, he really had believed he was to be granted power and protection. All he had to do to bring his family glory was follow instructions. He thought he wanted this. He thought he was doing his parents proud. When he realised his misjudgment, it was far too late to change his mind.

Draco tried to murder. He tried to - but as much as he told himself it was his duty, the small flicker of who he really wanted to be started to burn a little brighter, a little hotter, until he smothered the flame and hexed Katie Bell and cast an unforgivable curse on Madame Rosmerta. Until he was face to face with his one mission, just to fail at the very last second and become the laughing stock of a group of rotten-minded wizards.

He can still hear you - sometimes in his sleep, sometimes when he wakes in the night.

"Please, just tell me what's wrong, Dray." You cried in the hallway that night, his wand tight in his grip. The sound of a happy, joyful Slug Club Christmas party was well underway further down the corridor. You, in your stunning emerald dress and diamond earrings he had gifted you the other year for your birthday, had begged him to confide in you multiple times. Daphne had written him off, Blaise and Theo told you he had changed and wasn't coming back. Pansy had a small amount of faith left, but it was fading quickly. Your sixth year was already turning out to be a monstrosity, and now the boy you would have called your very best friend had changed; he wasn't Draco anymore, he was colder, more bitter and worryingly paler. Albeit, his personality wasn't the warmest nore the most endearing to begin with, but since your childhood he had been a constant in your life.

And now he was anything but that.

"I've already told you," he says, lifeless and empty, "I don't want you getting caught up in anything. Just go back to the party, alright?"

"Why are you shutting me out?" You almost whimper, and the white knuckle grip on his wand only gets tighter, threatening to snap the wood in half. He hates this. He hates it.

But he must do it. To protect what he cares for.

"Please," he mutters helplessly, turning his head slightly to look over his shoulder at you. He fears if he looks at you fully, he might crumble into a million little pieces, "I'm trying to protect you. Let me at least do that. Please. Go back inside."

"Draco?" Your voices brings him out of his daze, his eyes landing on yours. A kindness had dwelled within them since you were children; a kindness that, even after all he's done, still shines through and touches his skin like warm sun. He stares back for a long while, not fully understanding why you still came to visit him. More than two months since the war ended, since his family faced trial after trial and escaped with their dignity hanging by a mere thread. He hadn't heard from the others; Blaise, Pansy, Goyle. Not that he particularly cared. It appeared they would have rather saved what reputation they had left than mingle with fellow betrayers like himself.

He can't say he blames them.

"Are you okay?" you ask him, brushing some of his white-blond hair from his face, "you can talk to me, you know. I'm here for you."

"Why?" he simply asks, and you almost look surprised at the question.

"Because you're still you, Dray," you whisper, a ghost of a smile at your lips, "many things have happened. I know now why you couldn't talk to me about... well, everything. But you can now, and I'm here to listen. Please, don't try and battle this on your own."

The warm summer air ruffles the hair around your familiar, comforting face. He thinks that someone up there might not think so bad of him, to keep you coming back even when he's troubled you more than anyone else. A slight smile cracks on his face, something you hadn't seen in many, many months. The sight of it almost brought you to tears.

"You know," he says quietly, "I'd have kicked my sorry ass to the curb if I were you. I haven't exactly been kind to you; or anyone, over the last few months. I've done some really fucked up shit. Yet, here you are, drinking my Dad's Fire Whiskey on the roof with me." He shuffles a little closer to you and wraps an arm around your shoulders, as you willingly accept his embrace, cuddling into his warm and familiar body. You liked to believe he was still in there, the real Draco. The one that sometimes, unknowingly, allowed you to see little glimpses into his life. He's a collector of sorts; not like his father, but in a more sentimental and valuable way. Many a time have you caught him putting a rather nice looking pebble in his pocket, thinking no one had seen him take a shine to such a trivial thing. He enjoys the piano, and although he never plays for anyone, you had caught him mid song one summer during a visit to his home. You can still hear him scold you for sneaking up on him and making you swear not to tell anyone. He reads - not your typical story books or novels, but educational books about Astrology and Alchemy. Sometimes, when you had met in the library, he'd been so invested in a book, his eyebrows pierced together and a look of pure concentration on his face, that he hadn't noticed you standing beside him until you nudged him slightly. Another scolding, but something about the way he grumbled that he was 'just passing the time because you took so long' had you convinced there was no malice in it whatsoever.

Draco never had a heart of gold. He was never a shining example of friendship, or the best at expressing his feelings, or had the best attitude towards things he found unbefitting of him. Throughout the years you had argued about his mean streak, about his nature towards certain students, but as if joined at the hip, you had remained close, and his brashness was ever so slightly tamer with you. His words weren't as sharp, or as jarring, and he often made a point of saying 'if you go, I will' or 'as long as you think so.' Despite his blooming admiration for you, he still remained a little hesitant to treat you completely different.

And he was still in there. You were sure of it. He was in there - the Draco you had come to love.

"I wouldn't be a very good friend if I did that, would I?" you say lightheartedly, and you feel him squeeze you a little tighter, "you will get passed this Draco. You will heal; inside and out, and you will go out into the world and make a good name for yourself. You will make yourself proud - it doesn't matter about anyone else. Just do what's right for you."

He ponders for a moment, stroking your hair gently, calming himself as he leans his chin on the top of your head. The world made no sense; his place in it seemed none existent, but as if a small glimmer of hope had pierced his heart, he starts imagining the future.

"Do you think they'd have me?" He then asks you, and you pull back slightly to look up at him.

"Who?" You say.

"The Aurors," he then responds, matter of fact, "do you think they'd... accept someone like me."

"You want to be an Auror?" You say excitedly, and his heart, for the first time in a very long time, begins to feel lighter at the look on your face. All this time and you're still the prettiest girl he'd ever laid his eyes on. He shrugs and looks away.

"I dunno, I was just thinking out loud," he said, fingers still playing with the ends of your hair. Then he laughs, a shallow and bitter laugh, "like they'd want me. Imagine me showing up to help someone - they'd asked for someone else. It'd be fucking joke."

"It might not be," you say in all seriousness, "why does it have to be like that? As much as you may think things are set in stone, they are not, Draco. You decide how the future goes. You decide what happens from now on. If it starts that way then change their minds. Your past does not define you. It's what you do, how you learn, that does."

"Sure you don't want to be a therapist or something?" He jokes lightly, and you giggle. Draco truly believes that something holy keeps you around a mess like him. Once Voldemort's threat was over, you were the first person at his door. The first and only person to check on him. A ray of light in the deep, dark hole he was falling into.

"I've made up my mind," your giggle comes to a holt, and you look at him with a sheer determination sparkling in your eyes, "it's time for you to do the same, Dray."

The reception he received was nothing short of foul. Minister Shacklebolt treated him the same as any other new recruit, but his fellow Auror's did not feel so welcoming. He mainly stuck by you throughout the training phase, and kept his distance from Potter and Weasley. There were whispers, odd looks and uneasy feelings, but with your guidance, he found himself at the Ministry. After the first year, he had become accustomed to people's shock once they saw him, and even more so from how tolerable he can be when he wanted. Sometimes he even made little jokes about it, and your heart soared at the difference in him. The higher ups soon discovered his talents and willingness, and his career, much like your own, began to blossom.

So, when you barge into Potter's office ten years later, raging about the travesty in the foyer, he thanks Merlin, Salazar and anyone who'll listen when you grace him with that same presence he finds himself missing like a limb when you're not around. An Auror in his own right, a gifted and talented wizard who's knowledge in Occlumency had boded well in his profession, a better man, but still the same whiny, mischievous Malfoy he's always been. He may be a dashingly handsome young man, but his childish ways, short temper and bad attitude never quite left him - and yet he's your heart and solace all the same.

Harry may have saved his life, but without a shadow of a doubt, you saved his soul.

disclaimer: i do not own harry potter or any of the characters or storyline associated with it

[draco-dormiens]

They are waiting for someone

[draco-dormiens]

FOR ALL THAT IS RIGHT AND JUST - Chp. 1

auror!draco x auror!fem!slytherin reader / post-war au

a/n: sorry about my inconsistent ass. i'm hoping you enjoy this first chapter after i changed it a little, makes better sense for the story to come. sit back and relax cos this is nearly 4000 words bby ♡

warnings: talk of the war, people missing/kidnapping, strong language, mutual pining

wc: 3984

tags: @yeolsbubbles @send-me-styles @shinytalent

tag list open!!

masterlist

Ministry Mayhem

London, 1st May 2007

In the early hours of Tuesday morning, as the sun rose and began to cast it's orangey glow through the gaps in the bedroom curtains, the first ring of an alarm blared a rather unwelcome sound throughout the quietness of the small London flat that you called home. Sleepily, you peel your eyes open to read the time; 6:15am. With a soft grunt, you reach out to slam the snooze button with all the strength you could muster. A typical day, no less, was awaiting you at the Auror office of the British Ministry of Magic, and it was about to wait a little longer, too.

Besides, it wasn't as if anything was in dire need of solving. For the last ten years, the wizarding world had come to know a peace that had long escaped it. The fear and uncertainty that comes with nasty rumours, shadowy figures and the whispers of war was long over now. Harry Potter had fought and won against the most fearsome Dark Wizard in all of history, and now he was keeping the peace as Head of the Auror Office. Although, it wasn't all that exciting nowadays. The more gripping cases ranged from bewitched broomsticks to Oblivating Muggles in the wrong place at the wrong time. It certainly wasn't taking a whole team of Aurors to clear the workload, with most officers getting fidgety and frustrated. It was as if they wanted something to happen; in your eyes, you'd rather be Oblivating an elderly woman who saw a young boy riding a broomstick over London than some raging lunatic.

The clock blares again. Another tap of the snooze button. For a moment, you thought you'd heard knocking at your window. No, you think, I'm just tired. Five more minutes and I'll get up.

It wasn't your first choice, becoming an Auror. During your school years as a young Slytherin, you were certain it was Ancient Runes that you would pursue. That was long before the brewing storm started to reach its boiling point, clouding up any chance you had of finishing school. The prospect of war had reached civilians, and along with it a great fear of the unknown. It was perilous to venture outside of your home; your parents had been cautious to send you back for sixth year. The rumours were terrible. Frightening, even, especially when it was becoming clearer that most of them were true. Even the ones in your own family. A vivid memory of your father arguing in hushed whispers with your uncle one night over Christmas break, had solidified a fear that had been nagging your parents for a long while.

"You can't," your father said, almost spitting the words as you pressed your ear to the door, "don't go to him. Don't give your life away for something so ludicrous."

Your friends began whispering amongst themselves. Troublesome tales of someone you had known your whole life had started circulating around the school. A hard pill to swallow, but one you had to force down eventually.

"My parents said he's right," Pansy had muttered one night in the common room, the glow of the fire just lighting up her face, "I'm starting to think that following him is the better way to go."

"Have you seen Draco lately? He looks dreadful. His attitude is somehow worse." Daphne whispered, and then gulped, "you don't think... surely not, right? He's only our age."

"Dunno, heard his father was a follower during the first war," Blaise then added, looking around to make sure no one was eavesdropping, "I wouldn't hold your breath. I think he's one of them."

You stir in your sleep as if an unpleasant dream had began to plague your slumber. The clock blares its final warning, and with it, a series of sharp, jarring taps at your window that only grow in volume the longer you lay there. Groggily, you get up, slamming the alarm clock as you make your way to the impatient visitor. As you pull back the curtain, you see a familiar owl perched on the window sill with a letter secured in its beak. You open the window and gently take it from it's grip, and with a mighty swoosh of its wings, it soars off over the city. Ripping open the letter, you hadn't bothered to notice the wax seal of the Auror office, and begin to read:

Get down to the office as soon as you can. Sending this to everyone. It's serious.

From the handwriting you can tell who the sender is. Though still half asleep, you understand the urgency and begin rushing to get dressed. As you button the last hole on your blouse, readying yourself to enter the Ministry through the Floo network, you hear a knock at your door. Grumbling about who it could be and marching across the living room, you swing it open to be met with your, quite literal, partner in crime.

"Draco." You say simply, a smile ghosting your lips. He beams back, his attire as pristine as if he just walked out of the store. His white hair not an inch out of place, his black suit and white button down completely creaseless, and a glimmering Auror badge on his jacket to top it all off. He flashes a pearly white smile, leaning against the door frame with that same old cocky demeanour. Draco appears in some of your earliest memories as a child, and even now in work, he was a significant part of your everyday life. Growing up as children of wealthy pureblood families, it was a regular practice to mingle with those of your kind. Even though his personality was an acquired taste, despite your differing views and childish bickering, he was still both a thorn in your side and a priceless friend.

Friend. For as long as you can remember.

"Morning, take it you got Potters note?" He said, sauntering in to your apartment like it was his own, "reckon he's being a bit dramatic, don't you? Probably just dropped a biscuit in his brew."

"I doubt he'd send an owl all over London for a biscuit, Draco," you call back, hurrying to get the rest of your things together before leaving, "I think something is genuinely wrong, and I'm a little worried if I'm honest. We haven't had anything major in... well, forever."

"You know, if you'd told me in like, fifth year, that one day I'd be clambering out of bed before seven in the morning for Potter, I'd probably have pitched myself off the highest turret." Draco said dramatically, just after accusing Harry of being equally as ridiculous.

"Stop moaning and get in the fireplace," you said as if it were something normal people say on a regular basis, "we need to get down there and find out what's happening."

Draco, still mumbling, clambers into your fireplace and waits for you to squeeze in next to him. Much smaller than his own, he's bent doubly to get in, and ushers you to get the Floo powder before his back gives in. His moaning is only met with a rather stern look from yourself. You take a handful of Floo powder from the little bag sitting on the hearth, and take Draco's hand in yours. With a chant, you fling the powder down at your feet, and with a puff of green smoke, you both disappear, leaving the small flat empty and silent.

In the blink of an eye, you're no longer standing in your living room, but instead in the shiny, emerald tiled entrance to the Ministry. Draco dusts himself down, tutting at the slight specs of soot on his jacket, not noticing how you've become stiff with shock.

"Bloody Floo network," he mumbles to himself, coming to stand beside you, "how are you spotless? It's always me that gets-"

He stops his rambling when his eyes follow your line of vision to see the hoard of people just up ahead, swarming the foyer like ants, an incoherent jumble of noises filling the air from cries to shouts. All extremely well dressed and rather wealthy looking, you both got the impression that these people were not average witches and wizards: they were, in fact, much like yourselves - from old, pureblood money.

"What in Merlin's name is all of this?" You mutter, mostly to yourself, as your feet start to carry you towards the mess, Draco following behind. In the midst of all the chaos, is Delphina Sallow, the lady that usually operates the front desk of the Auror office. Delphina was a tall, slender woman with very dark hair and pale blue eyes, which were a striking contrast to her rather ghostly complexion. A nervous sort of woman, she was struggling immensely in a heated conversation with a man you recognised as Mr Selwyn, whose son was in your year at Hogwarts. Much larger than back then, with his pointer finger jabbing the air furiously, he seems to be, at best, enraged.

"This is a travesty, young lady!" He bellows at Delphina, who has resorted to using her clipboard for protection against the wave of saliva, "my son has been taken, taken I tell you, right from under our noses! Sleeping soundly he was; I can see him sitting there during third supper, not a care in the world, enjoying his fourth lamb chop like the innocent boy he is. I demand justice, young lady, or so help me I'll sue the entire Auror office for all it's bloody well worth."

"P-please, sir, I'm only the receptionist, I-I don't have any authority to help you-"

"No authority?" Mr Selwyn shouts with such force, his large moustache almost flies off of his round, purple face, "I do not care for your position, young lady, get me someone who can find my son or I'll be in the right mind to get you fired. I know people in high places, you know!"

"Excuse me," you interrupt as you reach them, Delphina's face washing over with absolute relief, "can I ask what's going on here? Miss Sallow is not an officer, sir. If you have concerns, please take them up with someone clearly wearing a badge."

You point abruptly to the shining Auror badge on your jacket. Mr Selwyn scoffs irritably.

"Well, miss badge, I demand you find my son. At once." He rounds on you, his large, bulbous belly almost touching you before he can get any closer. Draco appears almost instantly, standing just in front of you, the most condescending smile curling at his lips, trying and failing to hide the clear desire to swing a fist into Mr Selwyns beetroot coloured face.

"If you get any closer, sir, I may have to resort to unsavoury means. All in the name of law, you understand." Draco stood completely straight, towering over the stumpy Mr Selwyn, to which the angered man grunted something under his breath before waddling off to his next victim.

"Thank you," Delphina sighs, dabbing the sweat on her forehead with a handkerchief, "he's not the only one I've dealt with this morning. So many reports of missing persons, all within the last few hours or so. I-it's my day off, I'm only here on Mr Potter's orders."

"As are we, Miss Sallow," Draco smiles at Delphina, to which she blushes furiously, "I think you should head back up. Tell Potter we're here, would you?"

As if the Minister himself had instructed her, she scurries off to the lifts.

"Honestly, you could tell Del to jump off a cliff." You scoff lightheartedly, turning back to see a rather smug looking Draco, as he simply fixes his tie and winks down at you.

"It's the charm, darling. Don't say it doesn't affect you, too."

Before he can bask in your flustered reaction, off in the distance, amongst more distraught civilians, you spot Cerberus Langarm, fellow Auror, rushing through the crowds of people with a look of pure determination on his face. You tug on Draco's arm, inciting him to follow you, as you battle through to chase Cerberus. Amid the madness, you hear a mixture of complaints and angry voices from the hoard of people. As you close in on Cerberus, you call out to him, causing him to halt and turn at the sound of your voice.

"I take it you both got letters, then?" Cerberus says as you reach him, "didn't know what we'd be walking into, but this is something else. Somehow, I don't think it's about a bewitched broomstick this time."

Cerberus Langarm was a tall, well built man with sun-kissed, olive skin and dark, shaved hair. He kept a very neatly trimmed moustache, and under his left eye was a deep scar that covered most of his cheek. He was a man dedicated to his duty, and other aspects of his life came second to it, which Draco often made a joke about. Cerberus was a well accomplished man of the law, and highly respected amongst his fellow officers and higher ups.

Sometimes, you wondered if Draco was a little jealous of Cerberus and his undeniable ability to walk into a room and make it sing for him.

"Delphina said something about missing person reports," you being to explain as the three of you make for the lifts, "and I have noticed something; most of these people, they look like a certain group of wizards. Don't you think?"

"You mean rich, pompous purebloods who have nothing better to do than flash their money and complain about Muggles?" Cerberus said, "yeah, they seem the sort. All I know is that Potter better have an explanation for all of this."

The lifts were especially busy; people were squashed like sardines in a can, garnering irritable tuts and mumblings amongst the staff trying to reach their destinations. The three of you manage to squeeze into a lift heading for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement; whispers of the going's on in the foyer filled the usually awkward silence, as the relatively short journey felt like an eternity.

Once the lift had landed at the correct floor, the three of you took no time in squeezing out of the overflowing space and into the open air. For what felt like a moment of relief, was soon overtaken by the mayhem that you were presented with. The department was practically torn apart; papers everywhere, frantic officers pacing back and forth between rooms, folded notes in the shape of paper airplanes zoomed up and down the hallway, narrowly missing your head when one bolted for the lift doors, making it just in time before they slammed shut.

"Salazar's mother," Cerberus muttered, looking back at yourself and Draco whose eyes were transfixed by the sight, "we better find Potter."

Meanwhile, inside Harry's office, stood Harry and Auror Penelope Fawley, assessing the multitude of reports from that morning. They could hear the muffled sound of panic outside, the office workers were working relentlessly to try and get some sort of order in the place. Piles of letters sat upon Harry's desk, as the two of them read aloud the contents of the reports.

"During the night we heard strange ongoings in the neighbours backyard, sounds of magic and a man's voice," says Penelope outloud, "my husband got out of bed and lit up the room with his wand, before trekking down the stairs to peer out of the kitchen window. He thinks he saw two people appartating from the neighbours garden, but his eyesight is not what it used to be. Then, at around 5:30am, we received a knock on the door. It was Mrs Selwyn. Her son was missing."

Penelope, a fair-haired, pretty woman with dark blue eyes and black rimmed glasses, ran her perfectly manicured finger across the parchment as she read. Harry, now pacing up and down the office with his chin in his hand, listened carefully to what Penelope was reading aloud. She places down the parchment and picks up another letter, tearing it open and unfolding the note inside. Penelope clears her throat and begins reading once more:

"I received an owl from my sister a few days ago. She was worried that someone had been outside her house during the night, but couldn't seem to undo the Colloportus charm her husband casts on all the doors when he works nights. She has young children, and they live in a relatively secluded place." Penelope read, and then perched against the desk, "I owled back immediately, but didn't seem to receive a reply. Then around 6:00am this morning, her husband, Blaise Zabini, showed up at our door. My sister, Daphne Zabini, was missing from her bed when he returned home from work. The children were still sound asleep and seemingly untouched."

Harry comes to a halt at the window overlooking Muggle London below. With a great sigh, he rubs his tired eyes that had been awake since the early hours of the morning. As he turns to speak to Penelope, they both hear heavy, hurried footsteps beyond the door, and within a few seconds, you burst in, all guns blazing, Cerberus and Draco in hot pursuit.

"I do hope you have an explantation, Harry," you pant slightly, "what on earth is happening? Missing witches and wizards - and what was Delphina doing in foyer; she was getting practically spat at by Mr Selwyn, and not to mention the hoard of people downstairs, and the office-"

"Thank you, officer Y/L/N, I'm well aware of the situation both outside my door and in the foyer. In fact, I've been well aware of it since three this morning, so, if you’d be so kind as to ask one question at a time, I'd really appreciate it." said Harry, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Draco stifles a laugh behind you.

"Potter," Cerberus advances forward with urgency, "any kind of light you can shed."

Harry composes himself, and then walks over to his desk, pushing forward what looked like a collection of personal files from the Ministry of Magic Archives; somewhere that a person would need all kinds of permissions to enter. It contained many records - such as historical records, every single published issue of The Daily Prophet, various magical projects and, most importantly, personal files of every witch or wizard that comes into magic across the country.  Draco, his interest now peaked, gently brushes past you with a hand at the small of your back, his eyebrows knitted together in a very curious expression. He begins shuffling through them, his features relaxing into more concern than curiosity when he realises each and every one of them have a big, red stamp across the front that read: Missing.

"These," he breathes, looking up at Harry, who's expression was more exhaustion than anything else, "these are all purebloods... I know half of 'em. Nott, for one. Scrawny devil."

"They all look the sort in the foyer, too," adds Cerberus, "lots of old money and questionable bloodlines down there. Odd coincidence?"

"Not likely," pipes up Penelope, who lifts herself elegantly off the edge of the desk, "every single one of these witches and wizards have gone missing during the last few hours. All of them, and without a single trace. No signs of break ins, no signs of struggle or injury at the locations they went missing from. It's a fair assumption to say they have been kidnapped - and not by some amature."

"So you're saying that a whole bunch of wizards from pure bloodlines have just miraculously been taken from their beds in the night. For what reason, exactly?" Draco raises an eyebrow at Penelope. She doesn't look too impressed by his questioning of her theory.

"Malfoy," Harry said, not with his usual air of authority, however, it was far more pleading, "Penelope has a point. Let me give the bigger picture," Harry slumps down onto his office chair with a heaving sigh, before tucking himself under the desk and resting his elbows on the surface, hands intertwined, "I was called in by the Minister at three o'clock this morning. That's when the first report came in about a missing person. Not long after that, they started coming in troves. One after the other, we couldn't keep up. Hence why I owled," he took a pause, "Penelope was first here, and with her help, we retrieved the personal reports to further investigate the missing persons. We made the connection of their blood status quite quick, and have since then been trying to theorise as to why it only seems to be witches and wizards of a certain blood status."

"I'd say that was quite obvious," said Cerberus, who was a rather serious and right-to-the-point kind of officer, "someone out there has a grudge against them, surprisingly," he said with an air of sarcasm, "but it can't just be one person that has done all of this; there must be some sort of group or organisation. No one, even with magic, can be in all of those places at once."

Penelope suddenly gasped, and everyone looked around at her.

"What about Hogwarts? They need informing immediately. The amount of students, and faculty, that could be in danger tomorrow," she said with the utmost seriousness, "I can go, Harry. I can fly to Hogsmeade, they won't know a thing unless-"

"Thank you, Penelope, but I have already considered Hogwarts," Harry cut her off gently, and her shoulders slumped in relief, "in fact, I need to speak to Y/L/N and Malfoy. Langarm and Fawely - you go down into the foyer and tell the public to go home and rest. There's nothing more we can do right now without some more information."

The other two left, leaving Harry, Draco and yourself alone in his messy office. Once the door had been shut softly, he ushers you both to take a seat in front of him. You both do so, as Harry relaxes a little in his plush office chair, relishing of the quietness for a moment. 

"As you may already be aware, it's the tenth year anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts tomorrow and a memorial service is being held at the school," Harry begins to explain, "myself and Ron were invited by McGonagall as guests to represent the Ministry, and well, for other obvious reasons," he waves a dismissive hand, "however, with all this, I think it best we stay here. I'd much rather be there to support McGonagall, but I feel it's necessary that I'm accessible. So, instead, I'm sending you too to keep watch."

"Me?" Draco exclaims. Harry raises his eyebrows at the sudden outburst, "I hardly doubt they'd want me there, Potter. Can you imagine their faces?"

"I'm not sending you as guests, Malfoy," Harry reiterates, "I'm sending you as Ministry officials. You won't need to do anything drastic. I just want you to keep an eye on things. I'll send other officers too, as we might need to change protocol slightly to ease McGonagall's mind. Merlin knows she'll panic when she receives the owl I'm going to send."

"You can count on us, Harry." You say with utter confidence, "If anything happens, I'll inform you immediately. My owl is rather good at finding me in a tight situation."

"Thank you," he smiles kindly, Draco now completely silent, "now, you'll need to take the train to Hogwarts with the guests of the ceremony. I'd feel much better if you were on that train. I can't have eyes everywhere, so be my eyes. Got it?"

With a very sure nod, you rise from your seat, pulling an extremely quiet Draco up with you by the arm. You could tell he was bothered about returning to the school, even after all this time, but you had every bit of confidence in him. Even if he had none in himself.

disclaimer: i do not own harry potter or any of the characters or storyline associated with it.