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yua0ra · 1 month ago

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𝐒𝐧𝐚𝐩 𝐎𝐮𝐭 𝐎𝐟 𝐈𝐭

WARNINGS: mattheo x pureblood!reader, SFW, proofread, english is not my first language. miscellaneous ☆

SUMMARY: Just because Mattheo has grown the way he has, doesn't mean that other pureblood families agree with the Riddle family ideologies. One of them, is yours; the Merlins

WC: 4.1K AN: Hey guys! I wanted to write some more about the pureblood culture and traditions because it's a theme that fascinates me. Obviously, this is all fictional and I would never, ever condone their behaviour and the mistreatment against innocent people.

𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓:

The Black family’s ancestral manor had stood for centuries, its towering spires casting long shadows over the frozen lake that stretched beneath a January moon. The evening’s soiree was an affair of hushed elegance, its invitation extended only to those of unimpeachable lineage—Pureblood families whose names echoed through the corridors of history.

Inside the ballroom, enchanted chandeliers cast golden light upon the polished obsidian floors. The air shimmered with magic, as goblets refilled themselves with ancient vintages, and delicate platters of enchanted hors d'oeuvres floated between clusters of elegantly robed witches and wizards. A string quartet played in the corner, their instruments charmed to sing with melodies older than the castle itself.

For as long as anyone could remember, such soirees had been a cornerstone of Pureblood society. A gathering of influence, tradition, and unspoken rivalries, each event was less a celebration and more a calculated display of power. A new emerald-green velvet robe, enchanted with golden embroidery to shimmer with every movement, was a silent announcement of a family's prosperity. A whispered conversation in the shadow of a grand staircase might determine an alliance between two houses—or the quiet ruination of another.

The evening always followed a strict order of customs, for to be a Pureblood was to uphold tradition. First, the elders of each family would exchange pleasantries laced with subtext, their voices honeyed but their gazes sharp. They spoke of lineage, of marriage prospects, of the ‘proper way of things.’ Then came the formal introductions of the season’s debutantes—young witches and wizards of age, poised like chess pieces awaiting their first move on the grand board of aristocratic politics.

At the stroke of ten, the waltz would begin. Partners were chosen not by fancy, but by strategy. A Malfoy would glide across the floor with a Rowle, a Lestrange with a Bulstrode, each step a subtle negotiation between families. To refuse a dance was to deliver an insult; to accept was to acknowledge the potential of a future bond.

Beyond the gilded civility, these gatherings carried undercurrents of intrigue. In dimly lit alcoves, quiet dealings were struck, futures bartered in murmured tones. Who would inherit a seat on the Wizengamot? Who had fallen from grace? Who was worthy of the grandest of alliances—marriage?

Not all traditions were dictated by decorum alone. At midnight, the ancient rite of the Naming was observed. The family patriarch would raise his wand and speak the names of his ancestors aloud, calling upon their spirits to bear witness. It was a moment of solemn reverence, a reminder that to be Pureblood was to carry the weight of history itself.

And yet, among the younger generation, there were whispers of change. Some, moved through the halls with an air of quiet rebellion. They danced the waltz with smirks rather than solemn nods, their presence a reminder that the rigid lines of Pureblood tradition were not as unshakable as they once were. Would the old ways hold? Or were these soirees, steeped in the past, doomed to fade like the last notes of a dying melody?

As the night waned and the guests slowly departed, the Black family’s great hall fell silent once more, until the next soiree summoned them all again—where history would repeat itself, or change forever.

- ★、

As the clock has strikes, the Debutante Ceremony has commenced and they are ready to upheld conversations with the Elders. A ritual as old as the bloodlines that fill the ballroom. It is not merely a presentation but an initiation—a passage into the world of unspoken alliances and delicate rivalries, where names carry power and every gesture is a calculated move. Their lineage is announced, their worth silently measured, their futures quietly bartered in the minds of those who hold influence. To be presented is to be acknowledged—to be placed upon the grand chessboard of Pureblood society, where tradition dictates the game, but ambition decides the victor.

The Merlin family has always stood apart from the more rigid Pureblood ideologies—not because you lack power, but because you understand that true magic transcends lineage. Your father, Ambrosius Merlin, and your mother, Morgana Selwyn-Merlin, are known not only for their ancestry but for their philosophy. They command respect, but their stance—your stance—on blood status makes your family both revered and watched carefully.

Still, tonight, you are not merely the heir of your family. You are a prize. A new powerful prize.

The emerald-green silk of your robes shimmers as you move through the room, the enchanted golden embroidery catching the flickering candlelight. Your name has been spoken with weight, and the moment you step into the ballroom, you feel the shift—the eyes that turn, the quiet assessments, the inevitable calculations. The season’s debutantes are meant to be admired, courted, traded like valuable pieces in the grand game of Pureblood politics.

But you are not a piece to be played.

At your side, your father exchanges pleasantries with Abraxas Malfoy, their conversation a carefully maneuvered waltz of its own. Your mother, ever the poised enchantress, speaks with some Lestrange, their words veiled behind the civility of old magic. The Abotts, the Travers, the Rosiers—all the names that have ruled this world for generations—stand in clusters, their heads inclined toward one another as they measure every movement in the room.

And then, there are the Riddles.

They arrive late, as if to ensure all eyes are drawn to them when they enter. Their presence is like a storm brewing at the edges of a carefully maintained sky—an undeniable force, something half-feared and half-fascinating.

Tom Riddle Jr. or Voldemort whatever you prefer, carries himself with the arrogance of a man who has bent fortune to his will, his sharp gaze missing nothing as he leads his family into the heart of the ballroom. His “wife” (dog), Bellatrix, a striking witch with ink-dark hair and a knowing smile, surveys the room as if she has already decided who is worth her time. And at their heels, moving with an effortless grace, is their son.

Mattheo Riddle.

You know him well.

Six years of shared classes, of crossed paths in the Slytherin common room, of watching him at the edges of every gathering—smirking, defiant, always walking the thin line between playing the game and tearing the board apart. He has always been a storm in waiting.

And now, he is watching you.

At the stroke of ten, the waltz begins. Tradition dictates that pairings are strategic, not sentimental. You expect to dance with a Nott or a Parkinson—someone whose family sees your lineage as a powerful acquisition. Instead, when the music swells and partners are chosen, a hand extends toward yours before anyone else can claim the honor.

Of course, belonging to the youngest Riddle.

It is not a request. It is a declaration.

"You know, I could have waited for the formalities," he muses as he guides you onto the floor, his grip light but confident. "Let someone else have the first dance. Give them a fighting chance."

You raise a brow. "And yet here you are. Stealing the moment."

"Taking what I want," he corrects, smirking. "Besides, we both know none of them stand a chance against me."

The music swells around you, a smooth waltz carrying you both across the floor, but the conversation is its own kind of dance—a careful exchange, a measured step forward and back.

"Bold of you to assume I’m the one being competed for," you reply, tilting your head. "Perhaps it’s the other way around. You did cut in rather quickly."

He chuckles, low and warm. "Maybe I just wanted to see if you’d let me."

You match his smirk but don’t answer. Silence is power, and you let it linger just long enough for him to wonder.

"You know," he muses after a beat, "my father was rather intrigued when he heard we’d be attending tonight. Said your family holds an interesting perspective."

"Interesting?" you echo. "Is that what we’re calling it?"

"Radical, by some accounts," he amends, his voice teasing but his eyes sharp. "The idea that magic should be valued over blood? That ability matters more than ancestry?"

"And does that shock you?" you ask, arching a brow. "That one of the oldest Pureblood families in the world doesn’t subscribe to the same archaic nonsense as the rest of them?"

"It doesn’t shock me," Mattheo admits. "But it does make me curious. I’ve spent my whole life hearing that power and blood go hand in hand. That magic is strongest when it remains pure."

"And yet," you counter smoothly, "some of the greatest minds in history have not been Purebloods. Morgana herself—our ancestor—was born of mixed bloodlines. Salazar Slytherin was said to be half-elven. Merlin was... well, Merlin. Do you really believe that if power were solely dictated by blood, we’d have wizards of half-blood and Muggle-born descent surpassing those who have spent generations trying to breed perfection?"

His grip on your waist tightens slightly, a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze. "You make a compelling argument."

"I make a true argument," you correct. "You, of all people, should understand that magic is not bound by blood. If it were, you wouldn’t be nearly as impressive as you are."

That earns you something—perhaps not surprise, but a shift in his expression, something just beneath the surface. "Was that a compliment?"

"An observation," you reply smoothly.

He exhales a quiet laugh. "You really do know how to play the game, don’t you?"

"The difference between us, Mattheo, is that I don’t just play the game," you murmur, allowing him to spin you effortlessly before returning to his arms. "I intend to win it."

His smirk widens, something darkly amused glinting in his eyes. "Then I suppose it’s a good thing I’m on your side."

The waltz continues, the rhythm lulling you into a delicate flow, but the banter sharpens as the conversation deepens. Mattheo's eyes contain familiar mix of curiosity and challenge, a spark that makes the air between you charged.

"So," he begins, his voice a soft drawl, “you’re serious? You actually believe power should come from ability, not ancestry?"

You glance up at him, catching the flicker of amusement on his face. “Grandpa’s beard…, yes Matt, and it’s not just ability. But yeah. You’ve heard the same stories I have—the ones your father recites over dinner, where pure bloodlines are the be-all and end-all of power."

Mattheo’s smile widens, but there’s something almost dangerous in it. "You’re implying my father’s wrong, then?"

"You and I both know the line about blood is antiquated," you reply easily, your feet gliding gracefully across the floor. "The greatest wizards in history—The Founders, Flamel, hell, even Ollivander!,—were not bound by blood status. They transcended it. Why? Because magic is far greater than some petty distinction. It’s the strength of the mind, the force of will, the depth of understanding."

Mattheo chuckles lowly, clearly intrigued. "And here I thought the Riddles were the rebels. But I hear it all the time, in my own home—blood is everything. My father says that those who have 'pure' blood are born with a clearer connection to magic."

"Clearer, perhaps," you muse, "but not necessarily stronger. What, then, of those whose blood is ‘impure’ but can still bend the laws of magic to their will? What of the Half-Bloods who’ve gone on to perform feats that those with ‘perfect’ bloodlines can only dream of?"

"Your father may not care for tradition, but my family does." His voice is sharp, but there’s a respectful undertone. He can’t help it, he’s been brought up that way. "We don’t question the old ways, the things that have worked for centuries."

"And that’s exactly why you’ve never truly questioned them," you counter with a smile, sweet but full of challenge. "Tradition is only a barrier when it stops progress. My family has always believed in the magic that can change the world—not preserve an old idea of it."

Mattheo glances at you, his eyes narrowing slightly in amusement and something else—curiosity, perhaps. "You make it sound so easy, dismantling centuries of tradition with a wave of your wand."

"It’s not about dismantling it," you explain softly, leaning just slightly closer, "it’s about evolving it. We live in a time where progress is magic. Look at the world—look at the advancements. You know better than anyone that the ‘pure blood’ obsession is just a way to keep people divided."

Mattheo’s smile softens, almost imperceptibly. “Yeah. I guess- I guess so. Your family, they’re more than just power and history, then?"

You glance up at him, a shimmer of something unspoken passing between you. "It’s about legacy, yes. But legacy is what you leave behind, not what you inherit."

His lips quirk into a half-smile. "And what do you plan to leave behind, then?"

"Something that can’t be measured in blood, but in what we create. A world where magic—true magic—is free to evolve, not bound to tradition."

He lets out a thoughtful hum, his fingers gently guiding you through the next step of the waltz. "Maybe you’re right. Maybe tradition does hold us back."

You meet his gaze, the conversation sliding into something deeper now, but still light, sweet. "I know I’m right, darling. The only real power is in change.”

He lets the words hang in the air between you, his expression thoughtful, as though weighing the possibility of this new truth you've presented. His hand gently guides you through the next turn, but his eyes remain locked on yours, intense and searching.

"Change," he repeats softly, almost to himself, the word tasting foreign on his tongue. "It’s a dangerous thing, don’t you think? It challenges everything we know, everything we’ve been taught. Even a small shift can send everything into chaos."

You give a gentle shrug, your gaze soft but unwavering. "Sometimes chaos is necessary, Matt. Without it, nothing new is born. The world we know—our world—will only survive if we allow it to adapt. If we hold on to the past too tightly, it will strangle us."

There’s a pause, the tension of the conversation shifting between playful and profound. He spins you lightly, and for a brief moment, you feel the weight of the dance in your steps, but also the weight of the truth you’re exchanging. It’s delicate—this balance between banter and something far deeper.

Mattheo looks at you again, a soft chuckle escaping his lips, though it lacks any malice. "So, you're telling me that in order for us to survive, we should throw away the very things that made us strong? Magic, family, bloodlines… They’re not just irrelevant in your world, are they? You want us to forget them entirely?"

"Not forget," you say quickly, your voice quiet but firm. "But redefine. A family’s bloodline, yes, it has significance. History matters, I won’t deny that. But it shouldn’t define a person’s worth. What matters is what you do with it.”

He smirks, a trace of teasing in his eyes. "And what about the power you where talking about? You think you can just throw away centuries of tradition and create power like that?"

“Don’t be so extreme.” You smile. “Power,” you continue, drawing in a deep breath, "isn’t something you can create by force alone, Mattheo. It’s something that’s earned. Through action, conviction. And yes, even change. The power to build, to innovate, to move forward—that’s the power worth having."

There’s a spark in his eyes now—something more than the playful challenge you’ve seen before. It’s curiosity, mixed with respect. He considers your words carefully, his gaze unwavering as he watches you, really watches you for the first time tonight.

"I’ve never met anyone who thinks the way you do,” he admits, his voice low.

You smile, a soft, genuine smile. "Maybe that’s why you’re listening."

Mattheo raises an eyebrow, amused. "Maybe. Or maybe I’m just trying to figure out whether you’re as dangerous as you sound."

"You should know by now, Mattheo," you murmur, leaning just a fraction closer as the dance slows, "that dangerous is just another word for powerful."

The dance comes to an unexpected halt as a familiar, commanding voice cuts through the air—one that sends a ripple through the crowd. You glance up, a soft, knowing smile tugging at your lips as your father, Ambrosius Merlin, strides toward you.

He’s a striking figure, tall and dignified, his dark robes flowing with the same effortless grace as his presence. His silver hair catches the light, and the sharpness in his blue eyes cuts through the bustling ballroom with ease. Unlike the cold formality of most Pureblood patriarchs, Ambrosius exudes an energy that is both refined and warm, carrying an air of absolute authority that is never questioned, yet never unkind.

"Ah," he says with a smile as he steps closer, his voice a deep, melodic rumble. "There you are, my brilliant child. I must say, you’ve been quite the spectacle this evening." He looks at you with a gentle pride before turning his gaze to Mattheo, offering a hand in greeting. "I am Ambrosius Merlin. I’ve heard much about you, young Riddle."

You step aside with a subtle nod, letting your father take the lead. His presence commands the space, and in the quiet moment of his arrival, the room seems to part, giving the trio of you space to breathe.

Mattheo eyes Ambrosius with curiosity, clearly recognizing the power the Merlin name carries, but also sensing the softness that lies beneath. "A pleasure, Mr. Merlin," he says smoothly, taking your father’s hand in a firm, respectful shake. "I’ve heard your name often in the circles that matter."

Ambrosius chuckles softly, giving you a knowing glance as he places a hand on your shoulder, guiding you into the next step of the conversation. "Ah, so you’ve spoken of me, have you? I trust it was in a positive light?"

You smile gently, the edge of the conversation drifting back to familiar ground. "Mostly," you tease, before turning back to Mattheo. "Now that you’ve met my father, I think you’ll understand more fully where I’m coming from."

Mattheo’s gaze shifts between you both, his curiosity evident. "I’m intrigued. Your speech seems... different from the usual Pureblood patriarchs I’m used to. Not quite so…umm, oppressive?”

Ambrosius gives a quiet chuckle, his expression warm but his voice still filled with gravity. "I don’t see any value in stifling the potential of young minds," he says. "In fact, if there’s one thing I agree with my child on, it’s that magic—true magic—should always be allowed to evolve. The old ways are valuable in their own right, but they should never be a cage." He looks pointedly at you. "You understand this, don’t you?"

You nod with a soft, approving smile. "Absolutely. Magic is meant to grow, to transform. Everyone should have the right to experiment and experience it. My father’s always said that the greatest magic comes from the mind, the heart, the willingness to question what came before."

Mattheo listens, his brows furrowing slightly, as if trying to reconcile the two very different philosophies in front of him. "I see your point, both of you," he admits, the tone of his voice softening. "But what do you do when tradition is all that’s left? When the past is the only thing that holds us together? My father would argue that it’s the stability of our bloodlines that keeps us strong—keeps us safe from the chaos of the world."

Ambrosius’s expression hardens slightly, though his tone remains even, never cruel. "Your father’s concerns are not misplaced, Mattheo. Stability is important. I’ve always said that the past holds lessons for us. But the past is not meant to rule us. You can be proud of your ancestry, but that doesn’t mean you should be shackled by it."

Your eyes flicker with a knowing understanding as you add softly, "Safety isn’t the same as power. Don’t get me wrong, I’m more than proud to come from my lineage.”

There’s a pause, the quiet stretching between you all like a soft tension, before Mattheo finally speaks, repeating the same question from earlier, his voice thoughtful. "But... does that mean we should abandon everything that has kept us who we are? Do we really let go of our history, our family names, the legacy of our ancestors?"

Ambrosius places a hand on Mattheo’s shoulder, his grip firm yet kind. "No. We don't abandon the past," he says, his voice steady and wise. "We honor it. But we also challenge it. The world changes, and we must change with it, not to survive, but to thrive. Your father’s stance, while rooted in history, lacks the foresight that we need for the future."

He glances at you with a proud smile. "And your vision, my dear, is the one that will shape that future."

Mattheo doesn’t reply immediately, his gaze lingering on both of you. The words, the philosophy, swirl in his mind like the dance, shifting and twisting into something new. The internal turmoil growing as he questions what truly matters in the world of magic—and where the future lies.

“Right, so…” he says softly, his voice low and contemplative. "It’s not about abandoning tradition, but about shaping it into something new. A balance between what we were and what we can become."

Ambrosius gives a small, approving nod, his gaze softening. "Exactly. And you, Mattheo, will have to decide where you stand in that balance."

Finally, he meets your gaze, a hint of something new in his eyes—curiosity, respect, perhaps even admiration. "It’s strange," he says, his voice quieter now, the earlier playful challenge softened. "Most people would have thrown their lot in with the old ways. The ones who maintain order. It’s easier. I mean, my father is the example.” He looks between you and your father, the weight of your words settling on him. "You make it sound like we can choose what comes next. Like there’s... freedom in that."

Ambrosius smiles, a knowing, almost fatherly smile, and places a hand on Mattheo’s shoulder. "Freedom," he says softly, "isn’t something we’re given. It’s something we take. And when you’re ready to take it, the world will open up to you in ways you never imagined."

You add, your voice sweet as honey, "But you don’t have to do it alone, Mattheo. The world is full of people who are ready to fight for that change, even if it’s just in the smallest ways."

Mattheo nods slowly, as if understanding the depth of the words for the first time. He smiles, but there’s a flicker of something deeper in his expression—something contemplative, almost as if he’s weighing his next steps in this dance of ideas, of magic, of destiny.

For a moment, it feels as though time stretches out, the world of Pureblood tradition swirling around you, yet you stand apart from it, caught between the past and the future.

Ambrosius clears his throat, his voice once again smooth and commanding, but never dismissive. "Mattheo, while I’ve enjoyed our conversation, I must say this: you come from a family that commands respect, but how you choose to use that respect will define your future. The question you must answer, my boy, is not what you inherit, but what you create with it."

Your father’s words linger in the space, a challenge and an invitation all at once. It’s clear now—this evening, this night, isn’t about any one person or even one family. It’s about legacy, yes, but it’s also about choice. About shaping the future, and about how each individual—be it you, Mattheo, or anyone in this room—holds the power to forge their own path.

Mattheo’s smile deepens, and his tone carries a new layer of thoughtfulness. "I think," he says, "I’m starting to see how much of this game is about more than just following the rules. It's about what you choose to do with the cards you're dealt."

You return the smile, your own confidence echoing in your words. "Exactly. The world doesn’t change on its own, Mattheo. It takes people who are willing to change with it. And that’s where real power lies. Also, let’s be completely honest, you were never the one that followed the rules.”

The soft, haunting notes of the string quartet rise again in the background, their melody filling the quiet space that’s settled around you. The dance continues, but now there’s something different in the air, something electric. The future feels like it’s not so far off anymore—like it’s already beginning, right here, right now.

As the music swells, you feel your father’s grip tighten just slightly on your shoulder, a silent reaffirmation of his belief in you. This moment, this conversation, will reverberate through the rest of the night. Through the traditions and the politics, through the rivalries and alliances, something else has been born: a new way forward.

And when the night ends, when the last notes of the waltz fade into the evening, it will be your words, your family’s vision, that will stay with Mattheo—and perhaps even with the whole room—long after the soiree’s final curtain.

#⋆. 𐙚 ˚ yua0ra’s works #slytherin #slytherin boys #hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry #wizarding world #harry potter #hp fanfic #mattheo riddle imagine #mattheo riddle #mattheo riddle oneshot #mattheo x you #mattheo x y/n #mattheoxreader #mattheo riddle x you

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regheart · 5 months ago

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there's something i find particularly annoying in this fandom and it's the way purebloods are written as highly sophisticated extremely rich and straight up a rip off of regency period novels

i understand the choice of this specific portrayal, i can see it as an approximation to historical drama, where the social restrictions are compelling and are relevant to the story, and a good writer can make any concept believable and good

HOWEVER as much as the worldbuilding on wizarding costumes (and a lot of other things) is extremely inconsistent and gets progressively worse towards the later three books, the implications that i see don't point towards this version of a sophisticated performatic elite who interacts only with itself

while i tend to see the blood status in the harry potter universe as a distinction of class and not at all a distinction of race, i don't think the difference is, in practice, as marked as it is in real world contexts, mostly because of how numerically small and insulated the wizarding community is

this post is part of my personal vendetta against purebloods as charming aristocrats & what appears to be the necessity of writing each and all of them as so very well spoken and politically savvy and never-caught-dead-speaking-to-a-half-blood

for once, the sacred twenty-eight is extra canon information and is disputed IN UNIVERSE, because it was anonymously published and received backlash for the inclusion (weasley, ollivander) and exclusion (crabbe, goyle, potter) of certain names

the malfoys are the only extremely rich family we see in canon. extra canon information tells us they made money before the statute of secrecy by trading with muggles

compare that to the potters who are also very rich (there's no scale to tell us who is the richer family), but made most of their money from the invention of sleakezy in the 20th century

the blacks are also implied to be wealthy: sirius manages to live off his inheritance after buying harry an expensive broom, and he says his grandfather likely paid for an order of merlin

there's a lot to be said about the blacks (e.g. they should have at least a couple more properties other than grimmauld place), but the big picture and the similarity with the gaunts (not about the incest, stop fixating on that) suggest they were a family in decadence by the time sirius was growing up

i believe that the implication is that neither of them had a proper job, which creates a similarity with gentry, but gentry lived off rentals and while it is possible they had a country state i don't think grimmauld place was making a lot of money

lucius malfoy also didn't work and spent a portion of his time being a school counselor (and obviously not being paid for it, as it was a way to exercise his political power over the main learning institution in his community)

it's also extra canon that the nott family had equal footing with the malfoys, so we can assume that crabbe, goyle, parkinson and bulstrode were slightly beneath them, either in social standing or money, despite the later two being part of the sacred twenty-eight (or it could appear to be so because pansy and milicent are girls)

the weasleys are obviously the main example of a poor sacred twenty-eight family, as were the gaunts

the crouch family was most like rich (they could afford a house elf), but it's likely that most of that money came from mr. crouch having a high level ministry job. his family and connections were probably an advantage to getting the job, but it's possible he wouldn't be able to maintain the lifestyle without work

longbottom, prewett and macmillan are families that appear to be very traditional, but not remarkably wealthy

other working members of the sacred twenty-eight are: horace slughorn (school teacher, but it can be argued that teaching hogwarts is a prestigious position), garrick ollivander (wand maker and shop owner, but, again, the only wand maker, which holds a certain prestige in itself), mr. burke (shop owner), arthur weasley (ministry employee), frank longbottom and kingsley shacklebolt (both aurors). amycus and alecto carrow are also temporary hogwarts teachers

the blacks married out of the sacred twenty-eight many times (max, gamp, crabbe, potter)

all of these people and every single muggleborn goes to the same school, buys magical supplies at the same place, drinks from the same pubs, etc. that alone should serve as evidence that there aren't many exclusive pureblood hangouts around

the only place that seems to attract the malfoys (arguably the richest and most important pureblood family in the 90s) and not most other people, is the knockturn alley, which is hardly a high brow sophisticated spot

except for malfoy and flint, no slytherin quidditch player during the 90s is in the sacred twenty-eight, so that's hardly a criterion for making it into the team

mulciber is not a sacred twenty-eight name, they could very well be half-bloods

tom riddle and severus snape were half-blood students who formed ties with purebloods while in school and held blood supremacist views, assimilation to a certain level was possible

#my other personal vendetta is that it all comes down to demographics but no one wants to hear me talking about that #trying to come up eith background slytherin characters from the 70s took me places i wouldn't go with a gun #and my very petty complain is can we please stop with the galas? when can we stop with the galas?#and assuming they care about culture like at all my rant on wizards and art is probably bigger than this one #hp meta #pureblood society #pureblood culture #the noble and most ancient house of black #the sacred twenty-eight #sacred 28 #a worldbuilding nightmare #this is my most annoying post up to date and its a Hard contest #also just find reading about this stuff soooo boring but i find myself trying to justify not wanting to write like this

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emeraldelixirs · 2 months ago

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Bloodsport {II:when the party’s over}

bsf! m. riddle x fem!sallow!reader, stepbrother! t. nott x fem!sallow!reader

Bound by Blood, Betrayed by Fate. When you’re dragged to Malfoy Manor under orders from Voldemort himself, you learn the price of your mother’s mistakes: an Unbreakable Vow, tethering your life to the deranged Bellatrix Lestrange. Forced to navigate a web of dark magic, family debts, and impossible expectations, you must tread carefully in a house brimming with enemies—and a few familiar faces. As tensions rise and the lines between loyalty and survival blur, one question remains: will you find a way to break free, or will you lose yourself to the darkness?

Content warnings: 18+ themes, angst, dark, graphic descriptions of violence, gore, blood, swearing, fighting, taboo themes, underage coercion, predatory behavior, suggestive content, underage recreational drug and alcohol use, typical canon HP themes of blood purity, house prejudices, oppression, lmk if I miss anything this chapter is considerably lengthy with detail

Word count: 8k oops

A/n: is it really a slytherin fic if it doesn’t have a party scene? sorta hehe sorry. but we have the whole gang together in this, and that’s why i love this part sm, easily so far my pride and joy of what i have written for this fic. also collectively the longest chapter ive ever written for any fic ive wrote…ever. banter and comedic relief is really my bread and butter

[playlist: televised—hunny, bite my tongue—you me at six, softcore—the neighbourhood, do i wanna know—arctic monkeys, kyoto—phone bridgers, people—the 1975, fourth of july—sufjan stevens, when the party’s over-from the room below—sleep token, seventeen going under—sam fender]

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The Zabini Villa roared with laughter, loud chatter, and throbbing music that seemed to make the very walls vibrate. Judging by the unfamiliar faces crowding every room, this party had spiraled well past its original circle of Hogwarts pure-bloods like Blaise had originally intended for. You and Theo wove through the throng, his large, warm hand secured at the small of your back, guiding you gently while you led the way.

“There’s no way all these people are from Hogwarts,” Theo quipped, batting away a gaudy streamer that dangled in front of his face.

“Merlin, no,” you muttered, forcing a polite smile at Millicent Bulstrode as she brushed by, then reverting to a frown once she was gone. “Everyone must sense this might be the last Zabini bash they’ll ever see.”

And perhaps they were right. The Daily Prophet had plastered the story across its front page at the end of term: the Department of Mysteries debacle was conclusive proof that Voldemort was back. The second wizarding war had begun to weave its dark tendrils into daily life, pulling you—and your friends—deeper into roles none of you wanted. Now, your presence at this party felt less like revelry and more like obligation. But among the upper-inner circles you roamed, appearances were everything still. You and your friends had a carefully maintained status quo, and no looming war would undo that overnight.

Not that you were simply a carefree teen. You were also Bellatrix’s pawn: the one she nudged around the board, using you to lure secrets from the gullible, offering your company to the wavering. You tried not to dwell on that as you made a beeline for the kitchens, your chest feeling tight beneath the weight of her instructions.

“The less your peers know, the better,” she’d sneered earlier that week, pacing in the Malfoy Manor drawing room.

“We may never know who might have vital information—on their family, their loyalties, their resources…” Her cold eyes had narrowed on you, a grimace of satisfaction twisting her features.

“Do you understand, girl?”

“Yes… Mistress,” you’d been forced to concede, swallowing your hatred.

Now the memory fluttered through your head as you stepped into Blaise’s expansive kitchen. You exhaled, relieved at the relative calm. Maybe you could breathe easier here, at least for a moment.

“C’mon, let’s get a drink,” Theo said, noticing the faraway look in your eyes. He maneuvered around you, snagging two cups from an array of colorful bottles lined across the counters.

To your mild surprise, the kitchen wasn’t packed—only a handful of people rummaged for snacks or chattered over glasses of spiked punch. The music, mercifully, was less ear-splitting.

You leaned against the moss agate countertop, the cool surface grounding you. Theo’s presence was a balm, as it always had been. You’d known him since infancy, your mothers having been close friends long before war divided loyalties. And his father—your now stepfather—had become a mentor to your own father before his untimely death.

Theo had been there for every moment that mattered: the good, the bad, the life-altering. Neither of you wore icy apathy like a shield towards one another; instead, your shared experiences had created an unspoken understanding. A bond as unshakable as it was fraught.

A hand slid around your shoulder, making you jump.

“Oi,” Daphne Greengrass said, lips quirking into a half-smile. “So jumpy. Relax—it’s a party.”

You forced a semblance of a grin, tension dissolving a fraction when you saw it was just her. “Daph…”

She pressed a friendly kiss to your cheek, eyes darting between you and Theo. “Where in Salazar’s name have you two been? Blaise is losing his mind—he’s about ready to hex the pair of you for being late.”

She didn’t know half of it since this was the first time you’d seen her since summer began; how Bellatrix had forced you into an unbreakable vow; how Theo had been dragged into the Dark Lord’s fold with no way out. War loomed in every corner, and Daphne, blissfully unaware, was closer to its claws than she realized. And you hadn’t been sure you wanted her to know, terribly naive, too pure for the mud you and the other rolled around in now.

You shrugged lightly, deflecting. “Busy summer.”

She jabbed a finger at you, pouting. “More importantly, where have my letters gone?! I wrote you heaps!”

You flinched. She pulled away, stepping around the island to give Theo a quick squeeze and a smacking kiss on the cheek. “You do realize our father’s in Azkaban currently?” Theo replied for you, tone sharper than usual, though that never deterred Daphne.

“And?” she retorted, placing her hands on her hips. “A simple note to tell me you’re fine would’ve been comforting, you git.”

Theo set his jaw, a flicker of apology in his eyes. “Right. Sorry.”

You parted your lips to intervene, but Daphne continued chastising Theo, her exasperation morphing into mild relief that both of you were safe. Then launching into her usual Daphne updates, like a beat wasn’t missed: an outfit she saw that reminded her of you, the gossip she heard—that you too should have known—since school ended, or where her family was choosing to stay for holiday.

Somewhere in her mini-lecture, she casually mentioned:

“Oh, and watch out—someone said Lord Rosier’s nephew, Evander, is here tonight, skulking around somewhere. You know the Rosiers, always up to something… shady.” Then she held her arm as she twirled a piece of her honey blond hair, thoughtfully. Then adding in, “though I remember him being so handsome back in first year—shame.”

An internal pang reminded you of the other very real reason you were here—to attempt to gain information from any possible prominent names in attendance. Her offhand comment sent your thoughts spiraling because this was, if not, the biggest prominent name on the list of contacts Bellatrix had talked about. The Rosiers were an influential pure-blood family, their allegiances as ambiguous as they were dangerous. If Evander was here, he might have information Bellatrix would find valuable.

You masked your interest, offering a polite nod. Inside, determination sparked more than it ever had since you were pushed into task. If you could pry even a shred of intel from Evander, it might buy you some breathing room—enough to finish your summer coursework without Bellatrix breathing down your neck. Even for a week? Then you could surely spend the rest of summer doing her bidding, or gods knows what, and maybe hold together your sanity?

“Need to… use the bathroom,” you excused yourself, ignoring Daphne’s frown of confusion. Theo’s gaze lingered on you, sharp and knowing. But he let it go, turning back to placate Daphne.

Your mind thrummed: Find Evander. Ask the right questions. Remember Bellatrix’s instructions. Your stomach twisted in equal parts excitement and dread. This had been it—a moment to prove yourself.

You scourged the main corridors of the party, narrowly dodging your friends and peers, with no sign of the infamous wizard yet.

Did you even remember what he looked like?

Finally giving up on the obvious, you slipped into a hallway that led away from the main commotion. Passing ornate paintings and the occasional couple giggling in corners towards the back wing of the villa, you found a partially open door—likely Blaise’s mother’s study or personal lounge. Light spilled through the crack of the sturdy mahogany door with noise of man humming lightly.

You took a breath, moving slowly to peak through the ajar door.

A tall, slender wizard with sharp cheekbones and slicked-back hair leaned against a sideboard, swirling a glass of brandy. It was him—Evander Rosier, you had remembered him from when he attended Hogwarts faintly now. He was in 6th year when you had only first been sorted, but you remembered his distinctive features anywhere. He was the head boy for Slytherin by his 7th, with a gleaming smile, and dimpled cheeks that made all the girls swoon.

Not you though, you weren’t easily charmed with looks, even when people thought of you to think different. Veelas or those with Veela lineage held ideologies that vastly contrasted the stereotype, but that may have been something your mother had just told you. You never met her side of the family or knew much besides they disowned her when she married your father.

Taking a deep breath, you took a baited one right after, faking a casual stroll into the room, glancing behind your shoulder for anyone that may have seen. The space was richly decorated with dark wood shelves, a looming portrait of some Zabini ancestor, and a deep emerald rug that muffled your footsteps.

Evander glanced up when you entered, eyebrows raised in mild curiosity. “Can I help you?” he asked, not unkindly, but distant.

You summoned your best coy grin. “Oh, sorry—I was looking for a quieter spot.” You let your gaze trail meaningfully over the spines of expensive books, then back to him. “Didn’t realize someone was here.”

He shrugged, taking another sip. “I don’t care for crowds. You can stay if you’d like.”

Perfect. You let out a soft sigh, stepping closer. “Crowds can be suffocating, can’t they?” you said, letting just the right note of empathy creep into your voice. “Especially these days, with the rumors swirling… people are so on edge.”

He gave a short laugh, swirling the brandy again. “Rumors. Right.” His eyes darted to the door. “Though some rumors are more than that, if you catch my drift.”

Your heart gave a little leap. This was going somewhere. “I do,” you murmured, feigning a shadow of concern. “Everyone’s talking about… you know, Him. People say families might be forced to pick a side again.”

He stiffened slightly. “And do you have a side, Miss…?”

You offered a small, self-deprecating laugh, hand pressed lightly to your collarbone in a subtle attempt to seem compelling. “Selle.” You opt for your mother’s maiden name. “I’m just a young witch, worried about my future, about where my family stands. It’s all so uncertain. Forgive me if I overstep.”

His expression softened slightly. “Curiosity isn’t a sin, Miss Selle. But it’s a dangerous habit to cultivate these days.”

You forced a bashful smile, letting your lashes flutter—just as Bellatrix had drilled into you. “I only ask because… I want to be prepared. For whatever’s coming.”

His gaze flicked over you, lingering for a moment too long, and a knowing smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Preparedness is admirable. But it can also attract… unwanted attention.” He stepped closer, his voice lowering. “Are you sure we haven’t met before? You seem… familiar.”

He thinks I’m flirting, you realized with a jolt of disgust. But you pressed on. If you wanted these secrets, you had to endure the creeping slime of his interest, you reminded yourself of your training with Bellatrix.

Your throat tightened, and your pulse quickened. “I don’t think so,” you replied, aiming for nonchalance. “But perhaps you’re mistaking me for someone else.”

“Perhaps,” he mused, though his eyes betrayed lingering doubt. He reached out, brushing a knuckle against your shoulder—a gesture that made your skin crawl, though you resisted the urge to recoil and continued to flutter your lashes up at him.

“How are you preparing for the inevitable…forgive me,” you touched his arm, thoughtfully. “I hadn’t caught your name yet?”

He studied you, the softened sharpness of doubt in his eye dissipating as he stared at you. “Evander Rosier,” he said, dazed. “My uncle’s always forging alliances, scouting alternative avenues. Now that the Ministry’s rattled…” A dopey like smirk curved his lips?

That was interesting—unexpectedly your charm had begun to work. You forced your expression to remain neutral, your mind racing to process what he’d just revealed. “Alternative avenues,” you echoed, letting the words hang in the air. “Like… trade alliances? Resource management?”

His fingers trailed down your arm slowly. “We’re… considering our options. With the Ministry in disarray, alliances are fragile. It’s a precarious time for everyone.” The closer he stayed, the more his cologne hit you like a wall of acrid fumes, sharp and cloying, filling the air between you with an almost suffocating intensity.

“But you have the resources,” you pressed, letting a trace of awe color your voice, though you upturned your nose avoiding his heady overpowering musk. “The foresight. Surely the Rosiers aren’t relying on chance.”

He chuckled softly, the sound devoid of humor. “Chance is a fool’s game. Let’s just say we’re exploring alternative avenues. Not everyone sees eye-to-eye with the Dark Lord’s methods, you know.”

You nodded in understanding. “Your family must be analytical. I envy that, mine can be so naive and misled, never seeing the bigger picture.” A scoff to feign disdain.

“You’re quite inquisitive, Miss Selle. Should I be worried you’ll pass on every word I say to some rival faction?” A charming smile donned his features as he teased you.

You bit your lip, acting as if you were being bashful. “Oh, hush,” you said lightly, playing coy. “I just want to know where the wind blows. For my own safety.”

The air weighed heavy, and you felt a flush of shame. But you forced a sweet smile until he relaxed again, rambling about his relatives’ hush-hush business deals and doubts about the Dark Lord. You caught snatches of who they might recruit, how they planned to hide assets, all the while your heartbeat thundered at your success.

Eventually, he glanced at the time and frowned. “I’ve got to mingle. But perhaps we’ll talk again?” He grabbed your hand, brushing your knuckles with the pad of his thumb.

You swallowed your revulsion. “I would hope, Mr. Rosier.”

“You’re surprisingly… charming,” he said, his voice smooth and deliberate, as he brought your hand to his lips, kissing your hand.

You forced a tight smile, leaning into his touch just enough to keep the illusion intact. “Likewise,” you murmured, stepping back to break the contact. “I should probably get back as well. My friends will start wondering where I’ve disappeared to.”

Evander’s smile widened, a flicker of amusement in his gaze. “Of course. Do take care, Miss Selle. The world is a dangerous place for the… unprepared.”

With that, he tipped his glass in a mock salute and slipped out of the study without another word. You waited a moment before you made your way out of the room, your chest tight and your mind racing. The information he’d shared was valuable, no doubt—but the cost of acquiring it had left a bitter taste in your mouth. A mixture of triumph and nausea churned in your stomach. You’d gleaned valuable info—Bellatrix would be pleased. But the cost felt steep.

Emerging from the study, you felt shaky, so you snatched a drink from a passing tray and downed it in one go. You nearly bumped into Pansy, who’d apparently been looking for you.

“There you are!” she scolded, linking your arm with hers. “We’re headed to the veranda for fresh air—Blaise wants to smoke.”

Her eyes lit on your face, puzzling over your unsettled expression. “Are you… okay?”

You forced a bright grin. “Sure, yeah. Just… too many people in there.”

But your hands trembled slightly, and Pansy noticed. She frowned. “You’re sure?”

Before you could answer, Daphne’s voice floated over, calling, “Y/n, there you are! Was the toilet enchanted and sucked you in?” She stopped short, noticing your stiff posture. “What’s going on?”

They both stared at you with that worry in their eyes. They didn’t know the half of it—how deep you and the others were entangled in the Dark Lord’s web.

“I’m fine,” you repeated, plastering on a wry smile. “This place is packed. I had to go all the way to the other side of the house to use Blaise’s personal bathroom, the line was so long. Got cornered by some ex-Slytherin alumni, talking my ear off on the way back.”

Daphne’s brows rose. “You? Getting cornered by random men? Never.” She tried to sound playful, but her eyes flickered with concern. “Ugh, well, you’re safe now, with us.”

You almost winced, remembering how you’d endured the man’s touch and questions just minutes ago. But you just shrugged it off. Keep the mask on, you reminded yourself, following your friends closely through the throng of wizards and witches.

Inwardly, you clung to the swirl of relief. The idea of being surrounded by your close friends, you could put on your old persona again—just a teenage witch out for a good time—never mind the dark secrets burning a hole in your mind.

After edging away from the house’s main hall, you emerged onto a white stone veranda that stretched grandly across the villa’s rear façade. Tall, dark mahogany beams framed the space like silent guardians, while beyond them, the night sky hung heavy with stars. Music reverberated from within, muffled here by the draped entrances.

In one corner of the veranda, your circle of friends had gathered like a small court. The aura they exuded—Mattheo, Draco, Theo, Enzo, and your host, Blaise—repelled most other party-goers, who lingered meters away. Perhaps the others sensed that an entourage of Death Eater heirs—and the Dark Lord’s heir himself—was too intimidating a scene to breach. Even in the chaos of this unexpectedly crowded party, power commanded distance.

Daphne let out an excited squeal as she dropped into one of the cushioned iron chairs by Blaise. “Everyone’s together again!” she cheered, blissfully unaware of the that undercut what lingered around her within her own friends.

Pansy strolled over to Enzo, who stood near Blaise, indulgently smoking a joint that was being passed around. A swirl of smoke left his lips just as Pansy pinched his arm, snatching the cylinder from his hand.

“Oi, Pans—what the fuck?!” he snapped, rubbing his arm.

“Looked like you were hogging it,” she retorted with a nonchalant shrug, raising the joint to her lips.

A slight grin tugged at your mouth, and you ruffled Enzo’s hair as you walked past, heading to drape your arms around Blaise’s shoulders from behind in a gesture of greeting. “Sorry for being late,” you murmured. He patted your arm briefly, acceptance in his silence.

You then moved to the wide couch where Theo and Draco were seated. They each gave you a subdued nod. Theo casually rested his arm across the back of the couch, behind you, as though you’d never been apart. Draco gave a subtle tilt of his lips—a sort of half-smile, half-cool acknowledgment.

“More like you ladies were taking forever,” Enzo grumbled, adjusting his fluffy brown hair, glaring at Pansy who was now inhaling deeply on the stolen joint.

“It took us ages to find Y/N,” Pansy interjected, her tone pointed as she exhaled a plume of smoke that curled overhead.

You raised a brow. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize this party was less than sacred among our peers and needed some solitude at the other end of the house.” The smoothness in your voice was practiced, every bit of forced normalcy. You’d slip a mask over the chaos that churned in your racing thoughts, bidding to grant yourself grace for the rest of the night. You’d done what you needed, there was no need to dig for more.

Across from you, Daphne let her legs drape over the arm of her chair, and Mattheo silently passed the joint her way. She took a swift drag, then handed it off to Draco.

Blaise let out a bark of laughter. “I didn’t realize either, okay?” he said, gesturing at the throng of unfamiliar wizards mingling through the open archways. “Apparently, the world’s craving a distraction with… well, everything going on.”

You flicked a look at Theo. He met your gaze, then glanced at Mattheo, who had fixed his dark eyes on you—a hard stare that spoke of annoyance or concern briefly flitting to your now healed hands, then back to your eyes. Your stomach knotted as he scowled deeper, snapping his gaze away the second you raised a questioning brow.

It stung. He was—is—your best friend, along with Theo. Inseparable, you three. Hell, he basically lived with you and Theo at this point. Had his own room in the guest wing and everything. So why did he choose to be distant when you needed him most? When he needed you the most?

“Probably never a good sign if Evander Rosier’s milling about,” Pansy said, taking another slow drag before handing the joint to Draco. She wrinkled her nose. “That man’s a menace.”

Daphne propped her head up, eyes alight with curiosity. “Is he still as handsome as he was in school?” She twirled her hair, kicking her feet idly off the chair’s arm.

“Daph, the guy’s a weasel—” you started, rolling your eyes.

“That prat is here?” Mattheo muttered, stepping forward and running a tense hand through his curls. He spat the words low enough that only your group would hear. There was something almost feral in his tone, like he itched for a confrontation.

Draco leaned in, elbows on his knees. “Bold of him, considering his family's got major targets on their backs for switching allegiances when it suited them. Heard the Dark Lord isn’t fond of turncoats. You’d think they’d keep their heads down.”

“Exactly,” Mattheo agreed, starting to pace in the limited space of the veranda. Each step exuded pent-up energy, a sign of the storm roiling beneath his brooding façade. “I don’t trust him,” Mattheo muttered.

“You don’t trust anyone,” Pansy quipped, leaning into Enzo’s side as she blew a huff of air to fix her bangs.

Mattheo didn’t bother replying, his jaw clenching tighter. Draco, seated at his side of the couch, shifted slightly, one leg crossing over the other as his cool gray gaze flicked between Mattheo and Theo. A hum of knowledge unspoken as the dark curly haired boy continued pacing, his equally dark eyes sharp and restless. His shoulders were tight beneath his tailored jacket, each step deliberate but restrained, as though holding back something more volatile.

War was creeping into every aspect of your lives. It was easy to mask it under booze, weed, and forced smiles, but it only took a mention of someone like Rosier to remind you that trouble lurked everywhere.

“Well, Mattheo’s not wrong,” Draco said, breaking the silence. His tone was measured, but his words carried weight. “If Evander Rosier’s here, it’s for a reason. And it’s not to mingle.”

Daphne, ignorant to the depth of that trouble, scoffed. “You lot are so dramatic. Maybe he’s just here to enjoy the party. Could be a rumor, anyway—who said he’s committing treason?”

Pansy grimaced. “Not treason, survival,” she corrected, flicking her gaze your way. “Rosier’s family is desperate to cling to whatever power they have left. Bet they’ll sell out friends or enemies alike to keep afloat.”

“And what does it matter to us?” Daphne countered, her tone breezy but her eyes narrowing. “We’re not the ones making alliances, are we?”

Her words struck a chord—you forced yourself not to flinch, remembering how you and Theo, Mattheo, and even Draco plus Enzo had been entangled in the Dark Lord’s webs. You busied your hands by taking the joint from Theo and inhaling a bitter drag. A tingle of numbness slid through your veins, but the conversation kept your mind from fully escaping.

Theo, finally spoke up. His arm still rested casually along the back of the couch, his fingers tapped a steady rhythm against the fabric, growing antsy. “If Rosier’s family is trying to play both sides, that makes him a liability to everyone. Including us.”

The group fell silent, the weight of his words settling like a shroud, uncomfortably close to the truth.

“You’re awfully quiet tonight, Y/n,” Pansy noted, arching a brow as she glanced your way. “Something on your mind?”

You exhaled smoke, crafting your face into something neutral. “Just listening,” you deflected, passing the joint to Enzo. “Watching the crowd, seeing who’s worth noticing.”

“You just smoked!” Enzo complained, though he took the cylinder greedily.

Mattheo’s pacing halted, his gaze snapping to you with hawk-like sharpness. “Did you talk to him?” he asked abruptly.

The question sent a ripple through your friends, each set of eyes anchoring on you.

You wanted to scoff, nothing got past him, did it? Feeling so entitled to know everything you did, despite keeping you at arms length right now.

You hesitated—barely a fraction of a second—long enough for Mattheo’s eyes to narrow. “Briefly,” you confessed, keeping your tone cool. “He wasn’t direct, but he hinted his family might not be as loyal to the Dark Lord as they pretend. Could be worth telling—”

“You shouldn’t have,” Mattheo cut you off, voice throbbing with repressed anger. “You can’t toy with Rosier, he’s dangerous.” Mattheo’s scowl deepened, and he ran a hand through his dark curls in frustration. “You believed him?”

Something about his hostility riled you. You straightened, the high of the smoke fueling a rush of bravado, everyone became muffled background noise. “I’m not toying with him, I’m gaining information. If any of it’s true, we can use it. If not—”

“Y/n,” Theo leaned forward, trying to interrupt.

“Use it for what? Bellatrix’s schemes?” Mattheo interrupted him, bitterness dripping from every word. “For what? For him to use you for his schemes as well now?”

The words hung between you, heavy with unspoken meaning. You straightened your spine, the mask of confidence you’d worn all evening hardening.

“I’m not toying with anyone,” you said quietly, doubling down on your stance. “I know what I’m doing.”

“Do you?” Mattheo snapped. “Because it seems like you’re getting in over your head stupidly.” His words laced with venom.

“Mattheo.” Theo’s voice became sharper, his arm tensed along the back of the couch, but his body coming forward. You put a hand on his chest, pushing lightly him back into the couch.

“No, let him finish,” the words left your mouth before you could stop them. You had been bemused almost. These were the most words you had garnered from him—in the form of an argument nonetheless—something that shouldn’t have shocked you.

Mattheo’s eyes burned into yours, the intensity of his gaze almost unbearable. “You think Bellatrix cares if you come back in one piece? You think she’s sending you out there because she trusts you?” Mattheo’s voice rose, drawing the attention of several onlookers. He took a step closer, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “You’re disposable to her, Y/n. We all are.”

A hush descended, the weight of his outburst making the veranda feel smaller. The truth of his words cut deep, but you refused to flinch. Instead, you held his gaze, your jaw tightening.

Somewhere in the corner, Blaise stood, shock and anger etched across his features. “Wait, wait, wait–a gods forsaken second!” Blaise demanded, half to the group, half to you, looking from Theo to Draco to Mattheo for clarity. “Bellatrix’s schemes? Gaining information? What the hell have you lot been doing this summer?”

You didn’t need legilimency to see how Daphne, now realized how serious this was, sat upright, eyes wide. “You guys are… involved with the Dark Lord? And you never told—”

Pansy paled, anxiety twisting her face. “Merlin, did you take the Mark?” She peered at Enzo, then Theo, then you, voice trembling. “Please tell me you didn’t. Tell me you still have a choice.”

Enzo shifted, inhaling sharply, “Well, only Theo and Matt—uh…”

He trailed off, a fateful hush smothering the veranda. The color drained from Blaise’s cheeks; Pansy’s hand flew to her mouth in horror. Daphne opened and closed her mouth, at a total loss, the illusions of carefree youth shattered before all your eyes.

The stress in your chest mounted, your mind swirling with guilt for all you’d hidden. Theo leaned forward, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes. “Enzo…” he grumbled.

Mattheo’s nostrils flared, fists clenching at his sides. “You… you twat!” he snarled, rounding on Enzo. Anger and frustration overloaded him, the tension snapping like a frayed wire of weeks of him barely holding it together

In one swift motion, he lunged for Enzo. The other wizard watchers on the other side of the veranda corner recoiled, startled, as Daphne yelped, tumbling off her seat. The metal chair scraped violently across the stone. Pansy rushed to her aide while the rest of you scrambled to break up the fight.

Draco and Theo tried to pry Mattheo off Enzo, who’d ended up pinned on the floor. Blaise tried to help, but Mattheo and Enzo were locked in a tangle of furious limbs, fists swinging, sounds of fists connecting to bone. Shouts rose from the party-goers that remained, some jeering, others stepping back to watch the spectacle like a twisted show.

Your stomach churned. You’d known everyone was on edge, but seeing them physically brawl—to the point of bruises, cut lips, and swollen eyes—felt like a bitter confirmation that the war had long sunk its claws into your friend group, fracturing the dynamic you all once held.

Your hands shook as you sprang forward alongside Blaise, trying to wedge yourself between the two hotheaded boys. Theo had latched onto Mattheo’s arm, Draco pulling Enzo, but the pair still flailed with adrenaline and rage.

“Stop—stop it!” you yelled, voice cracking with tears you refused to shed. You could glimpse Enzo’s dazed expression beneath Mattheo’s clenched fist. The savage twist in Mattheo’s features struck you with guilt—had you caused this?

Finally, with combined effort, Draco, Blaise, and Theo yanked the two fighters apart. Mattheo staggered backward, panting and furious, his lip split, while Enzo lay on the floor, coughing, a bruise already forming on his jaw, eye swelling. The veranda fell into a stunned silence as party-goers parted to watch.

Blaise, face grim, holding onto the younger man. “You got him?” He asked, and you nodded quickly as he let Enzo slouch into your grasp. He then stepped forward and brandished his wand with authority. “That’s it. Party’s done—get out!” he roared at the onlookers, who quickly backed away, murmuring in hushed tones. Some half-scurried to the exit, others lingered but kept their distance.

You knelt by Enzo, gently brushing back his chocolate brown hair. Despite your anger at him, you couldn’t stop the wave of compassion. His nose was swollen, maybe broken, and blood trickled down his chin. He looked up at you, eyes full of remorse.

“S-sorry,” Enzo whispered hoarsely. “I didn’t mean to—”

“I know,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. “Just… hold still, we’ll get you patched up soon.”

Near you, Mattheo stood rigid, fists still trembling, you shot him a bitter glare. Theo hovered, breaths ragged, one arm loosely supporting Mattheo, the other still clamped on your shoulder for stability. The hush pulsed with leftover anger, confusion, guilt.

Pansy and Daphne stared at the group in shock from where they sat, uncertain whether to help Enzo or scold Mattheo. Draco grimly surveyed the damage—a few scattered chairs, a torn tablecloth, broken glasses. The fleeting warmth of the night had turned sour, a mirror of the secrets you and your friends tried to hide from the others now laid bare.

Blaise rubbed his temples, clearing the last stragglers away. “I’ll handle them,” he muttered, shooting the group a glare that balanced frustration and worry. “For now, just—sort yourselves out. This is all going to absolute shit.”

Around you, the once-lively party had dissolved into broken fragments. The veranda, now eerily quiet, bore the evidence of the night’s chaos: dark smears of blood against the pale stone, shattered glass glittering under the soft glow of the fairy lights. In the distance, the music continued its pulsing, upbeat hum—mocking the grim reality before you.

Mattheo stood apart, his chest heaving as he struggled to regain control, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white. Enzo sat slumped against the railing, wincing under your careful touch, his face contorted with pain. Theo, his usual composure frayed, closed his eyes briefly, his shoulders sagging as though the weight of the night had finally broken him. You swallowed hard, blinking back tears that threatened to spill, the stress of the evening hanging over you like a leaden cloak.

Without warning, Mattheo turned sharply, causing both you and Theo to instinctively shield Enzo from whatever fury might follow. But Mattheo didn’t lash out at any of you; instead, he kicked a broken votive lying on the ground, sending shards scattering across the stone.

“Fuck!” he spat, his voice low and hoarse, as he stalked toward the edge of the veranda, Draco following. He pulled a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his pocket, lighting one with shaking hands, then offering the pack and lighter to Draco, who took it with trembling fingers.

The flame trembled briefly before catching, the glow illuminating the raw anger and frustration etched across his face. Draco’s face is heavy with exhaustion evident on his pale features.

Theo exhaled deeply, releasing his hold on you as he turned to check on Daphne. She sat huddled nearby, her knees drawn to her chest, tears streaking her pale cheeks. Bright, angry red scrapes marred her arms and legs where she’d fallen, her quiet sobs cutting through the silence like a knife. With Theo nearby, Pansy excused herself to go find Blaise inside the house.

Daphne shouldn’t have been part of this. She wasn’t supposed to be caught in the crossfire of your mess—or theirs. You doubted Mattheo or Enzo had wanted this, either. For all her family’s ties to conservative politics, Daphne had always remained blissfully uninvolved in the darker intricacies of the war. She should have been unscathed.

Enzo groaned softly, clutching his side, his breaths shallow and labored.

You let out a quiet sigh, reaching for your wand.

“Keep still, please,” you murmured, your voice gentler than you felt. “This is going to hurt.”

His only response was a faint grimace as you grasped his broken nose carefully between your fingers. He winced sharply, a hiss of pain escaping through his teeth, but he didn’t pull away.

You muttered the incantation for a mending spell, your wand’s tip glowing faintly as you guided the bones back into place. The magic hummed beneath your skin, familiar but no less draining.

“There,” you whispered, leaning back slightly to inspect your work.

Enzo exhaled shakily, his face pale but less strained.

You, Pansy, and Daphne had long since learned the basics of healing spells, an unfortunate necessity when dealing with the boys. Scuffles with others—and often each other—had left their marks over the years. But tonight was different. This wasn’t some petty fistfight or roughhousing gone wrong. This was something darker, more violent.

“Thanks,” Enzo rasped, his voice barely audible.

You nodded, brushing another stray strand of hair from your face as you sat back on your heels.

Nearby, Theo helped Daphne to her feet, his touch gentle but firm. She winced as she stood, her scraped knees trembling slightly. He muttered something low, his voice too soft for you to catch, but whatever he said made her nod, her sobs quieting to sniffles, helping her sit on the couch.

Mattheo, meanwhile, remained by the railing, his back to the group. Smoke curled around him in lazy spirals, the sharp scent of burning tobacco cutting through the night air.

“You should talk to him,” Theo said suddenly, his voice tight and quiet as he returned to your side.

Your head snapped up, meeting his gaze.

“Me?” you shot back, your voice hushed but edged with disbelief. “Why me?”

Theo’s jaw clenched, “someone has to keep him in check, Y/n. He’s going to get himself—or all of us—killed.”

Your lips parted, a retort forming, but the weight of his words silenced you. He wasn’t wrong.

“He won’t listen,” you whispered finally, your voice barely audible. “Look at what happened just now.”

Theo’s expression softened, the anger giving way to weariness. “He listens to you more than anyone else. He always has.”

You glanced toward Mattheo, your heart heavy. He stood rigid, staring out into the dark expanse beyond the veranda, the glow of his cigarette flickering faintly in the shadows.

“It’s true,” Enzo sat up more properly. “Even when you two are at each other’s throats.”

You shook your head, “not now.” You muttered, looking back down at Enzo. “Lets get you in a seat.”

The silence stretched, punctuated only by the distant hum of music and the faint crackle of Mattheo’s cigarette with the scraping of a chair that Theo picked up for Enzo to sit in before pulling up his own chair. Their legs bounced up and down anxiously in tandem as no one dared to speak. You sat with your back against the railing, picking at the sides of your nails anxiously.

Pansy finally emerged from the house, her arms laden with first aid supplies. Her usual sharp, composed demeanor was dulled, her expression unusually grim as Blaise trailed behind her, carrying a bottle of firewhisky and a collection of mismatched glasses—enough for all of you.

“Well, that was fun. Anyone else want to air any more grievances?” Blaise announced, his voice laced with sardonic humor as he set the bottle and glasses on the small table beside his chair. He poured himself a drink with practiced ease, his movements deliberately casual, but the tension in his jaw betrayed his true feelings.

No one responded.

Blaise glanced around, his deadpan expression hardening. “Good. Let’s start the family meeting, then.”

Mattheo let out a sharp, humorless laugh from his place at the railing, the ember of his cigarette flaring briefly as he inhaled. “Family meeting? You’re acting like this is some petty school spat, Zabini.”

Blaise raised an eyebrow, unruffled. “And you’re acting like sulking is going to fix anything, Riddle.” He poured himself a generous measure of firewhisky, the clink of glass on glass unnervingly loud in the silence.

Draco sank into a chair across from Blaise, his elbows resting on his knees, a sharp contrast to Mattheo’s restless stance.

Mattheo rolled his eyes but said nothing, taking another slow drag of his cigarette. The smoke curled lazily around him, dissipating into the cool night air.

“This mess is only going to get worse if we don’t get our shit together,” Theo said, his voice steady but laced with a frustration that mirrored everyone’s simmering exhaustion.

“Enlighten us, Theo,” Pansy cut in, her arms crossed as she perched on the edge of a chaise. “What exactly is the plan here? Because from where I’m sitting, you’ve all—” she paused, her sharp gaze flicking to each of you, her finger subtly tracing a circle that excluded only Blaise and Daphne. “—been keeping things from us.”

“And if we told you?” Theo shot back, his tone sharper now. “What then? You think any of us asked for this? Dragging you into this mess is the last thing we want.”

“Enough,” you said firmly, your voice slicing through the escalating tension. You stood, brushing the dust from your hands, feeling the weight of their stares settle heavily on you. For a moment, you regretted speaking, but you pressed on.

“Whether we told them or not, they’re associated with us,” you said, sitting beside Daphne. “They’ve been collateral since we made our vows. And now? It’s about survival. We’re in too deep, and we all know it.”

Mattheo snorted, the sound bitter and sharp. “Oh, we know it. But pretending to be one big, happy family isn’t going to change anything.”

“And brooding in a corner is?” Blaise shot back, topping off his glass with an air of exasperated nonchalance.

“They deserve to know,” you said softly, picking up a bottle of antiseptic elixir and a clean cloth. You turned to Daphne. “May I?”

She nodded silently, her tear-streaked face a mixture of gratitude and quiet pain. You dabbed the cloth with the elixir and began cleaning the scrapes on her knee. “Face it, Mattheo,” you continued, your tone firmer now. “We’re stuck with each other, whether you like it or not.”

“Stuck,” Mattheo repeated, his voice low and dangerous. He flicked the half-smoked cigarette into the darkness, the ember snuffed out on impact. “You say that like it’s some minor inconvenience, Y/n. But in case you’ve forgotten, there are people out there who’d kill us all without a second thought. And some of us…” His voice dropped, and his eyes flicked briefly to Theo. “Some of us are already marked.”

His words hung heavy in the air, the unspoken weight of the Dark Marks on Mattheo’s and Theo’s arms casting an even darker shadow over the group.

Daphne broke the silence, her voice soft but steady as she placed a hand on yours, stilling your movements. “I think you’re forgetting something,” she said, her blue-gray eyes filled with quiet resolve. “We’re your friends. Not your enemies, not spies waiting to turn on you. Friends. If any of us thought in first year that befriending Riddle, Sallow, Malfoy, and Nott was a mistake, we’d have steered clear. But we didn’t. We chose you, just like we’re choosing to stand with you now.”

Mattheo’s gaze softened slightly as he looked at her, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction.

A watery chuckle bubbled out of you despite the heaviness of the moment, and you quickly wiped your face with the back of your hand.

Pansy hummed in agreement, picking up the glasses Blaise had poured and passing them around. “She’s right,” she said, her tone light but firm. “So stop brooding, Mattheo, and get over here.”

Mattheo’s scowl deepened, but he pushed off the railing, crossing the veranda begrudgingly.

Blaise exhaled heavily, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “Now we want to know everything,” he said, his voice leaving no room for argument. “And don’t bother sparing the details. I can get my hands on Veritaserum if I have to.”

Theo rolled his eyes but accepted a glass, muttering something under his breath. Draco rubbed a hand down his face, masking a smirk, while Enzo let out a soft laugh before wincing and clutching his side.

You handed a glass to Daphne, then grabbed one for yourself, the firewhisky burning as you took a slow sip.

“Fine,” you said, leaning back against the cold stone wall, the firewhisky warming your chest but doing little to ease the heaviness of the moment. “But you’d better brace yourselves. You might wish you hadn’t asked.”

With Theo, Draco, Enzo, and even begrudging input from Mattheo, you told them everything. The words came haltingly at first, but as the night wore on, they began to flow more easily. You described the aftermath of Lucius Malfoy’s and Theodore Nott Sr.’s imprisonment in Azkaban, the brutal ceremony that branded Mattheo and Theo with the Dark Mark, and your own unbreakable vow with Bellatrix—a chain wrapped tightly around your throat.

Every detail out in the open, even Bellatrix’s obsession with your role as her informant. When you recounted your confrontation with Evander Rosier, Mattheo’s fingers turned white against the arm of the chair. His jaw clenched, the muscle twitching as you explained why Rosier’s allegiance—or lack thereof—was such a critical piece in Bellatrix’s game.

“Merlin,” Daphne whispered, her face pale as she sank deeper into her chair. “If I’d known, I never would have—Y/n, I’m so sorry—”

You waved her off with a lazy flick of your wrist, muttering another ‘Reparo’ as you all worked to restore some semblance of order to the veranda. Shattered glass reassembled, splatters of blood faded from the white stone, but the aftermath of it all lingered

“You didn’t know,” you said softly, brushing stray hair from your face. “And honestly? It might still be useful. If it buys me even a day of her not breathing down my neck, I’ll take it.”

Mattheo scoffed from across the veranda, his sharp eyes flicking toward you, but he said nothing. You shot him a glare, daring him to push further, he only turned his focus back to cleaning, muttering incantations as he scrubbed at the stubborn stains on the tiles.

By the time the night drew to a close, the tension had softened, though it never fully dissipated. There were still unspoken fears and lingering doubts, but for now, what mattered was that the group remained intact.

Pansy, Blaise, and Daphne had listened in silence, their expressions a mixture of shock and resolve. Despite everything, they remained steadfast in their decision to stand by you.

“We’re in this together,” Pansy said firmly, her hand resting on your shoulder as she caught your eye. “No matter what.”

The burden you’d carried for weeks felt just a little lighter, their support a fragile but welcome relief even with the apprehension you felt for their involvement. For the first time in what felt like forever, you felt a flicker of hope.

As the floo network flared to life, casting an emerald glow across the room, you turned to your friends. Each of them stood nearby, ready to depart but unwilling to leave without a proper goodbye.

You hugged Daphne and Pansy tightly, promising to write as often as you could. Enzo pulled you into a warm embrace, murmuring a quiet apology that you brushed off with a forgiving smile. Draco offered a rare but sincere pat on your shoulder before stepping aside for Blaise, who enveloped both you and Theo in a firm, protective group hug.

“Don’t hesitate to call on us,” Blaise said quietly, his voice steady. “If you need anything—anything—you know where to find me.”

For all the darkness that surrounded you, they were your anchor in their own ways.

“We’ll talk soon,” you said, your voice quiet but resolute.

Theo nodded, his arm brushing against yours in silent support as he stepped toward the hearth.

Just as you moved to follow, Mattheo’s voice stopped you. “Y/n.”

You turned to find him standing apart from the others, his usual mask of indifference fractured, if only slightly. The low light caught the sharp angles of his face, his dark eyes glinting with something unspoken. For a moment, the weight he carried: fear, frustration, and a simmering anger, lay bare between you.

He opened his mouth, then closed it, as though wrestling with the words. Finally, he spoke, his voice low and raw, barely audible over the crackling floo. “Get some rest.” He finally murmured, gaze dropped, and his fingers twitched at his sides, betraying the composure he tried so hard to maintain.

Your breath caught, the knot of frustration and exhaustion loosening just enough to let the gravity of his words settle. Despite the distance he’d put between you, the quiet simmering for weeks, this moment felt like a quiet truce—for now—a bridge across the gulf that had formed between you.

You stepped closer, your voice soft but steady, your fingers twitching, wanting to reach out but hesitating. “You know where to find me, Mattheo.”

He lifted his gaze, and for an instant, his expression was unguarded, raw. His nod was slight, almost imperceptible, but enough to say what words couldn’t. His lips pressed into a thin line before he turned away, retreating to the shadows of the villa.

The green flames licked higher, casting flickering shadows against the walls. You hesitated for a moment longer, your eyes lingering on Mattheo’s retreating figure. Then, with a steadying breath, you stepped into the hearth beside Theo.

As the world blurred into streaks of green, Mattheo’s quiet words echoed in your mind.

The war wasn’t just coming—it was already here. And now, more than ever, you’d have to trust that the fragile bond between you all would hold.

Taglist: @moonlightttfae

A/n: and there we have it the madness begins, I hope you enjoyed. Lmk what you think as always!!

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theblackswan-and-thewhiterose · 1 month ago

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The newest addition to the Bulstrode family 😊

Louis Patridge as Antinous Bulstrode, younger brother of Concordia Bulstrode, and the cousin of Violetta Black, @konstantynowitz's OC, Malasintha Crabbe and my OC, Ephesia Nott.

Concordia is @theblackswan-and-thewhiterose 's OC! Thank you for allowing me to make this OC!

Side note: he is the great-grandfather of Millicent Bulstrode!

FC suggestion by @theblackswan-and-thewhiterose !

#antinous bulstrode #concordia bulstrode #malasintha bulstrode #malasintha crabbe #violetta bulstrode #violetta black #millicent bulstrode #ocs #my ocs #bulstrode family #ephesia bulstrode

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jadeshifting · 2 months ago

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★⋆. — A SLYTHERIN SUMMER.

　　　. 　　˚　　　　*　　　　✦　　　.　　.　　　✦　˚ 　　　　 ˚　.˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　　　　　　

.　　. 　 ˚　. when summer arrives, everyone rolls up to Blaise’s seaside estate like it’s a Vogue shoot, luggage charmed to unpack itself into the sprawling, marble-floored guest rooms. every day starts with the morning light spilling in through enchanted stained glass, cups of iced lavender tea swirling themselves, and Theo lazily enchanting seagulls to dive-bomb unsuspecting his unsuspecting friends (or the ones who most recently annoyed him, that is)

.　　. 　 ˚　. Blaise and his eternal composure take the lead when we take the boat out, steering it through crystal-clear waters. we recline on plush lounge. chairs with skin exposed to the sky, soaking up the sun, enchanted drinks in hand. the gentle breeze carries the sound of shouting and laughter across the water, eventually blending into a smooth melody with the distant calls of sea creatures

.　　. 　 ˚　. most mornings are spent endlessly honing magic—Astoria perfecting elegant, borderline-terrifying wandless spells, Mattheo and Lorenzo turning “study sessions” into duel-offs on the cliffside (bonus points for dramatic waves crashing behind them)

we slip dark, secretive magic into the mix, the kind of charms that definitely aren’t on the Hogwarts syllabus. Pansy calls it “illicit academia,” and honestly, it sticks

.　　. 　 ˚　. afternoons are all about chic leisure

glam swimsuits and charmed hair as we lounge by the pool that’s charmed to shimmer like liquid emeralds. Blaise conjures endless trays of chilled elderflower fizz, while Millicent beats Draco in a magical version of volleyball that ends with him sulking (as usual)

when the heat’s too much, we retreat to the grand sitting room, idly lounging on velvet sofas as enchanted gramophones spin lazily jazzy wizarding tunes

.　　. 　 ˚　. evenings take a darker turn—the moonlit garden becomes a playground for whispered secrets and “friendly” competitions

Draco and i go head-to-head in potion-making confrontations after he implies my higher grade was only because Snape liked me more (he doesn’t like anyone, scoff), crafting elixirs so potent they glow in the dark. the stakes? bragging rights and a rare, glittering vial of unicorn hair Pansy snatched from her family vault

.　　. 　 ˚　. the Slytherins gather in an ancient forest clearing after nightfall, where the air hums with anticipation. Mattheo and Draco get into playful duel, wands crackling with vibrant spells that light up the night like a personal firework show—but arguably brighter. Pansy and i, perched on moss-covered rocks, cheer them on with sly grins, knowing full well the real sparks are flying elsewhere

.　　. 　 ˚　. nothing can ever be all fun and games, we gather in the Bulstrode or the Malfoy grand library, poring over ancient tomes by candlelight. notes fly between us, enchanted quills scribbling furiously as we delve into forbidden spells and advanced potions, and anything we can get our hands on to prepare for the coming school year (always be ahead, that’s the rule.) the air is thick with concentration and the occasional sarcastic remark to break the intensity

.　　. 　 ˚　. then come the galas—because what’s a Slytherin summer without high-society drama?

decked out in designer robes, we glide into ballrooms like walking magazine covers. but behind the perfectly rehearsed smiles? a silent war

the air buzzes with thinly veiled competition. Pansy tosses her hair, exchanging sharp barbs with me as we play the part of rivals, each vying for our family’s approval. though behind everyone’s backs, we exchange winks, fully in on the joke of our faux feuding

each of us is playing the game for our families—vying to be the smartest, the most charming, the most impressive heir. the Slytherins excel after so many years of this, slipping between conversations with the charm of practiced performers while keeping an eye out for political secrets that can be exploited later

.　　. 　 ˚　. of course, we always circle back to each other

the best nights are spent sprawled across the expansive balconies, enchanted lanterns floating overhead as we trade stories, laugh about our parents’ ridiculous expectations, and share a few dark truths we wouldn’t dare breathe to anyone else

at the end of the day, no one else really gets us like our own group does

.　　. 　 ˚　. the Greengrass family’s coastal villa finds us for a weekend. the sun dips low, casting a golden glow over the pristine shoreline. the Slytherins lounge on velvet blankets, sipping enchanted cocktails while the waves crash rhythmically, mirroring the low hum of laughter and whispered secrets. sand-dusted toes peek from designer sandals, and a flick of Astoria’s wand summons floating lanterns that bathe the gathering in a dreamy luminescence

.　　. 　 ˚　. by the time summer winds down, the Slytherins have more than left their mark—burnt circles on the cliffside from duels, whispered rumors at every gala, and the lingering scent of salt air mixed with mischief. until next year :)

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#shifting motivation #reality shifting #shiftblr #shifting antis dni #shifting blog #shifters #shifting script #hogwarts dr #shifting to hogwarts #hogwarts scripting #shifting aesthetic #shiftinconsciousness #shift #shifting consciousness #shifting realities #shifting #shifting community #shifting to harry potter #shifting diary

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7s3ven · 1 year ago

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SANTA, TELL ME. draco malfoy

( master list )

IN WHICH… Draco Malfoy no longer enjoys Christmas, especially not when he has to stay at Hogwarts while all his friends are gone. But a certain bright-eyed Hufflepuff is glad to keep him company.

( draco x hufflepuff! reader )

“Santa, tell me if he really cares. ‘Cause I can’t give it all away if he won’t be here next year.”

Draco couldn’t remember when he had started to dislike Christmas. Maybe it was during his second year when he had to stay at Hogwarts for the winter and ever since then, he was required to do the same every year.

Draco mindlessly stared at the wrapped gifts his parents had sent him early. The cold Slytherin room was empty, everybody but Draco at home with their families.

The blond teenager was curled up on the soft couch, listening to the fire crackle and watching as the logs burned. Having had enough of wallowing in self pity, Draco slipped into a thick blazer and walked out of the common room.

He wandered around the halls, the sound of loud and joyful laughter catching his attention. He peeked out of the window, his nose slightly wrinkling when he saw Harry Potter and Ron Weasley. They were with two other girls that weren’t that annoying know-it-all, Hermione Granger.

Draco recognized one of them as Y/N L/N, a Hufflepuff who was unusually good at potions. The other girl was a dark-haired Ravenclaw with a stern beauty that contrasted Y/N’s soft features.

The group of four were playing in the snow, throwing it at each other and laughing when their noses turned red from the cold.

Y/N wore her yellow scarf which sorely clashed with her tight blue and white striped blouse, greyish-brown skirt, and puffy white jacket. She seemed to have fleece lined tights on because she wasn’t shivering.

Draco tore his eyes away from the happy friends and frowned. Even with his companions, they were never that carefree. But how Draco wished they could be. It must be great not having to worry about your every move and who you were friends with, who you liked, and who you were going to marry.

In a way, he envied Y/N. She was a pureblood brought up by muggle parents with no harsh expectations or demands.

On paper, she was a sacred pure but in every Slytherin’s eyes, she would always be an outcast. She was at every prestigious party in her bright and stunning yellow dresses, effortlessly sticking out like a sore thumb.

Draco released a sigh and ran a hand through his blond hair. He didn’t know what to do with Blaise and all his other friends gone. He had heard Nott was going on a trip to Paris. Wonderful.

Pansy was going to Italy.

Crabbe and Goyle were planning to visit a famous restaurant in London.

Millicent Bulstrode was going to New York.

And Matteo… the poor son of Lord Voldemort was stuck in the same orphanage his father had landed in decades ago. In the same room too.

Draco walked with no destination in mind until he ended up at the front gates of Hogwarts. He looked up, staring as the snowflakes dropped. Slowly, he stepped forward into the thick snow. He sank down into it and the cold offered a strange sense of comfort.

He had not been planning to go outside so he was wrongly dressed. Draco shivered slightly as the snow landed on his pale face. His cheeks were flushed red and his hands felt frozen. He wouldn’t be surprised if they were.

“You’re going to catch a cold.”

Draco hadn’t even noticed Y/N approaching him, her scarf in her hand. “If you plan to stay outside,” She uttered, trying to hand him the yellow clothing, “At least wear this.”

Draco looked her up and down, wondering why she was even talking to him. All he did was bully her friends, at least the ones in Gryffindor. Draco and his posse seemed to leave everybody else alone.

“You helped me last month. So I’m returning the favor.” Y/N brightly smiled and Draco felt his face heat up, much to his dismay.

Draco thought for a moment before he realized what Y/N was talking about. It was true, he had helped her but only because that boy who was trying to flirt with Y/N was making a fool of Slytherin and he didn’t approve of making girls uncomfortable.

“Ah.” Draco murmured, staring down at the scarf. He slowly reached out to grab it. “He deserved it.”

“Matteo punched him.” Y/N piped up, reminding Draco of what had happened. Yes, Matteo had punched the idiotic boy while Draco stood on the sidelines, merely watching. “His nose started bleeding. I’m all for defending people but was that necessary?”

“He’s done it before. Matteo only wanted to teach him a lesson. Sexual harassment is no joke. That boy has tried peeking up girl’s skirts so my statement still stands. He deserved it.” Draco uttered it more firmly this time.

“Where is Matteo anyway?” Y/N looked around, trying to catch a glimpse of the brunette boy. “I thought he would’ve stayed behind.”

“I’m not sure why he went back to the orphanage.” Draco wasn’t the best at small talk, especially not with friendly people. But Y/N didn’t seem to notice as she rambled on.

She was relatively good friends with Matteo. She was one of the few who could get away with talking to him and not receiving a glare in return.

“He told me he was staying behind but maybe he didn’t want to be alone again, since he assumed you were leaving too. He kind of envies you and your family trips. He’s envious because you actually have a family.” Y/N paused, slowly covering her mouth. “Ah… I wasn’t supposed to tell you that… sorry.”

She lifted her head, locking gazes with Draco. “You’ll… keep this between us, right?” She sheepishly smiled, “I swear I don’t usually spill people’s secrets…”

Draco shrugged. “I wouldn’t be able to do much with that information anyway.” The blond hair turned around to walk away, but he realized he was still holding Y/N’s scarf. “I changed my mind. I’m going back inside. I assume you’ll be staying out here for a while so take this back. We don’t want you to freeze.”

Draco wrapped Y/N’s scarf around her neck, nodding. There was a slither of a smile on his lips before he spun around and strutted off.

“Why were you talking with Malfoy?” Harry approached Y/N as soon as Draco left.

She hummed in surprise and slightly jumped. “What? Oh. He’s not so bad. He’s actually… somewhat nice.”

Harry scoffed and rolled his emerald green eyes. “Malfoy? Nice? As if. Anyway, we’re going to walk around the pine woods. Wanna join?”

Y/N shook her head and beamed. “No. I’m good. I’m a little tired so I’ll see you inside.” Harry smiled back at her before jogging over to Ron and Anna, the Ravenclaw girl.

Y/N pushed past the large wooden doors, walking back into the warmth of the Hogwarts castle. The fire in the Great Hall crackled as Y/N entered, intent on warming her hands. But she found Draco standing in front of the Christmas tree, staring at it in wonder and awe and sadness.

“It’s pretty, isn’t it?” Y/N snuck up behind Draco, startling him.

“Jeez! Merlin’s sake, L/N, don’t sneak up on me like that!” Draco stormed out of the Great Hall while Y/N poured and huffed.

“Hmph. What’s his problem? He was fine before.” She shook her head in annoyance as she warmed her freezing body by the fireplace. “Slytherins really are bipolar…”

Though, Y/N couldn’t help but feel sorry for Draco. She knew he was the only one in the common room because Matteo had told her everybody always went home. Pansy confirmed it.

Y/N and Pansy weren’t close but they had worked on a group project together and for along relatively well. Unbeknownst to Y/N, Pansy tried her best to hate the kind Hufflepuff but she never could.

Y/N could hear footsteps approaching the hall and assuming it was Harry, Y/N didn’t turn around. She should’ve because as soon as she caught sight of blond hair in a reflection, she knew it was Draco.

“Come to yell at me some more?” She asked, a joking tone to her question.

“You helped decorate the Great Hall, right?” Draco inquired, getting straight to the point.

“Yeah, I guess so. Why?”

“I need you to decorate the Slytherin common room.” Draco held up a pouch of money, “I’m willing to pay.”

Y/N glanced at him as he jingled the coins. She shrugged. “Nah. I’ll do it for free. Let’s go!” She linked arms with Draco and dragged him to the supply closet where the extra decorations were being been kept.

“Why do I need to help you?” Draco grumbled as Y/N shoved the boxes into his arms. She huffed.

“What? You think I could carry all this by myself? Hey,” She poked Draco’s shoulder, “There’s things even I can’t do alone. Besides, you’re strong. Use it for something helpful.”

Y/N turned away, which relieved Draco because he refused to let her see his flushed cheeks.

“Wow, it really isn’t decorated at all. That’s surprising, especially on Christmas Eve. The Hufflepuff common room is almost too shiny with all the tinsel.” Y/N looked around the Slytherin Chamber in disappointment. At least they had their Christmas tree up, though it was a very sad and bland one. She frowned. “How do you guys live like this?”

“I helped you carry the boxes. I trust you’ll be able to do the rest.” Draco dropped the boxes full of decorations and hurried off.

“Huh? Wait! You don’t expect me to do it alone! I need to socialise! I’ll die if I don’t talk to people!”

Draco slammed his dorm door shut, making Y/N sigh. “He’s only nice when Matteo is around.” She mumbled, “Does he have a crush on him or something? I wouldn’t be surprised. He keeps turning down girls, even Pansy. And she’s gorgeous.”

Y/N sorted through all the tinsel, sighing. “I suppose if I were a boy, I’d go for Pansy. Or Hermione. Maybe Luna?” She picked all the green tinsel strings, making sure to leave every single red-colored one in the box.

“Daphne Greengrass or whatever her name is would be a good choice too.” Y/N uttered as she wrapped the green tinsel around the stair rail. “Hm, who else? Ah! Cho Chang! Cedric sure is lucky to be dating her. I’m almost jealous!”

Y/N sighed as she hung ornaments on the lonely Christmas tree. “Ginny would also be on the list I guess. She’s a total badass. Why won’t Harry notice her? If I were him, I’d fall in love instantly.”

She checked fireplace, and made sure to add some more wood to the flames to keep them ignited. “Pansy, Hermione, Luna, Daphne, Cho, and Ginny. A strong lineup. What about the boys? Matteo is handsome but I only see him as a friend. Lorenzo I would get with. Cedric? Maybe. Oliver? Yes. Dating Harry or Ron would be a little weird so maybe not. Besides, I ship Hermione and Ron.”

This went on for quite some time. Y/N had made amazing progress while talking to herself. The chamber was almost unrecognisable. Draco, who was cooped up in his room, clenched his jaw. He was covering his ears, trying to ignore Y/N’s annoying rambling.

But she kept talking. Over and over again. About useless topics too. Finally, Draco had enough. He pulled open his door and was about to yell something until he heard Y/N mention his name.

“Draco? Hm… I don’t know. Am I supposed to call him Malfoy? I feel like we’re on relatively good terms. Would I date him? A solid maybe. He’s so handsome but he’s a little bipolar. If only he was a little nicer. I wouldn’t mind kissing him.”

Draco slowly lifted his head, hanging onto every word Y/N spoke. If he was a little nicer… she’d kiss him?

“I’m going out. The room looks great. Thanks, Y/N.” Draco hurriedly grabbed her hand, pressing an innocent kiss to her knuckles before he hurried off.

“Did he… just say thank you?” Y/N huffed in disbelief. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard his say that.” She looked at her hand, still able to feel the ghost of Draco’s lips against her skin.

Draco had never been a nice person from the start but he figured the way to Y/N’s heart was to get on neutral terms with Potter.

Speaking of the devil, Draco could see Harry, Ron, and Anna walking into the castle.

“Morning, Potter.” Draco uttered as he passed the trio, trying his best not to scowl. “And Weasley and, I’m sorry, I don’t know your last name but I like your black hair.”

Once Draco was out of earshot, Ron and Harry shared a disturbed look. “Was he… poisoned or something?” Ron asked, “I prefer when Malfoy’s mean! It’s scary when he’s nice.”

“Hey, guys!” Y/N jogged towards her friends, wildly waving at them. “Have you guys seen Draco?”

“Yeah. He went that way. But he was acting super weird. What did you say to him to make him greet us and tell Anna he likes her hair.” Ron scoffed, “Or did you slip a potion into his drink?”

“Huh? I didn’t say anything!” Y/N exclaimed. She paused. “Oh… well, I did say I would kiss him if he was a little nicer. But I was talking to myself.”

“Bloody hell, Y/N.” Harry uttered. “Malfoy probably fancies you.”

“What?” Y/N tilted her head to the side.

“If you think about it, it makes sense.” Anna retorted. “I mean, he’s always trying to talk to you. He doesn’t bully you and he seems to stay away from bullying your friends as well. I mean, Harry and Ron and ‘Mione excluded.”

Y/N sighed. “That doesn’t prove anything. Do you know where he went? I need to ask him about the decorations. I’m decorating the Slytherin chamber.”

“He walked outside. Probably to Hogsmeade to go on a shopping spree for himself.” Ron quietly scoffed.

“Tell me if you see him, ‘kay?”

“Yeah, sure.”

Y/N walked back to the chamber, staring at the work she had done. The Slytherin common room looked much more comforting and welcoming now. She smiled proudly, placing her hands on her hips.

“Looks good, Y/N.” She happily high-fived herself. Y/N sat down on the couch, slightly slouching. She waved her wand around while mumbling a small charm, smiling as snowflakes floated around.

Hours eventually passed and Draco still hadn’t returned. Y/N had finished decorating and she had refurbished the fire as well. She was so bored she eventually found a way into Draco’s dorm and cleaned it too.

“Santa, tell me, if you’re really there. Don’t make me fall in love again if he won’t be here next year.” Y/N quietly sang, humming the beat to the muggle song. She had went to fetch Hermione’s gift, a small radio that played all kinds of songs. Y/N was enjoying it very much.

She grinned as she happily swung her legs. She stood up to check on the fire, slightly dancing.

The chorus played again, and this time Y/N sang louder.

At that time, Draco walked in. He froze, watching as Y/N surprisingly hit all the high notes in the Ariana Grande song.

Draco slowly smiled, strutting towards Y/N. He tapped her shoulder, “You’re a good singer.” He complimented her.

“Oh… thanks. What took you so long? I finished ages ago.”

“And you didn’t leave?”

“I, uh… didn’t wanna leave you alone.” Y/N sheepishly smiled. “Oh, what’s that?” She pointed at the bag in Draco’s arms. “A gift for your friend?”

“I guess you could say that… but she’s not really my friend. More like someone I owe.” Draco held out the bag, shoving it into Y/N’s hands. “For you. Merry… early Christmas.”

Draco looked away, trying to his his reddening ears.

Y/N tilted her head to the side before she opened the bag, gasping softly. “What the… Draco… this must’ve cost a fortune.” Inside was a freshly pressed Burberry blazer.

“I overheard that you were going to Paris in Winter next year and it snows there occasionally, so I bought you something to keep you warm.”

“Oh… it’s lovely, Draco.” Y/N smiled, feeling the fabric. “I love it. Thank you… so much.” She couldn’t contain her laugh of happiness.

“That’s not all.” Draco reached in, pulling out a jewelry box. “Vivienne Westwood.” He uttered, showing her the beautiful silver necklace.

Y/N gasped again. “You didn’t have to do this… you spent way too much money, Draco.”

“I wanted to do this. Consider it my thanks for decoration. It looks great. Turn around so I can put this on you.”

Y/N slowly spun around, feeling Draco’s cold hands against her neck. He gently pushed her hair aside, lingering for a moment too long. He put the necklace around her neck, carefully clasping it.

“Thank you.” Y/N grasped the pendant, smiling. “I love it. And I love the blazer too.”

Draco was still standing behind her, not wanting to move as he inhaled the smell of her sweet perfume.

“Y/N.” He whispered, “Can I…” Draco hesitated, “Can I kiss you?”

“What?” Y/N turned around in shock, staring at him with wide eyes. Draco, misunderstanding it as rejection, frowned.

“Sorry. I just blurted it out. I didn’t mean it.”

The clock in the common room loudly chimed as it reached twelve o’clock, a reminder of what day it was now. Christmas.

Y/N reached out, grabbing Draco and pulled him forward. She quickly kissed him and shyly pulled away, her cheeks flushed bright red just like Draco’s ears.

“Merry Christmas, Draco.”

#harry potter x reader #draco malfoy #slytherin #hufflepuff #gryffindor #ravenclaw #hogwarts legacy #hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry #harry potter fanfiction #hermione granger #ron weasley #hogwarts mystery #one shot #all i want for christmas is you #santa tell me #christmas special

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metalomagnetic · 10 months ago

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Snippet Canis Major

Voldemort remembers the other Sirius. Also, a little glimpse at Orion/Walburga, because I never tire of this toxic couple.

(-)

Usually, it was Arcturus or Pollux that showed up when their children got in trouble. Cygnus, especially, was often in trouble, so Pollux’ face was the most familiar to the students.

In Voldemort’s sixth year at Hogwarts, Atticus Bulstrode, the Head Boy, invited Walburga to Hogsmeade, the last in a lengthy string of boys asking her out. Only this time, she accepted.

When he heard, Orion challenged him to a formal duel. Atticus laughed, rolled his eyes at his fourteen years old opponent.

“Quick!” He was shaken awake by Abraxas, in the middle of the night.“Orion is killing Bulstrode in the trophy room! You have to stop him!”

He reached them just in time, he disarmed Orion, and rushed Bulstrode to the Hospital Wing, where they found Dumbledore asking the Matron for a sleeping potion.

Atticus was lucky- Dumbledore was more often than not away from Hogwarts, chasing Grindelwald, rumour went, but he was there that night, apparently suffering with insomnia.

The professor kept Atticus alive until the Healers from St Mungo arrived and took the boy with them.

“It wasn’t me,” he said, hurriedly, stained in Bulstrode’s blood, lingering in the Hospital Wing. Dumbledore peered at him from under his half-moon glasses. Dumbledore always liked to blame everything on him. “I only brought him here after-”

“I know,” Dumbledore assured him.

The next morning Atticus’ father came thundering, his yells easily heard from where Voldemort was spying, near the Headmaster office.

He wondered if maybe this will be the time when a Black actually suffers consequences. After all, Bulstrode’s name was ancient, they were a rich, influential family, and surely, at least on account of that, Dippet would do something more than detention and points taken, which was the usual punishment for Blacks.

Only, this time it wasn't Arcturus that came to fix his son's issues.

It was the infamous Sirius Black. A tall man, with wide shoulders, long black hair hanging around his face, deep circle under his too intense eyes, mouth twisted in a snarl. Orion walked behind him, his gaze fixed on his older relative. Voldemort watched them, hidden by a pillar. Orion never seemed small; he carried himself with such arrogance and pride, his head held so high he seemed a foot taller than he was. Yet right then, Orion looked small, trailing after his grandfather, quietly, as Voldemort observed them disappear up the stairwell leading to the Headmaster's chambers.

They left Dippet’s office not even a quarter of an hour after they entered it.

As soon as they emerged from it, the gargoyles closing the door behind them, old Black slapped Orion, the noise echoing down the hallway.

“Next time you pull something like this, do it on a weekday, you fool! If I’m woken up again at this ungodly hour on your account on a Sunday, you will be very sorry for it.”

“Yes, Grandfather,” Orion answers, in that unfazed tone of his.

The old man narrows his eyes. “What was it about, anyway? How did he provoke your ire?”

A second worth of silence. “He tried stealing from me.”

Orion gets hit again, harder this time. The heavy family ring rips the skin at the corner of his left eye, and that pure blood of theirs makes an appearance.

“Then why does he still have hands?” the old man hisses, enraged. “If someone attempts to take what is yours, you cut off their hands, boy!”

He slaps Orion again, just as harshly.

“Yes, Grandfather.” Orion doesn't take his eyes off his grandfather, doesn't wipe away the blood running down his cheek, his hands held behind his back.

Sirius Blacks huffs in displeasure, before turning on his heels and marching down the hallway. “Weakling,” he mutters.

Nothing happened to Orion. Not even the usual detention. No points taken.

Sirius Black insisted it was a formal duel, that the challenge had been accepted, and it was all done honourably, Slughorn told Voldemort, when he called him into his office to give him the Head Boy badge, temporarily, until Atticus recovered and would be able to return to Hogwarts and his duties.

“When Armando reminded him duels are illegal at Hogwarts, formal or not, Mr Black said rules are just words on parchment; that he’s a wizard, and he follows laws of magic, not of men.” Slughorn sighs, rubs at his temples, and then he takes a caramel out of his newest bribe-sweets bag that Abraxas gave him. “He told Mr Bulstrode that if he wants justice, then he should challenge him to a duel, and solve it like wizards ought to. Of course, Mr Bulstrode has more than one brain cell, so he refused and let it go.” He sighs again, points a sugar coated finger at Tom. “This is why I always told you not to seek trouble with Blacks. We’re lucky he’s apparently taken to drinking lately, locked up in his Manor, that he lets Arcturus handle most of their affairs, who is much milder and reasonable. But, once in a while, he gets out and you do not wish to run afoul of him.”

No one in the common room talked of it; only Walburga complained she was looking forward to going to the newly opened teashop in Hogsmeade, and demanded to know what was Orion’s problem with Atticus.

“A Quidditch thing,” Orion told her, with a shrug. “Don’t worry, Waly. I’ll take you to Madam Puddifoot’s.”

“I don’t want to go with my baby cousin, don’t be ridiculous! Malfoy, you will take me!”

Abraxas backs away, slowly. “I can’t, Walburga. I’m busy, I have to study,” he says, hastily, when Orion glares at him from behind Walburga.

It was the only time mild-tempered, well behaved Orion did something so outrageous that his unhinged grandfather had to come and solve it, so it was the only time Voldemort saw the man.

#my writing #it runs in the blood #canis major #black family insanity #Orion would commit murder for the chance to take Walburga on a date #wizarding world corruption #Blacks should stop naming boys Sirius because they all turn out insane

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jeannetterankin · 17 days ago

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In honor of middlemarch book club gearing up, I decided to make a nice, simple explanatory chart of the primary relationships, for those who are new to the novel!

See, you just start with the Main Four:

Now, let's add in blue lines for Narrative Foils, and red lines for romantic feelings/marriage:

Simple! Now, let's add in some of the other key characters, and use green for familial relationships (broadly defined):

Hmm, okay so far, but how are we gonna connect Bulstrode's whole..thing? Let's use purple for financial entaglements/employment:

Okay! Clear and simple! Now with just a few more details and some helpful notes:

There we are! That's still leaving out a bunch of the good stuff, and I really wanted to add cellular flagella to the chart in honor of their guest appearance in the novel, but refrained for the sake of simplicity. But this should be an easy guide to get you started!

#middlemarch #middlemarch book club #posts #people say it's complicated but it's not!#just remember that everyone is everyone else's in-law and or love interested and or debtor and or narrative foil!! Easy!#I was for real very conservative on drawing the narrative foil lines here but I didn't just want to make it one big blue scribble

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draco-dormiens · 1 year ago

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THE STRANGEST OF PLACES - Chapter Twenty Three

draco x fem!ravenclaw reader / postwar au series

warnings: strong language, sexual themes, implied sex, bit steamy but hey, they deserve it, right? ;) (characters are 18+)

wc: 3466

masterlist

taglist is now closed - i’ve officially run out of tags! thank you all

The Element of Surprise

Draco lands with a thud just outside the Weasley's home. He pulls himself off the ground and dusts down his black suit trousers. As he looks up to gather his surroundings, he notices the most delicious smell protruding the air and the sound of laughter coming from inside the topsy turvy building that the Weasley family calls home. Light is spilling out from the wonky windows, casting long golden paths over the ground, as he cautiously moves to peak inside the nearest window.

"So, we waited for Goyle to come around the corner," George Weasley, one of the red heads that Draco recognises, is telling a story that seems to have the table in stitches, "and as soon as he did, he spots the cupcakes - which we'd put Puking Pastilles in, don't forget - and being the greedy so and so he is, eats them all up," laughter sparks up again, "but the best bit hasn't even happened yet, because just as he gollops down the last one, Millicent Bulstrode - you remember her, Harry? Plump, nasty little thing in Slytherin? - shows up just as Goyle's greedy guts come spilling out all over the place… and all over her!"

Another roar of laughter from everyone, but Draco can only see so far down the table. The other end is obscured by the kitchen cabinets. He can see Potter, Ginny Weasley, George, Granger and, of course, Weaselbee. He fears if he moves anymore, they'll see him, and he still hasn't decided on his course of action. Naturally, Weaselbee won't take kindly to his presence, and there's the possibility that you'll want him driven out as well. Not to mention the other Weasleys, or Potter for that matter. No one in that room particularly liked him. But then, as he's pondering his options and not paying attention to how visible he is, he hears a loud HEY! from just inside.

"What the bloody hell is he doing here?" Ron shouts, getting up off his chair and pointing at the window, as Hermione gets up to see what on earth he was talking about, "get off my property you bloody idiot!"

"Oh my God," Hermione exclaims, and starts telling everyone to sit down and not panic, "I'll go and see to him- oh, no, Mrs Weasley please sit down- Mr Weasley there's no need for wands- RON! GET BACK HERE!"

Startled, Draco can barely move from witnessing all the commotion he's caused by just standing there, as Ron comes barging through the door and into the front yard, a face like thunder.

"Explain yourself," Ron points an angry finger, "you have no business here, Malfoy."

"Malfoy?" Harry's voice comes from behind Ron, who moves aside to see Hermione storming over with Harry in toe, "what on earth are you doing here?"

"Get back inside, both of you," Hermione instructs them, but it seems to fall on deaf ears.

"Come to curse me, Potter?" Draco smirks, shoving his hands in his pockets, "'fraid I'm not here for a duel in the loo. I'd like to speak to Granger, if you gentlemen don't mind."

"Hermione?" Ron scoffs, "what do you want with her? I'll hex you into next week-"

"BOTH OF YOU. INSIDE. RIGHT NOW," Hermione bellows, coming between the three of them, "and you, Malfoy, keep it zipped or I'll hex you into next week. Ron," she spins abruptly to face him and jab a finger into his chest, "you have soup to finish. Inside. Now."

The rest of the family were all pressed against the window, trying to get a glimpse of the drama unfolding outside. Reluctantly, Ron and Harry make their way back into the house, looking back and chuntering between themselves. Out of everyone he was expecting to run into, the one person he was most eager to see hadn't shown themselves..

"Come with me," Hermione said, grabbing Draco by the arm and taking them away from the prying eyes at the window to the edge of the wood near Ron's home, "I can't believe you've shown, what happened? Did you leave Astoria?"

"I can explain later," he dismisses her questions, "she's here, right? Or is she hiding inside because she hates me that much?"

"That's not it," said Hermione, "well, I'm not sure about the 'hate you' part... she's not come out to see you because, well... she's not here."

"At all?" Draco raises his eyebrows, and Hermione shakes her head, "you have to be kidding me, I just caused all that ruckus for you to say she's not even here? Where is she, then? Wait.. don't fucking tell me. Chambers asked her out again, didn't he? Slimy git."

"She's not with Edward," Hermione says loudly, and Draco's angry mumbling stops, "in fact, she's not with anyone. She didn't come tonight because she didn't feel like it... can't say she's in the best frame of mind right now."

Draco's guilt hits him once again. Picturing you, alone and miserable, because of everything that he's done. Everything that he said to you that night; it stall haunts him, so he's not surprised if it haunts you, too. You don't even want to see your friends - he's well and truly done a number.

"Where is she right now?" He then asks, in all seriousness, and Hermione sighs.

"She's at home," she tells him, "as far as I know, she's spending the last few days before graduation there. She... doesn't want to be at Hogwarts right now."

"Then we'll go to her," Draco said, getting his wand from his pocket, "location?"

"It's in a muggle village, Malfoy, you can't just apparate there," she explains frantically, "Merlin knows who will see you, and besides, I'm not entirely sure how she'll react-"

"Can you stop waffling on?" said Draco irritably, holding his arm out for her to take, "the quicker you give me a location the faster we'll get there."

Hermione hesitates slightly, but grips his arm anyway, and within a few moments, the world around them is swirling and contorting into a jumbled mix of colours and sounds, until eventually, they both land on a hard tarmac road in the middle of a quiet muggle village. Draco sways slightly from the second apparition of the day as Hermione steadies herself. He looks around at the road they appeared on - houses, all similar in structure, line the streets. Each had a little garden at the front, with trees and flower pots lining the paths that winded through the quaint village. It was quiet, almost silent, with street lamps that lit the way up the road.

"I should've told Ron we were leaving," Hermione then complains, more to herself, "he'll be thinking you've kidnapped me or something."

"Don't worry," Draco jokes, "Old Weaselbee knows I'd be sending you back in a heartbeat."

Hermione shoots him a look of displeasure, before pointing at the street before them.

"Y/N's house is just up ahead," she explains, "come on."

They walk, in silence, up the winding road, passing muggle cars, street signs and phone boxes. Eventually, Hermione stops in front of a house right at the end of the street. Plant pots decorate the front of the house with flowers of all colours. A car sits in the driveway, and a black cat scurries from underneath it and crosses the freshly mowed grass, to disappear behind a trimmed hedge. Draco watches as its tail slithers out of sight, before looking up at the front of the house. A light is on in the very top window.

"That's her room," Hermione points out, and turns to face the blond Slytherin, "if you say anything to upset her, I'll personally see to your demise, Malfoy." She gives him a stern look that reminds him of his mother, and then prepares to apparate back to the Burrow, "just knock. I think her parents are out tonight. I really should get back before Ron sends out a search party."

"Thanks, Granger," Draco said sincerely, "I owe you one."

"Just don't hurt her ever again," said Hermione, readying her wand, “I'll consider that repayment."

Soon enough, with a flick of her wand, she was gone into the night, and Draco was standing alone in front of your house, in a muggle street, in a muggle village. He hesitates to knock, but raps his knuckles on the painted wood and waits for a reply. Nothing happens for a long moment, so he goes to knock again, when he hears the door unlock from the otherside. After a few excruciating seconds, the door creaks open to reveal a sight Draco could never get tired of.

You, shock all over your face and a baggy hoodie over your frame, looking back at him like you've just seen a ghost, and yet, he's never seen a more beautiful being. He aches to pull you in, but knows, just from your expression, you wouldn't welcome him so easily.

"Why are you here?" is the first thing you say, your voice quiet and cautious.

Draco notices the way you observe him cautiously, as if you were ready for him to say something that would only cause you more heartache. He can't stand it - the way you don't fully show yourself to him, how you look at him like he's hurt you. He wants to take it away, to make it better, and so, he slowly inches closer to the doorway.

"I came here," he says softly, eyes never leaving you, "because I had to see you. Speak to you." He stops just before the doorway, inches away from you now.

"But you chose her," you croak, and his heart breaks all over again, "you chose them."

"And I'm a fucking idiot," he laughs sadly, "please, please, Y/N. Can we at least talk? That's all I'm asking. Afterwards, I'll leave and never come back if that's what you want."

After some slight hesitation, you let him inside and softly shut the door behind you both. Draco notices the warm feeling your home seems to have. Family portraits and photos of you in your Hogwarts uniform over the years cover the walls and surfaces. You tell him to wait in the living room as you brew a pot of tea, leaving him to wander around whilst he waits. He looks at the photos individually; some of just you, some of you and your parents, even some of you and Granger in your younger years. There are trinkets, a mug that says 'Best Daddy Ever' and some drawings you must have made as a child. Everything in the room reminds him that a family lives there, and that they love each other. Something he's never really seen before.

"Here," you announce as you enter the room, placing the tray on the coffee table, "we only have breakfast tea. Hope that's okay."

"That's perfect," he smiles across at you, and you return it slightly before pouring tea into two china cups. He takes a seat on the couch as you pass him a fresh cup, to which he thanks you. For a moment, you both sip tea and say nothing, until Draco breaks that silence.

"Your house is very nice," he compliments, looking across at you, noticing how you're reluctant to look him in the eye, "I wish my home was as welcoming as this."

"This house is nothing compared to yours," you scoff lightly, and he smiles.

"Yeah," he breathes, "exactly."

"How did you know where I was?" you ask him, still refusing to meet his gaze.

"I know some people," he says lightheartedly, but then turns serious, "very good people."

You don't answer that. Your best hunch is Hermione, but how he knew where to find her was beyond you. After all, she'd never disclosed what she was up to in the dungeons that night. A thick silence falls over you again, but the question you really wanted to ask him was hanging by a thread at your lips.

"So," you suddenly say, voice a lot bolder than before, "are you here because you're an engaged, sorry idiot who wants to clear his conscience?"

He places his cup down, and turns to face you. When you don't respond, he gently places a hand on your face and brings your eyes to his. There's a look of pure emotion and genuinity in them, as he rubs his thumb across your cheek, and then along your bottom lip.

"Engaged, no," he whispers to you, "but sorry idiot? That I am."

It takes you a second to process his words, but then the frown on your face evens out and a look of relief washes over you, eyes brightening to shine a little like they used to, and Draco's heart swells to double its size.

"You didn't do it," you mutter, and he shakes his head.

"No, angel, I didn't," his hand moves slightly to rest against your neck, the coldness of his rings causing goosebumps on your skin, "I had a little help... to realise what a fool I was being."

"But what about your parents? Astoria? Aren't you in heaps of trouble now?" you said, concern replacing your relaxed features, "aren't they going to make your life hell?"

"No more than usual," he smirks playfully, eyes flickering over your face like they used to, as if he's memorising every inch of it, "but I don't give a shit about that right now. Right now," he pauses, before taking both of your hands in his, "I just need you to hear something."

You allow him to take his time, as his thumbs run over your knuckles a few times, before he brings them to his lips and kisses each of them delicately.

"Y/N," he mutters against your hand, pressing one last kiss for good measure, "my precious, beautiful girl," he looks up and your eyes lock, "I was so unreasonably cruel to you that night in the woods. I guess I just didn't know how it would feel... to lose something so important to me."

He takes a break, and looks down at your intertwined hands. You remain silent.

"I let you down, and I understand if you never want to see me again after this," he takes a deep breath before looking up again, "but, if you can find it in your heart to forgive me for being so unbelievably late, then I promise to give you the world. Everything I have. All that I am," tears begin to well at the corners of his eyes, "because I'm so in love with you, Y/N. Mind, body and soul, I love you."

A tear trickles down your cheek, and he wipes it away with his thumb. You look at him for a long moment; the man you've come to love, the man who has completed the other half of your soul. A few months back, if someone had said to you that one day, Draco Malfoy would be confessing his feelings for you on your couch, in your muggle home, you'd think they were insane.

But right now, as he looks at you as if the world resides in your eyes, it feels like the most sane thing to happen in weeks. You take your hands from his and cup his jaw, feeling the way he leans into your touch with such contentment. He kisses your palm, gently holding your wrist.

"I love you," you whisper, and those steely grey eyes find yours once more, "I love and have loved you, Draco Malfoy. For longer than you might think."

He smiles a watery smile, and his eyes drop to your lips. Hunger swims in them, and you'd be lying if you said you hadn't waited for this moment with utter anticipation. "Kiss me," is all you can manage to mutter, and he wastes no time in obliging to that. His lips capture yours in a hot, hungry kiss, his hands taking your face as yours fist at his shirt. You feel his fingers lace in your hair, pulling a satisfied sound from your lips. He swallows it eagerly, tilting his head to deepen the kiss and run his tongue along your bottom lip. Of course, you allow him access, and he pulls you impossibly close to his body, thumbs rubbing small circles just under your ears. It's blissful and full of passion, his lips breaking from yours to kiss across your jaw and down under your ear, to rest at the pulse point in your neck.

"Fuck I love you,” he purrs against the sweet spot, leaving wet kisses as your hands snake up to tangle in his hair, “my angel, my darling girl.”

“Stay with me,” you find yourself pleading softly, as his gaze returns to your hazy expression, “sleep beside me, Draco. Please.”

Hastily, his lips find yours once more in a rushed, messy kiss. You can taste the wine on his lips, and feel his emotion simply through the way he handles you - as if you were a prized possession he simply cannot break.

“There’s nothing I want more,” he said breathlessly, so you take him by the hand, and lead him through the house to the comfort of your bedroom.

Hours seem to pass. His hands wander - and you let them. Just the two of you, enjoying one another in complete harmony, in solace and peace. You’re sure, at this point, there’s not an inch of you he hasn’t kissed, and there’s not an inch of his skin you haven’t touched. It was innocent and vulnerable; just two people, hopelessly in love, savouring one another.

"You’re so beautiful," he breathes against your bare shoulder, pressing tender kisses to the skin as you lay there, tucked safely under the duvet, back pressed to his chest, “thank you,” he mumbles, “for trusting me with you.”

You hum, turning over to face him. He looks so at peace; features soft and sleepy. Draco truly was the most handsome man you’d ever laid eyes on. Gently, you smooth back his hair and press a light kiss to the corner of his mouth.

"Thank you," you whisper to him, "for coming back.”

You feel his hand at the small of your back, pulling your body into his. His fingers brush hair behind your ear, and then trace down your jaw to your chin, where he gently brings you in for a soft, tender kiss. His lips linger against yours for a long moment.

"I would have lived every day in regret if I hadn't," he confesses quietly, your limbs intertwined and skin pressed against skin, "I should be thanking you, for giving me the courage."

"Me?" you furrow your eyebrows, "but you did this, Draco. You came here, despite all the odds."

"Do you remember that night we sat in the attic? That room with the big window," he recalls, and you nod, smiling to yourself at the memory, "well, I passed that staircase and, I don't know, it just... flooded back to me. All those memories, the way you make me feel... I just knew, in that moment, I couldn't do it. I couldn't be without you."

"Oh, Draco," you sigh lovingly, nuzzling your nose against his, "you are truly a treasure, my love."

My love. He wants to hear that every day for the rest of his life. Draco closes his eyes, relishing in the love and comfort you provide him, feeling the delicate little kisses you place on his cheek. He's unworthy of such affection, unworthy of feeling your skin on his, gliding his fingertips over the crevices of your body. He's obsessed. Entranced. His entire being and every sense is overtaken by your scent, your touch. And he is at peace, despite what the morning may bring, at this very moment, he is at peace.

"What happens now?" you then ask cautiously, and he opens his eyes into yours, "about your parents... what will they do?"

"Despite what they may think, I'm a legal adult," he smirks, and some sort of relief flickers in your eyes at his lightheartedness, "but, they might have a few things to say. They'll get over it, they have to. You're mine now, after all."

A triumphant grin spreads across his handsome face, a light pink blush spreading over your cheeks at the sentiment. Once more, he presses his lips to yours; not once, twice, but three times, taking his sweet time in parting on the last one.

"Whatever happens," you whisper against his mouth, "I'm here for you. Always."

"In that case, anything is possible, angel," he said sweetly as you cuddle into his chest, the sudden urge to sleep overbearing, "but, for now, let's just rest, hm? Think we deserve it."

A little hum of agreement passes your lips, eyes growing heavy as sleep greets your peacefully. Draco, who had forgotten how exhausted he truly was, feels his eyes droop willingly, as his breathing evens out, and a well needed sleep finally takes over.

Whatever the dawn may bring, you will face it.

Together.

disclaimer: i do not own hp or any of the characters in this story

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