#i feel so sick after one jello shot so im gonna sleep off my tummy sickness

[gryffvndors]

oh, baby [draco malfoy]

request: “Could u do Draco x reader with prompts 97 and 103 please? It would be so interesting plus I love your writing. You're so cool xoxo” -anon

word count: ~3000

a/n: why thank u anon, i AM pretty cool! (kidding im actually SO lame like u dont even know omG) anyway i wrote this at like 3 am and im posting it at 5 am so. i’m a few hours late (like a day actually but who’s counting, NOT ME) but happy bday to the real OG man draco malfoy! now enjoy this hot mess of sleep deprivation, angst, snark, and marina and the diamonds inspiration

97: “i don’t want to have a baby.”

103: “i had to see you again.”

When you were twelve, your grandfather died.

(Sometimes you still hear his voice, late at night, when your window is open a crack and the wind is whistling against the glass, making the tree branches outside of your room shake. You sit up straight, eyes wide, clutching your duvet in your fists. You usually come to the conclusion you were dreaming in your half-asleep state of mind and drift back off, only to recall nothing the following morning.)

You don’t remember much; while you weren’t exactly too young, you moreso blocked the memories from your mind. You do remember holding your mother as she wept into your shirt, face blank, eyes cast to the ground. You remember sneaking around your house in the middle of the night, creeping upon the pinprick of light that casted out from behind the door of your father’s study. Putting your eye against the crack between the floor and the wood, you only saw pacing feet. You remember your grandmother frequenting your house many times, usually around dinner, when she would join you. Just you - your mother would not leave her bed, your father would not leave his office. She smiled at you with glassy eyes and tearstained cheeks, slipping you a piece of candy after you were refused a bowl of ice cream. Not so much refused, actually - just ignored, for your mother would not leave the pile of blankets she called home and your father would not answer the door.

It was a rough time. The rough period lasted for a good few months, until your father threw a few cardboard boxes in your room and grunted, “Pack up your things. We’re leaving.”

Days later, you stood in front of one of the largest houses you’d ever seen. Your father, holding hands with your mother for the first time in years, smiled and laid a hand on your shoulder.

“This is our new home,” he’d announced. “When your grandfather died-”

You coughed, scowling at the brick driveway.

“-your mother inherited the house from him. He handed me the business. We’re rich now. Go, choose your bedroom.”

You chose the bedroom with the most windows. The house was dark inside, curtains drawn and candles lit. You traveled down the many hallways and didn’t stop until you found at least two windows.

That summer, as you explored the neighborhood (mostly just trees and a long, winding paved road that no cars ever drove down), lonely, you finally came upon another mansion, this one even bigger than your own. There was a boy outside, staring at the ground with a frown. You approached him tentatively. At the sound of your footsteps, he turned, frown twisting into an even deeper scowl.

“Who are you?” He called, voice laced with authority and scorn. When you said your name, he scoffed. “You aren’t one of us. Go away. We don’t want your kind here.”

You planted your hands on your hips, brows raises. “My… kind?”

“Yes. Go away.”

“What if I don’t want to? I’m not on your property. Therefore, I have a right to be here,” you smirked triumphantly, chin raised. The boy muttered something under his breath.

“Your kind is so annoying. Just get out of here.” He looked behind him, towards the door. When he looked back, his expression was one of concern. “My parents don’t like me talking to you people. If they catch me, we’ll both be in trouble. Save both of our arses and go back home. Where do you live, anyway?”

You pointed behind you. “Some mansion back there.”

He smiled then. Well, more of a smirk than a smile, but you were just glad he wasn’t upset anymore. It had been weeks since you talked to people your own age. Even if he was rude, he was still your age.

“So you’re rich, then?”

You shrugged. “I guess so. I don’t really care about money.”

“Don’t care about money? How could you not care about money?”

“I just don’t. There are more important things in the world. Like… chocolate,” you grinned, leaning against the nearest tree. You stuffed your hands into the pockets of your shorts. “I have loads at my house. Would you like some?” He seemed vaguely intrigued, but unsure. You added, “I know you’re not supposed to talk with… my ‘kind’,” you made air quotes, “but I will keep my lips sealed if you keep yours sealed.”

The boy finally muttered, “Fine. But I am only coming because I want chocolate.” He climbed over the fence and followed you back to your mansion. Halfway there, you asked him his name. Grumbling, he said, “I’m Draco Malfoy.”

He disappeared during the school year but, without fail, he always showed up over the summer. When you asked him about his school, all he said was that he went to some boarding school in Scotland. You didn’t “bond” over summers, really, but before you knew it, you found yourself looking forward to seeing him. You didn’t kiss him until you were fifteen, cheeks rosy from running around in the woods. It was a spur of the moment thing - you weren’t surprised when he left immediately, not showing up for a week. When he saw you, though, he pushed you up against a tree and pressed his lips against your neck, muttering something about how disappointed his parents would be. You only grinned and said, “Well, I find it very entertaining to disappoint my parents, don’t you?” He pulled away and rolled his eyes, but kissed you again anyway.

The summer of the year you were sixteen, you snuck him inside your bedroom for the night. He snuck back out before dawn, pressing a kiss to your forehead and mumbling a goodbye. You faked being asleep.

When he was seventeen, he told you he could do magic. He told you about his world, why his parents would be so disappointed, who he was. Instead of yelling at him for being crazy, like he thought you would, you kissed him hard and tangled your hands in his hair, laughing at the word “muggle”. He changed a simple wildflower to a bird with a wave of his wand, then changed the bird to a bouquet of roses. You teased him for being so sappy. When you got home, you stuck the roses in a vase of water and left them on your nightstand.

The thing with falling in love is that it’s like you’re standing at the edge of a cliff, holding onto invisible railings. All of a sudden, the railing is gone, and you’re lurching over the side, falling, falling, twisting in midair - until you finally hit the ground, a broken body in the broken world you live in. It’s opening your mouth to take a breath, but your lungs suddenly fail, the only thing you inhale being smoke and ash and the smog that hangs in the horizon. It’s opening your heart, your most vulnerable place, your secrets, and leaving it out in the open, the only security blanket your hopes and words asking for nobody to harm it. It’s crazy. It’s wild. It’s when you can’t sleep at night, can’t eat in the morning, can’t think ever.

The night Draco tells you about his magic, you sneak him into your room again. This isn’t the second time, this isn’t the last time - but something is different. Something is… more intimate, really. It’s like you’ve opened the floodgates and a whole wave of emotions come, not caring about the destruction it leaves in its wake.

Falling in love is being completely and utterly at the disposal of the soul before you.

And you can’t do anything about it.

“So you’re leaving in a week?” You ask, mouth dry. Draco nods, his fingers laced in his lap. His hair is messy, shirt untucked, which is rare for him, the proper git he is. Your hand itches at your side to smooth out the blond. “Oh. Well, you’ll be back soon.”

“A year,” he laughs humorlessly, looking anywhere but your face. You sigh, dropping onto the ground. The dry leaves crack and snap under the weight of your body. You rest a hand on his shoulder. He still refuses to look at you.

You wish this is easier. This… isn’t easy. This is harder than anything you’ve done before. Deep in your mind, deep, deep down, you know this is the right thing to do. He has a right to know. He… has a say in this. But that doesn’t tell the nerves eating at your stomach to stop chewing, or your frantically beating heart to slow down a bit, it’s okay. It will be okay. It has to be okay. He… is nice.

He’s actually kind of a prick, but he means well.

You clear your throat. A second later, you hear yourself saying, “I have to talk to you about something.”

“We’re talking right now, aren’t we?”

“This is… important,” you take a deep breath. “Very, very important. This is the most important thing we have ever talked about.”

Draco looks at you then, an amused expression on his face. “Most important? What, do I not exist? What about the fact that I’m a bloody wizard?”

You swallow. It feels like there’s something in your throat. You realize it’s the words you’re about to say - you have to force them down, keep calm, keep the situation under control. This is not the time for word vomit. This is the time for collected speaking. This is the time for-

“I’m pregnant,” you blurt.

Fuck.

Draco whips around. His slate eyes are wide, lips parted. You hear him say, “You’re what?!”

“You’re the only person I shag. So.” Out of the corner of your eye (you’re staring at the ground so hard, your vision is blurring), Draco is tugging at his blond hair. You think you might want to do that, too. Instead, you keep your hands balled at your side. “So,” you repeat. “So. It’s. It’s yours.”

“Oh my - fuck, Merlin, fuck,” he drops off the log he was previously sitting on to your side. His hands find yours, fingers fitting into the crevices you feel that, well, they were meant to. It’s like a puzzle, really, and in your mind, it works. This jigsaw the two of you make, anyway. Like, you’re kind of a bitch and he’s kind of a dick, so it works. And you’re pretty emotionally numb and. Well. His family situation is so bad he might as well be.

“Yeah,” you laugh shakily. This isn’t funny. You don’t know why you’re laughing, so you do it again. “Yeah. I. Um. I am. For, like, two months. I thought I was just gaining weight. And my. Uh. Period has always been kinda irregular, so. I took a test.”

“And you’re…”

“Yeah,” you nod. You can’t look into his eyes. You can’t look at his face, or you might burst into tears. “Yeah, yeah. There’s a fucking baby is my stomach. Well. Uterus, really, but, uh. Somewhere down there.”

Draco is deadly silent for a good few minutes. You are, too. You don’t speak. You wait for him to say something, anything. Finally, he wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulls you into his side.

“Fuck.”

That’s all he says. You think you agree.

You nod, “Yeah. Um, I,” you wipe at your eyes, sniffing. “I don’t want to have a baby. I’m only seventeen.”

“Then don’t. Isn’t there a… procedure? A muggle procedure?”

“I don’t wanna do that either. I’m gonna have the baby, but. I’m scared,” you’re whispering now, and despite your wishes, tears are falling down your cheeks, landing on your lap. “And you can’t even be with me, so.” Draco ducks his head. The ends of his hair tickles your cheek. You lean your head against his. “Please say something.”

“Did you tell your parents?”

You shake your head. “No. I’m more worried about yours.”

“I’ll handle it. I’ll try.”

The next day, you meet outside. His face is expressionless. You know him too well - his eyes speak wonders. They’re broken, like shattered glass, a longing deep inside of them. It’s like looking into a well and seeing something shiny at the bottom, something you want, but can never get without falling in and never being able to get out.

“I can’t speak to you anymore.”

You freeze. In your mind, gears whirl, ice freezes over, your stomach drops. You choke out a, “Wh-what?”

Draco swallows, “I told my parents. If you cannot get rid of… it,” he snaps, “then fine. But you cannot talk to me. Ever again. I am going to my last year of school, then I am becoming an Auror.”

“Draco-”

“I must leave now. Goodbye.”

Your knees shake as you force yourself to stand, to watch him walk away. You wait until he’s gone to cry, so you don’t give him the satisfaction of seeing you in pain. When you get back to your house, eyes bloodshot, lips red, you tell your parents. It takes you an hour to convince your dad not to go to his house and tell off his father.

“It won’t work,” you cry, holding onto his shirt. “They’re… different. I made a mistake, talking to him. Now I’m paying for it.”

Your mother whispers, “Do you love him? Did you love him?”

When you nod, she wraps you in her arms and lets you weep into her shirt. You get a mysterious sense of deja vu. Your father locks himself in his office for only a day. When he comes out, he hugs you, whispering how everything will be okay.

For your last year of school, you go to a special school with pregnant teens. Your grandmother moves into a spare room once she learns of the news, unjudging and supportive. You grow bigger and bigger, stomach inflating, until you have to get new clothes. As soon as you can, you find out that the child inside of you is a girl.

(You were hoping for a girl. You love girls.)

You’re due in late February. When December rolls around, you’re already sick of everything. It’s hard to sleep on your stomach and you can’t wear your favorite sweater and you’re so irritable, it makes your grandmother laugh.

“When I was pregnant with your mother, I craved salty pretzels and I dipped them in Earl Grey,” she says, handing you a mug and a bag of crisps. “When your mother was pregnant with you, she craved salty chips and ate them with green tea.”

“I want chocolate.”

She produces a bag of chocolate, as well. “Anything for my beautiful granddaughter.”

A week to Christmas, you’re sitting on the sofa in the den, remote in one hand, chocolate in the other. Somebody knocks on the door. Your grandmother is in the kitchen with your father, mother out in the garden; you roll yourself to your feet (it’s the only way you can get up now) and lug your body to the front door.

When you open it, you hate yourself for feeling excited at the image of Draco Malfoy.

You open and close your mouth a few times, much like a fish. When you finally get your bearings, you try to say, “What are you doing here?!” It comes out a whisper.

Draco frowns, looking at your stomach. His gaze is hopeful, awestruck, amazed. “I…” he takes a deep breath and meets your gaze. “I had to see you again.”

You scowl, clutching the chocolate and doorknob tightly. “I thought you couldn’t talk to me for the rest of your life,” you pause. “Wait, why aren’t you in school?”

“I came home for the holidays. So I could see you,” he sighs, casting his eyes to the ground. “And that’s what they told me to say. They… made me tell you that.”

You cross your arms. “I thought as much.”

“I really care about you,” says Draco. “And… the baby. It’s-”

“She,” you interject.

“Sh-she?” He murmurs. “I’m going to have a daughter?”

You nod. When you find your voice, you whisper, “If you’ll take her.”

“Of - of course,” he bites his lip. “And… you. I will take you. Please. I… frankly, I don’t give a damn about what my parents say. They’ve always looked down on muggles, and that’s the way I was taught to be, but… obviously, that didn’t go down well.”

“Obviously.”

“And… I am about to finish school. I am taking my N.E.W.T.s and then becoming a potion’s master, or an Auror, or something. I’ll decide that… later. You already know about magic. We could… move in together. If you’d like,” he says hurriedly. “Look, I know I said terrible things. I am kind of a prat. I-”

“I love you,” you dig your nails into your palms. “And I have for a. A while. So. I do want to be with you. Because I love you.”

“Fuck,” he breathes. “I love you, too. So much.” Leaning down, he presses a kiss to your forehead. “Please. Take me back.”

You shrug. “Okay. Sure. But I’m naming her, because you ditched me for, like, five months.”

Draco snorts. “Deal.”

“Okay. Cool. I love you, I guess. My show is on, are you coming inside and meeting my family and watching it with me, or are you going back home?”

He turns to look behind him. When he faces you again, he’s smiling. “I’ll come inside.”

“Good answer. It’s a bloody amazing show.”

You lace your fingers together and lead Draco through the house. “Just a warning,” you add, “my parents will probably dislike you at first. You kinda left me, your baby mum, in the dust. But my grandmum will love you to death. You’re hot.”

“She’ll love me… because I’m hot?”

“Also you’re a dick. For some reason, she loves mean, attractive people,” you turn to beam at him. “I mean, she loves me the most, after all.”