For the Cursed Child - Honestly, you know there’s an issue if Draco is a better father than Harry. Don’t get me wrong, I love Draco and I loved his characterization, but… Harry was horrible. Why did they have to butcher his personality so much? He is completely out of character and it makes no sense- Draco is even a much better father than he is. While Draco cares about his son immensely and is worried when he’s upset, Harry is the entire reason for his own son’s suffering.
Loosely based on @homeybadger‘s prompt: Draco x reader where at first the reader doesn’t known him because it’s Halloween and everyone’s in costume.
Sorry I didn’t stick to your prompt love! Inspiration is a tricky thing :( I hope you like this one instead!
They say that there
are ghosts, lurking deep in the halls of Malfoy Manor. That it’s the only
explanation for the pervasive chill in the halls, the fear that grips the
notches of your spine and refuses to let go, the colubrine smiles pasted onto
portraits that hang imposingly in the halls.
They say that there
are ghosts, lurking deep in the halls of Malfoy Manor. And they’re not quite
Draco can’t see her. Can’t quite make his
vision adhere to the swarm of masks – Venetian and feathered, lace and
bedazzled, all concealing and obscuring and deceiving
– that haunt the dimly lit ballroom like the space between his ribs.
“It’s a secret,” he’d
told her, invitation anchor-heavy in his hands. “They can’t know who you are.”
A smile had stolen
across her mouth at that. Syrup sticky and sunset slow. “A secret,” she’d
repeated, words a hymn against the thin skin of his neck. And later, later,
later, when his fingers had been in her hair and her dress was little more than
a stain on the floor, his mouth had been full of her name.
He’s not sure how
they became synonymous.
He’s with his
parents when she finally comes into sight. A ghost drifting lost through a
graveyard. Ophelia with sadness heavy songs on her lips and Desdemona with
flashing green eyes.
A mask is shrouding
the finer parts of her face. And the only way he can discern her from everyone
else, really, is the monogrammed handkerchief that’s dangling from her
fingertips like a surrender. A victory, he thinks, as his own initials dance
“Draco,” his mother’s
saying, voice a lullaby lilt as she rests a hand on his shoulder and gazes into
the crowd. “Who is that?”
He wonders what she’d
think if she knew the truth.
A secret and a
scandal and a shame to the Malfoy name.
He only shrugs,
takes six precise steps forward until he’s near enough to see the bruise blossoming
at the hollow of her throat, the mascara dusted flutter of her eyes. She’s
wearing a necklace he’d given her months before and his tonsils are glued shut
as he attempts to say something –
Because this is the
crescendo of early morning kisses behind the safety of his bed curtains,
platitudes that seem as insignificant as the way that his hands mold to the
curve of her waist, moments caught like fireflies in mason jars on sweltering
summer nights – hands brushing and mouths smiling and eyes catching. A secret,
a secret, a secret.
Her blood is tainted
but it churns through his veins never the less.
She’s gotten beneath
An itch he fathoms
he’ll never be able to scratch.
A secret, a secret,
He takes her out to
the balcony. They can see the blurred garden lights, the odd flutter of a
peacock’s wings caught beneath a strand of moonlight. The mountains are far and
the stars are even further. He wonders just how long it would take to reach
“We’re alone,” she
says and he can’t quite pick apart the tapestry of threads behind what she
So he smirks, pulls
her close and presses his nose to the slanting side of her jaw until he can’t
distinguish her heartbeat from his. They fit together like an equation: x and y
and find the missing variable.
Only he can’t decide
if the variable is her or him or the alacrity with which they both smother
their relationship and shy from the truth. It’s a dangerous thing, with fangs
and claws and a blood lust as potent as the bead of sweat trickling down his
back as he hikes up her skirt and traces his fingers along the spider web veins
in her thighs.
clock chimes inside.
He breathes ‘I love
you’ with the hour.
“I have to go,” she
says, gathering up her clothes and sashaying towards the ajar window.
She’s still wearing
his necklace, his handkerchief, his bruise.
And it strikes him
as inconceivably wrong as she steps into the whisping wind on his balcony and
begins her descent down to the dew soft ground – a fairytale told out of order.
She’s Rapunzel, but she’s climbing out of the tower and away from her prince
charming. Cobblestones grating and happy ending fading and crown tipping,
slipping, falling from her head.
slipper shattering when the prince picks it up, holds it to his chest and
watches as a lurid red bubbles over the callouses on his hands.
“It’s a secret,” she’d
giggled into the seams of his pillowcase.
“Kiss it better” and
“We’re alone now” and his name over and over, like it’s a spell that could save
her if she only tried hard enough.
There’s a dental
record indent on the pale skin of Draco’s forearm, a smear of lipstick along
the column of his neck and a dream that drifts through his sheets when he
closes his eyes. A promise. A ghost. A secret.