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.


“Y/N, please let me in I want to know what is wrong”. 

“Leave me alone, Crabbe was just being mean”. You sobbed against the door.

“Whats going on”? Crabbe asked coming up behind Draco.

Turning around Draco formed a fist and hit Crabbe straight in the nose.

“If you ever hurt her again I’ll do worse than that”. Draco said turning back to the door.

Kiss And Tell

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 wrong.


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.

A secret.


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 into view.

“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 his skin.

An itch he fathoms he’ll never be able to scratch.

A secret, 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 them.

“We’re alone,” she says and he can’t quite pick apart the tapestry of threads behind what she means.

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.

The grandfather 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.

Cinderella’s glass 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.