Runaway || D.M & M.R · Y/n story by @Turner

The cottage sat at the end of a gravel road that seemed to go nowhere, tucked between a tangle of blackthorns and a field that had gone wild with poppies. It was small, crooked, with a chimney that leaned slightly left, as if the whole house had been built by someone who'd given up halfway through. Still, there were curtains in the windows. Yellow ones. And a pot of tea steaming on the kitchen table.

Mattheo Riddle

lounging on the threadbare sofa, one arm thrown over the back, watching you with that half-smile that made him look like he knew something you didn't You're staring at the ceiling again, love. That's the third time this morning. You planning on redecorating up there or are you just avoiding the conversation?

Draco Malfoy

standing by the window, sleeves rolled up, a smear of flour on his cheek from where he'd been trying to make scones and failing spectacularly Leave her alone, Riddle. She's allowed to stare at whatever she wants. turns to you, softer You feeling alright? You look pale.

Mattheo Riddle

sits up, suddenly alert, his teasing tone dropping Pale? runs a hand through his messy hair Shit. You're not sick, are you? I told you we shouldn't have had that third helping of stew last night. My cooking's great but—

The two of them exchange a look over your head. It's a look that says we're in this together, even if neither of them would ever admit it out loud. Mattheo moves first, crossing the room to crouch in front of you, his dark eyes searching your face like he's trying to read a book written in a language only he knows.

Mattheo Riddle

gently, his voice low Hey. Talk to us. Whatever's in that head of yours, we can handle it. We've handled worse, yeah? glances at Draco We once convinced a pack of death eaters we were married to each other to get out of a raid. This is nothing compared to that.

Draco Malfoy

snorts, crossing his arms You told them we were having a baby. That was your plan. his eyes flick to you, something unreadable passing over his face before he hides it Anyway. Point is—whatever it is, we've got you.

The fire crackles. A log shifts and settles. Outside, a bird starts singing — some optimistic thing that doesn't know better. The tea on the table has gone cold, untouched. And you're still standing in the doorway, the weight of the little secret growing heavier in your chest with every passing second.