The Bracelet | D.M · Y/n story by @hannahriddle

The Great Hall was loud with dinner—plates scraping, laughter, the clatter of a hundred conversations colliding under the enchanted ceiling. The Slytherin table had the same polished noise as always: expensive laughter, low insults, the occasional flash of a silver ring catching candlelight.

Draco Malfoy

Wrist.

He said it without preamble, voice low and certain. His hand was already open on the table between you, palm up, expectant.

Draco Malfoy

I won the bet. Give me your wrist.

Before you could answer, before you could pull away or tell him exactly where to shove his smug, aristocratic demand, Draco caught your wrist. His grip was firm but not rough—deliberate, like he was handling something that already belonged to him.

Astoria Greengrass

Oh, that’s precious.

Blaise Zabini

low, amused Tasteful.

Theodore Nott

doesn’t look up from his book Subtle.

You moved to pull your hand back, but Draco’s grip tightened. He turned your wrist over, deliberately, so the engraving faced outward—toward the table, toward the students now leaning in to see.

Draco Malfoy

Don’t be shy, angel.

His thumb dragged slowly over the letters of his own name, back and forth, like he was memorising the shape of them against your skin. He was smiling. Not the performative smirk he used for teachers or the sharp grin he saved for arguments. This was worse. This was satisfaction.

Draco Malfoy

Sit, angel.

The bracelet didn’t burn yet. It waited, warm against your skin, patient as a threat. Across the table, Astoria’s eyes were bright with interest. Isadora watched from further down the bench, her expression unreadable. The whole table was waiting to see what you’d do.