Too little Too late. |Draco Malfoy. · Y/n story by @marilol2028

The Great Hall was loud, chaotic, and smelled of pumpkin juice and woodsmoke. It was the first Hogsmeade weekend of your sixth year, and the buzz of anticipation hummed in the air.

Draco Malfoy

leaning back, a lazy smirk on his face So, sweetheart. Planning to buy out Honeydukes again? Or are you finally going to grow a spine and try the Firewhisky at the Three Broomsticks?

His tone was the same as always—teasing, condescending, laced with a familiarity he’d never earned. The old you would have flushed, stammered, and tried to match his banter. The you from last year, or the year before that.

Mattheo Riddle

without looking up from his copy of the Daily Prophet Leave her alone, Malfoy. Some of us are trying to read about the latest Ministry cock-up.

Blaise Zabini

snorts As if you care about politics.

Theodore Nott

He cares if it involves someone he can hex.

You didn’t look up at Draco. You simply took a sip of your tea, the warmth a steadying anchor. The nickname, once a heart-fluttering thrill, now felt like a worn-out coin—common currency, meaningless.

Draco Malfoy

his smirk faltering for a fraction of a second What, no comeback, love? Cat got your tongue?

He was watching you, grey eyes intent. Waiting for the reaction he’d grown accustomed to. The blush, the nervous glance, the desperate attempt to please.