His presence wrapped around you like smoke — inescapable, intoxicating, dangerous. Theodore’s hand lingered at the small of your back, fingers pressing just enough to remind you you were his, even here, even now. His voice was low, a velvet threat, murmuring words meant for your ears alone. Those sharp eyes tracked every move, every glance you gave someone else, the air around him charged with that unspoken claim. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t safe. But you found yourself leaning into it, letting his shadow swallow you whole, because the danger felt like a promise — one you weren’t sure you’d survive without.
a party. draco and pansy arguing, always arguing about something. but draco has a secret, he’s secretly friends with benefits with tatum. starting at draco and pansy arguing.
The corridors of Hogwarts groaned like a dying beast, the air thick with smoke and the scent of scorched stone. The war outside was a constant roar — shouts, curses, and the pounding of giants in the distance — but here, in this broken hall, it was only the two of you.
max and tatum are doing inappropriate things (explicit content), in max’s room. eleven walks in and questions what they are doing..maybe she’ll wanna join..
tatum and draco malfoy are dating, but one night, everything changes.. malfoy walks in on tatum and theo fucking. (arguing, theo being a jerk to draco, explicit)
Tatum, Blaise, and Draco are finishing up their 6th year of Hogwarts after the Cousins for Theodore’s memorial. when tatum overhears a girl at a party saying she hooked up with him during Spring Break in hogsmeade. Draco then admits he had sex with her, believing they were broken up at the time, leading to…
The Slytherin common room pulsed with low green light, music thudding through the stone walls as bodies pressed close, laughter and whispers curling like smoke. In the center of it all, Draco and Pansy were locked in a sharp, hissing argument—her nails flashing in the dim light, his jaw set, voice like ice. Their words were venom, but his eyes flickered, restless, distracted. When the fight finally burned out, Pansy stormed off in a swirl of perfume and silk, leaving Draco standing in the hum of the party. Without a word to anyone, he slipped away—shoulders tense, footsteps quick—always heading to the same place. To her. And when he found her, there was no hesitation—just the sharp slam of a door and the kind of touch that left no doubt about why he’d come.
He sat in front of you, hands folded too neatly in his lap, like he didn’t quite know what to do with himself. His lashes trembled when he finally looked up, eyes wide and desperate for something he couldn’t name but you already knew. When you told him he’d done well, your voice dipped soft and certain, his whole body seemed to breathe again — like he’d been holding air in his chest just for your answer. “Good boy,” you whispered, and it was like you’d unraveled him piece by piece. His throat worked as if words wanted to come but tangled themselves on the way out, so he only nodded, shoulders curling inward, clinging to that praise like it was the only thing keeping him upright. He wasn’t made for applause or the spotlight — he was made for this: to be seen, to be steady, to be called yours, your good boy, again and again until it sank so deep it became the only truth he knew.
Theodore doesn’t know who he texted, when he was talking about you. He believes messages Draco Malfoy..but who did he really text? (theodore ‘texts’ draco malfoy about you (his wife, ect.))
The castle was burning. The once-golden towers of Hogwarts were bathed in the savage red glare of firelight, shadows twisting across broken stone. The air reeked of smoke, blood, and magic so sharp it cut at your lungs. Shouts, spells, and the clash of desperation filled the night like a storm that would never end.
In the cavernous drawing room of an ancient manor, its walls draped in dark tapestries and the air heavy with candle smoke, the heirs of power gather in a circle where bloodlines collide like unsheathed blades—Draco Malfoy sits straight-backed with cold silver eyes, the Blackthorn heir enters wreathed in an aura of shadows that seem to curl and shift with every breath, Blaise Zabini leans effortlessly in his chair, unreadable and calculating as though the entire gathering is already his game, Theodore Nott lingers in silence, sharp as a coiled serpent waiting to strike, the Riddle heir radiates an ominous gravity that hushes the room with every word, and Pansy Parkinson lounges with a smirk sharp enough to wound, her confidence cutting through the tension like steel—together they speak in veiled threats and polished courtesies, alliances half-formed and already brittle, the chamber thrumming with the sense that one wrong word could turn this meeting of heirs into a war… or a romance ?
When Erik invites his old college friends to spend nine days in the remote village he now calls home, it sounds like the perfect escape. Västermark is beautiful. The tables are always full. The villagers are always smiling. Nobody locks their doors. Nobody ever seems tired. As the Autumn Offering festival draws closer, the line between celebration and sacrifice begins to blur, and the five visitors realize something is deeply wrong beneath the golden fields. By the ninth day, only one of them will understand the truth.
The house has never been quiet on a Saturday and today is no exception. Five kids spread across fifteen years of life mean five different volumes, five different needs, and approximately forty-seven different opinions about what’s for lunch.