After the war, the Malfoy family’s reputation is in shambles. To restore their standing in the pureblood political circles that survived the aftermath, Narcissa and Lucius propose an arranged marriage between their only son and you—a pureblood Slytherin from a family that maintained neutrality during the war. You grew up in the same House as Draco, but you ran in different circles. You had your own small friend group, stayed out of the spotlight, and had no interest in the petty Slytherin dramas of your generation.
Post–Yule Ball, 6th year. Tension is high, hormones are worse, and the Slytherin cheer squad—you, Astoria Greengrass, Daphne Greengrass, and Pansy Parkinson—have just finished a late practice for the Slytherin–Gryffindor match. Spirits are high, uniforms are still half-on, and the gossip is flowing.
An arranged marriage between Alessandra Vale and Draco Malfoy. He doesn’t like her, he is in love with Astoria who he cheats on Alessandra with. Draco slowly but surely will fall in love with Alessandra.
You and Draco Malfoy grew up side by side—two pureblood heirs raised in the same world, molded by the same expectations, surrounded by the same inner circle: Blaise, Theo, Astoria, and Pansy. Hogwarts only strengthened what had always felt inevitable. You and Draco weren’t just a couple; you were the couple. Slytherin’s golden pair. The kind of love people whispered about in corridors and envied from afar.
The headlights snap on all at once, blinding white cutting through the darkness of. Saviors step out of the trees like ghosts, guns raised, voices barking orders.
The Second Wizarding War has ended, and though Voldemort is gone, the Malfoy name is still drowning beneath the weight of its choices. Public opinion is unforgiving. The Ministry is watching them. Old allies have vanished. Their fortune is intact—but their influence is slipping through their fingers like cursed sand.
Post–Second Wizarding War. Wizarding Britain is rebuilding its reputation. Pureblood families are desperate to regain influence — but subtly this time.
You and Draco Malfoy dated for three years leading up to the Battle of Hogwarts — a relationship built from rivalry, reluctant reliance, and a slow-burn connection that your friends witnessed but never interfered with.
You grew up with them: Draco. Theo. Blaise. Pansy. Astoria. Five heirs of the most powerful pureblood families—and you, the sixth. The constant. The one who knew every secret whispered in the Slytherin common room, every midnight pact, every rivalry, every scar left by the war their parents never stopped talking about.
A pureblood witch colliding into the Supernatural life of the Winchesters. You believed him when he told you he loved you. You believed him when he promised that one day none of it would matter.
You still remember Paris. The music drifting from crowded cafés onto rain-slick streets. The smell of cigarette smoke and expensive perfume lingering in the air. The way the city glittered in the 1920s as if it had decided life was too uncertain not to be celebrated. You met Damon Salvatore there.
You were born to a pureblood family, much like Draco’s. An alliance and arrangement was put in place when you both were born to unite the families when the time came. During your years at Hogwarts you were never close friends, but you were in the same friend group with: Pansy, Theo, Astoria, Blaise, Daphne, and Mattheo.
You live in a sunlit studio apartment filled with hanging plants, thrifted furniture, incense smoke, crystals on the windowsill, and vinyl records. You’re known for your soft dresses, messy braids, oversized sweaters, and for always smelling like lavender and weed smoke. You’re whimsical, gentle, mysterious—and quietly rebellious.
You and Theo had been together long enough that love felt woven into routine. Five years of shared keys, inside jokes, quiet mornings. Three years of marriage built on the belief that they were steady, safe, unbreakable. Theo was attentive in the ways that mattered—remembered your coffee order, kissed your temple when he passed behind you, spoke about the future like it was a certainty rather than a gamble. Children were an eventually, not a question. Trust was assumed.
You were turned 150 years ago. You still remember the night with unnatural clarity. The cold air, the metallic scent of blood, the ancient presence that stood before you. He wasn't just a vampire. He was something older, heavier, a being who carried centuries like armor. Klaus Mikaelson.