Draco Malfoy x Reader One Shots

Friends?

The sequel to "Enemies".

~ ~ ~ ~

It was a Wednesday afternoon, and Draco was stalking through the halls of Hogwarts, heading towards Arithmancy, and being flanked by Crabbe and Goyle. It was a cool but sunny day, and the light shining through the windows was casting shadows on the stone floor, forming the faint shape of mullions. Draco didn't pay very much attention to the silhouettes; they were just patterns passing by as he held his chin up and tried his best to ignore the conversation between his henchmen. They were talking about (y/f/n) (y/l/n) again, bad mouthing (him/her/them) and calling (him/her/them) a mudblood, and it was threatening to make Draco lose his temper. He'd tried his best to make good on his promise to (y/f/n), but from what he was hearing now, it seemed that the other two Slytherins had done no such thing. Well, not that he'd informed them of his tête-à-tête with the (y/h/n). He'd thought about it, but had ultimately decided that it wasn't worth the ridicule, and instead kept it to himself. With that in mind, maybe he didn't have the right to be angry, but the longer they went on, the harder it was to stay indifferent.

He felt something for (y/f/n); it wasn't disdain or even pity, but it was there, and he didn't think it was going to go away any time soon, no matter how hard he tried to rid himself of it. It was a strange sort of feeling, and not one he got very often. It made his cheeks hot, and his stomach flutter with what felt like a hundred butterflies. It made his breath catch, and his heart stop, and he didn't like it one bit. It was like (he/she/they) had put some sort of spell on him, and it was making it hard to focus. Sometimes, he'd even lay awake at night, unable to sleep, because every time he closed his eyes, all he could see was (him/her/them) curled up under the beech tree, eyes red from crying.

Suddenly the shadows on the ground altered, going from bars to the shape of a (boy/girl/person) in the time it takes to blink. This normally wouldn't cause Draco's pace to change, as the windows were a common place for students to sit, but his bloody goons swerved towards the person, leaving Draco no choice but to snarl out a reprimand (... threat) and adjust his course. He didn't know who they were advancing upon as he did his best to preen his ruffled feathers, nor had he cared, until he heard Crabbe bark out, "Hey, Mudblood!"

Draco's gaze flew to the window, and when it landed on an all too familiar form, he felt his stomach tie into a knot. It was (y/f/n). (He/she/they) was sat, knees drawn up to (his/her/their) chest as (he/she/they) read a book that appeared to be about Werewolves. It was called 'Hairy Snout, Human Heart', and though Draco didn't know what that was, (he/she/they) was reading it avidly, and looking quite... Endearing.

(He/she/they) looked up from (his/her/their) book as they drew nearer, and an expression full of resignation came to rest on (his/her/their) face. (He/she/they) knew what was about to ensue. (He/she/they) knew that Crabbe and Goyle were going to call (him/her/them) names, maybe berate (him/her/them) about (his/her/their) looks, or pastimes (reading in a windowsill in (his/her/their) spare time), and (he/she/they) wasn't going to fight it.

That filled Draco with an odd feeling, one that made him want to prove (his/her/their) suspicions wrong, to speak up and show (him/her/them) that he could do the right thing now and then, despite the response he would undoubtedly get from the large boys either side of him... Maybe (y/f/n) was right, and he did need to go to St Mungo's.

But suddenly he didn't have time to think about that anymore, because he could see Crabbe and Goyle puffing themselves up and getting ready to unleash a series of onslaughts on the cornered (y/h/n), and he did the most Gryffindork thing imaginable and blurted out the first thing that came into his head, which just so happened to be,

"You look nice today."

He hadn't said it all too loudly, but it only took a matter of seconds to tell that the damage was done. Both Crabbe and Goyle were wearing matching looks of utter confusion as they tried to figure out what had just happened, and (y/f/n) was staring at him with a component that he couldn't quite decipher, though there was definitely an odd form of pity in it, as if (he/she/they) thought him to be a mentally unstable wizard who would come to his senses at any moment, and realize what he'd just uttered.

Being who he was, a part of Draco wished that he could take said utterance back, but as the countenance of the (boy/girl/person) before him changed ever so slightly, lightening in spite of the situation, he just reaffirmed his previous statement.

"You do." He said, his voice more emphatic this time.

The beginning of a smile danced across (his/her/their) lips, and (he/she/they) bit on them and tilted (his/her/their) face away. "Thank you." (He/she/they) responded, (his/her/their) voice somewhere between amused and sincere. "You don't look too bad yourself, though I still say you should drop by St Mungo's."

Draco could feel the heat rising to his cheeks again as he observed (him/her/them), and he silently cursed his body for betraying him. (Y/l/n) looked better than (he/she/they) had the day before, under the beech tree; (his/her/their) eyes were no longer red or glassy, and were instead lit up with what seemed to be mirth, and (his/her/their) hair wasn't in disarray like it had been on the day just passed, and was now falling in soft looking (h/c) curls. (He/she/they) really did look good.

When he realized that maybe he'd been staring in silence for a little too long, he spoke up again. "What are you reading?" That was an okay question to ask, right? It was friendly, but not personal, wasn't it? Draco honestly wasn't sure what he was supposed to say to (him/her/them), especially given their past. He'd never found himself in a situation like this before, and the lines were all blurry.

(Y/f/n) didn't seem to notice any of Draco's (painful) internal suffering as (he/she/they) raised the book to show off the cover. "It's about this man who struggled against lycanthropy." (He/she/they) explained. "It's really good."

He inspected the volume thoughtfully, though he wasn't particularly keen on the subject. "I'm not a fan of Werewolves." He told (him/her/them). "They always just seemed like hairy brutes to me."

(He/she/they) rolled (his/her/their) eyes good naturedly and lowered the book. "It's not like they choose to be that way, Malfoy." (He/she/they) said. "They're just misunderstood. I'm sure that if you knew more about them, you'd sympathize a little."

Draco scoffed. "I wouldn't hold your breath."

(Y/f/n) lifted (his/her/their) (e/c) eyes to meet his, amusement tangible within them. "I'll tell you what; when I'm done with this book, I'll lend it to you. Give it a read, and then get back to me on that, okay?"

He shot (him/her/them) a smirk, despite the annoying and all too familiar butterflies fluttering in his stomach. Was (he/she/they) trying to keep him around? He found himself hoping (he/she/they) was, though he would never tell anyone that. "Okay." He replied. "Though I must warn you, (y/l/n) - I don't tend to be very compassionate."

(He/she/they) gave him a look that he couldn't decipher, before letting (his/her/their) gaze return to the pages in front of (him/her/them). "That's debatable."

Draco lapsed back into silence as he tried to settle his nerves and come up with a suitable response, but (y/f/n) quickly saved him from that hell by saying,

"Get to class, Malfoy." In a light tone.

He nodded and stepped away, almost relieved to be able to get away from whatever it was about (him/her/them) that made his heart stutter. 'Flustered' wasn't something he was used to being, nor was it something he found particularly enjoyable. It made him feel like a first year who didn't know the Great Hall from the Forbidden Forest - everything he was used to was gone, and he was left in uncharted territory, trying to figure out what was expected of him.

As he walked through the halls, the shadows at his feet returned once more to the outlines of mullions, and Crabbe and Goyle were uncharacteristically silent, though quite ordinarily perplexed. Putting aside the thoughts of butterflies, books, and St Mungo's, Draco allowed himself to entertain the idea that just maybe, he and (y/f/n) could be friends.