It was not by accident that you found yourself hiding behind one of two grand columns placed just within the entrance of an expensive restaurant on Valentines Day, stressed but well dressed instead of full of self-loathing and chocolate as you binge watched Downton Abbey from the same dent in your settee.
No, your current situation and disrupted ritual was entirely intentional - and the work of the literal Anti-Christ - ehem. That is to say, your best friend. Hermione Fucking Granger.
Well-meaning but consequentially evil, Hermione had expressed concerns to you about your habits (for the thousandth time) over dinner just the night before - what would turn out to be the catalyst of disaster.
See, she was worried about the time you spent alone - especially so called romantic holiday time. She felt that you were missing out on things - or at least, that she didn't want you to. Not to mention she felt guilty, because she had Pansy and you were all alone (well, excuse you).
You had tried to tell her that you were fine, but that was when she dropped the bomb. Two words that suddenly made you feel as if you were missing about forty cats and several too many scrapbooks - blind date. She thought the only date you could land was one with a person you'd never even met. What type of lost cause did that make you?
Naturally, you had felt very strongly about declining - but Hermione was staring at you, and fuck it, she really did look concerned. So you had agreed.
And so it was for that reason that you stood, peeking occasionally around the side of a large white column with ninja like stealth as you attempted to single out your date.
You'd never met the man, but he was supposedly a close friend of Pansy's, someone she'd known since her school days. He was rich - she'd told you that as if to tempt you into going, though it would have been of more comfort to you if she'd said he was kind, or had a good sense of humour. And yet, money seemed to be the asset she was sticking with, and needless to say, that did not exactly fill you with confidence.
But for all the things that could be sad of yourself, taking Pansy's word for gospel was certainly not one of them.
So of course, it was for that reason that you finally stepped out from your hiding place, smoothing out your clothes with your head held high. It had nothing to do with the snooty waiter or his snooty mustache, and it definitely had nothing to do with his snooty request that you behave as if you at least had an idea of what dignity was.
The restaurant was just as full of elderly aristocrats as it had appeared from behind the column, all prim and proper with their elbows far from touching the tabletop as they sat, poised with rigid conformity, and you couldn't help but feel as uncomfortable as they looked.
And there, sat at a circular table in the centre of the restaurant was a pale and lithesome man, younger than the other customers by at least forty years, and dressed so lavishly he could only be the male Pansy had described.
His features were sharp and nonchalant, his hair platinum in colour and slicked back, and he carried an air about him, as if he were better than everyone else and knew it.
That would have been enough for you to leave. After all, you were dolled up and surrounded by the Beverly Hills Undead, miles from your nearest comfort zone - all in the name of a blind date. And if that date was going to be a douche, then there was no way in hell you were sticking around.
But then he was rising gracefully, stepping around the side of the table to greet you with a small smirk. Up close, his eyes were a harsh shade of grey, seemingly impenetrable like the most enigmatic locks, and the smile on his pale pink lips didn't quite seem to reach their depths.
You struggled to tear your gaze from them as he reached for your hand, taking it into his own, and laying a kiss on your knuckles in place of a hand shake. Your eyes widened a fraction in surprise, one version or another of 'at least buy me dinner first' on the tip of your tongue as his smirk grew at your expression, but then he was speaking before you had chance.
"Draco Malfoy." He said smoothly. "It's a pleasure to meet you."
You blinked again and nodded dumbly. "Right." You realized your hand was still in his and drew it back awkwardly. "Um, you too."
If he noticed your folly, it didn't show.
Draco Malfoy pulled your chair out from the table, and then waited with a charming smile for you to slide hesitantly into it before guiding it back in as effortlessly as he spoke.
"You look perfect." The words were almost purred into your ear, surprising you with his proximity, but sending heat to your cheeks as goosebumps rose on your skin. He smelt like vanilla - a cologne he must have been wearing - with hints of faint citrus lacing the aroma, and his fingertips were soft as he grazed your shoulders on his way back to his seat.
You were uncharacteristically timid in his presence, silent as he sat fluidly, meeting your eyes again now as he asked you how you were.
His gaze was intense somehow, made you feel as if he were seeing right into your very being - as if just by sitting across from you, he now had you mapped out almost entirely. And his voice... His voice was steady and confident, smooth and sensual, dropping at times to register that sent shivers down your spine. He made you inhibited in a way that was mightily unfamiliar to you, and your words came out stumbled and unsure.
Though Draco only raised his eyebrows, urging you patiently to answer coherently, his gaze seemed to pin you, and he was inscrutable. And you were in a fancy restaurant, so far outside of your usual budget and social ranking that you felt as if you were the world's lamest and most broke spy. Suddenly you realized how truly out of place you were, in this restaurant and in the company of this man, and you rested your hands on the edge of the table, to push your chair back.
"Actually, you know what? I don't belong here. I think we both know that." You got up, stepping away from the table and the young aristocrat. "I'm sorry. This was a mistake."
You started off, eager to escape what was now the very judgmental looks from those at the surrounding tables, all peering on with disdain as they wondered what on earth had disrupted their discussions of snake oil, but you didn't get far before a strong hand closed around your wrist, keeping you in place.
"Wait," he said, though you didn't exactly have much choice. "You don't have to leave. Not without me, at least."
It was your turn to raise your eyebrows. "What?"
He stepped in closer, his hold on you loosening slightly as he spoke softly. "Blind dates aren't my thing either. But we're both here now, and I don't intend to let you go until you've had a good time. It doesn't have to be in here, if that's not what you want. But it will be together." He released you altogether as he stepped away. "Where do you want to go?"
He was watching you expectantly, and you didn't much figure you could decline his presence now - nor were you sure you wanted to. So you just nodded softly, biting your lip as he began to walk once more. "We're gonna find a cheap Chinese restaurant that's still open." You told him. "Then we're going to go home so I can put something less like a vacuum packed bag on. You're not going to misinterpret that, and then we'll hang out. We can binge your favourite period drama, or whatever it is you're into, and I can decide whether or not you were worth entering this hell dimension for."
Draco nodded, seeming amused as he followed you out into the cold night air. "Alright." He murmured. "But only if you respect my boundaries. Taking me home without so much as a meal first... I know I'm irresistible, but I still have feelings."
You glanced over at him, only to find him smirking teasingly at you. In response, you rolled your eyes. "I'll try." You said dryly.
The wind had blown some of his white blond hair from it's perfectly groomed state, scattering it across his forehead, and even that softened his features, making his appearance as changing as his personality.
Draco Malfoy was unlike anyone else you'd met, an enigma, but it lured you in - it intoxicated you. And maybe Hermione was right after all.
It was nice not to be alone.
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Draco Malfoy x Reader One Shots
Fanfiction"Draco Malfoy was ice. His skin was pale, his features were sharp, and his words were cold. He bit out insults and harsh truths like it was his role in life to do so, and his cool expression would tell you that he thought nothing of it. He was harsh...
