How did it feel? It felt like he was barely holding it together. She, of all people, should shun him. Or yell at him. Curse him. Spit at him. Take out her wand and blast him off the face of the earth. It was crushing guilt and relief and confusion all at once when he looked at Hermione Granger. The monotony of Draco's daily routine had become both a lifeline and a noose. But this new habit of grabbing morning coffee with Hermione Granger is quickly becoming a reason to get out of bed and is unfortunately forcing him to re-evaluate his inconsequential existence. Hermione is living her life in fragments, separate pieces scattered about, and she can't find a way to step back and let the full picture form. Why is morning coffee with Draco Malfoy the only thing that makes sense anymore? *cover art created by @eternallyreadinggoodthings

"We both hate each-other and that'll never change" ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ ｡.★.*｡ "𝚆𝚎'𝚛𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜" ｡.★.*｡ .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

"You think he would really care for you? He would do anything for family. He did what was necessary." A Draco Malfoy fanfic. Starts 5th year and ends after the war. Slowburn and spicy. TW: sexual assault (i'll let you know where before hand if you need to avoid it) NSFW It's not completed but I will try and give updates as often as possible. #10 - mudblood

MATURE CONTENT Draco Malfoy despises anyone that is not pure. So when a half-blood rises up to his challenges, his not sure whether he should be impressed or enraged. Draco Malfoy and Aster Flint can't seem to work out whether their anger rises from their hatred for each other or from something more. Highest rankings: #1 in dracosmut #2 in funny #3 in slow burn #2 in spicy

ɪᴛ's ᴇɪɢʜᴛʜ ʏᴇᴀʀ ᴀᴛ ʜᴏɢᴡᴀʀᴛs ғᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇᴛᴜʀɴɪɴɢ sᴛᴜᴅᴇɴᴛs ᴡʜᴏ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅɴ'ᴛ ғɪɴɪsʜ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ᴇᴅᴜᴄᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴡᴇʀᴇ sᴇᴠᴇɴᴛʜ ʏᴇᴀʀs. ᴛʜᴇ ɢᴏʟᴅᴇɴ ᴛʀɪᴏ ʀᴇᴛᴜʀɴs, ᴀɴᴅ ᴏғ ᴄᴏᴜʀsᴇ, ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴀʀᴇ ᴀʟʟ ᴀɴʏᴏɴᴇ ᴄᴀɴ ᴛᴀʟᴋ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ʀᴏʟᴇ ᴍᴏᴅᴇʟs ᴛᴏ ʏᴏᴜɴɢ sᴛᴜᴅᴇɴᴛs ғʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ʀᴏʟᴇs ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴀᴛᴛʟᴇ ᴏғ ʜᴏɢᴡᴀʀᴛs. ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ɢʀᴏᴜᴘ ᴛʜᴀᴛ sʜᴏᴡs ᴜᴘ ғᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ᴇɪɢʜᴛʜ ʏᴇᴀʀ; ᴛʜᴇ ɪɴғᴀᴍᴏᴜs sʟʏᴛʜᴇʀɪɴ ᴛʀɪᴏ. ᴅʀᴀᴄᴏ ᴍᴀʟғᴏʏ ᴡʜᴏ ɪs ʜᴀᴛᴇᴅ ʙʏ ᴀʟʟ ғᴏʀ ʜᴇ ᴡᴀs ᴛʜᴇ ᴏɴᴇ ᴡʜᴏ ʟᴇᴛ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ ᴇᴀᴛᴇʀs ɪɴsɪᴅᴇ ᴏғ ʜᴏɢᴡᴀʀᴛs, ʟᴇᴀᴅɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ ᴏғ ᴘʀᴇᴠɪᴏᴜs ʜᴇᴀᴅᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀ, ᴅᴜᴍʙʟᴇᴅᴏʀᴇ. ᴘᴀɴsʏ ᴘᴀʀᴋɪɴsᴏɴ ᴡʜᴏ ᴛʀɪᴇᴅ ɢᴏ ɢɪᴠᴇ ᴜᴘ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴏʏ ᴡʜᴏ ʟɪᴠᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʟᴏʀᴅ ᴠᴏʟᴅᴇᴍᴏʀᴛ ʙᴇғᴏʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴀᴛᴛʟᴇ ʜᴀᴅ sᴛᴀʀᴛᴇᴅ. ʙʟᴀɪsᴇ ᴢᴀʙɪɴɪ ᴡʜᴏ ɪs ʜᴀᴛᴇᴅ ғᴏʀ ᴀᴛᴛᴇᴍᴘᴛɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ʜᴇʟᴘ ᴅʀᴀᴄᴏ sᴛᴏᴘ ʜᴀʀʀʏ ᴘᴏᴛᴛᴇʀ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴏᴏᴍ ᴏғ ʀᴇǫᴜɪʀᴇᴍᴇɴᴛs. ɴᴏᴡ ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇɪɢʜᴛʜ ʏᴇᴀʀs ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴛᴏ sʜᴀʀᴇ ᴏɴᴇ ᴅᴏʀᴍ ʀᴏᴏᴍ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ʜᴏᴜsᴇs ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜsᴇ ᴏғ ʜᴏᴜsᴇ ᴜɴɪᴛʏ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏɴᴄᴇ ғᴇᴀʀᴇᴅ sʟʏᴛʜᴇʀɪɴ ᴛʀɪᴏ ᴀʀᴇ ɴᴏᴡ ᴏᴜᴛsɪᴅᴇʀs. ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴀʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ɴᴏᴛ sᴏ ɢᴏʟᴅᴇɴ ᴛʀɪᴏ