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When he was just a child, infamous vampire hunter Zayn Malik lost his family to a group of merciless vampires, but was spared. Now he’s forced to deal with falling in love with the one thing he despises most in this world. A vampire. One with the blood of royalty running through his veins, who has a beating heart and who may or may not have been involved with the death of Zayn’s family.
A/N: this fic/though completed/ is unedited and quite frankly a mess. Enter at your own risk.
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Harry has had to live his life with the curse of being overly well-endowed.
Draco has had to live his life with the curse of being hard to please.
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A Cinderella story, of sorts.- Language:
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Bookmarked by Sknow
05 Aug 2025
Bookmarker's Notes
“You’ve done it again, Potter.” She started, crossing her arms over her chest and shaking her head at him. “You baffle all magi-healing standards practically every time you come in here. It’s endlessly fascinating.”
Harry groaned, burying his face in his hands, and Draco sat up straighter, alarmed.
“What’s wrong? What has he done this time?!” He demanded, staring at the Healer.
“You may rest easy knowing that Potter didn’t manage to infect you with the werewolf virus.” She immediately clarified, easing his initial worries.
Draco, still baffled, pressed on. “Then what has he done to me?”
A grimace of a smile graced her lips, and she looked at him with a piercing gaze that made him feel like she was staring through him, breaking him down into his component parts, to better understand his puzzle.
“You’re a veela.” She stated, summoning a medical chart and a quill.
“Yes, but I don’t see what that has to do with anything.” Draco said, aiming for nonchalance, even as he heard Harry make a squawk of surprise at the information.
“And you’re on suppressants.” She continued, also ignoring Harry.
“Of course, and I brew it myself, so I know it is effective.” Draco said, defensive, eyes narrowing in challenge.
“Of course.” The Healer agreed, squinting right back at him in challenge. “Though we all know that no potions are completely effective 100% of the time.”
“Of course.” Draco ground out, teeth clenching, worry building in his gut.
“You had some unusually high hormones present in your bloodwork.” The Healer continued, skimming down through the list. “Ones only present in a veela who is actively in a mating cycle.”
Draco felt himself teetering on the edge of a thought, his vision tunneling, his eyes fixed on the chart in the Healer’s hands. He barely heard Harry making noises resembling questions behind him.
“Would you like me to dismiss Potter from the room?” The Healer asked, her face morphing into something almost kindly, though the expression looked to pain her.
“N-no, I - “ Draco’s heart was beating furiously, and he reached out, unthinking, and found Harry eagerly holding his hand, taking the seat next to him and practically pulling Draco into his lap, making soothing noises. “He can stay.”
The Healer looked between them, and carried on.
“Birth control is one of the properties of the suppressant, correct?”
Draco nodded, numb. “It should be 99.9% effective.”
“Indeed.” The Healer agreed, staring at him, trying to give him time to draw the conclusion on his own.
“And veelas are only… receptive, in very specific circumstances.”
“Indeed.”
Harry made a questioning noise by his ear, and Draco shut his eyes. “Less than a 0.01% chance.”
The Healer nodded, and Draco could feel Harry staring at him.
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The porn industry is a hard business, but it’s a good business. One that Levi doesn’t mind. Outcasts like him—dysfunctional omegas born in the underground of Mitras—don’t have many choices either way. And this one isn’t the worst. Because it’s Levi’s only chance to get physical with a decent alpha. His job? Keeping them hard for their beta playmates posing as horny omegas for the explicit movies devoured by the elite omega masses. He’s okay with that. He’s used to it. What he’s not used to? Falling in love on set.
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Bookmarked by Sknow
04 Aug 2025
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It’s betas pretending to be omegas getting wrecked by the object of every omega’s desire—dominant, strong, and physically beautiful, tall alphas, with huge muscles and huge knots. The real omegas—the clean, royal-blooded ones born above at the top of society—don’t degrade themselves for screens, don’t want to see low-ranked omega scum on the screens either. But they like to watch . And they want a show that arouses them properly. And this is why the alphas on screen need to be aroused–and nothing arouses them more than real, omega scents and pheromones.
Levi rounds the corner. Two fellow fluffers—Armin and Marco—are walking past, giggling like schoolgirls.
“Holy shit, you’re so fucking lucky,” Armin whispers.
Marco fans himself dramatically. “THE Erwin Smith. We’re dying . You don’t even know.”
Levi stops, stares. “Who?”
Armin gasps like he’s been slapped. “You haven’t heard of Erwin Smith?”
“No,” Levi says flatly. “Why the fuck would I?”
They squeal and rush off down the corridor, still babbling. Levi blinks after them. Shrugs. And opens the dressing room door.
He smells him before even laying eyes on him.
It’s not the usual mix of soap, sharp cologne, or musked-up pheromones that linger in these dressing rooms. No—this is different, this is real . Cedar and fir, cracked open in the sun, with fresh black pepper curling at the sharp edge. The grounding scent of dry earth after rain. And underneath it all—something metallic. Cold and sharp. Like steel drawn across skin.
Levi freezes in the doorway. His breath halts.
It smells like control. Like wilderness. Like someone too big for this place.
Something twists in his stomach. Low and slow. Not sharp, but deep. Spreading heat into his abdomen like a flare, sparks flying along nerves that haven’t fired in years. Maybe never.
It surprises him. Scares him, even.
And it makes him angry.
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It was only supposed to be for seven minutes and then the blindfold would come off and he'd be free from the dark cupboard and his mystery partner - only Harry was no longer sure he wanted it to end.
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Bookmarked by Sknow
08 Apr 2025
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Then...what are you talking about?" Harry felt the overwhelming urge to reach forward and touch the other boy again, to draw him close and kiss his jaw and sooth his hair and wind his fingers through the Sytherins long, cool ones.
Malfoy looked down at his designer black shoes, not a scuff or scratch insight. "It's easier to yell at you, you know?"
"Easier than what?" Harry held his breath as gray eyes flicked up at his before skirting back down, Malfoy sucking in a deep, slow breath.
He shrugged and kicked the ground. "Go on and ask me."
Somehow Harry knew that Malfoy wasn't talking about his frankly weird and confusing tangent but about his confession in order to break free and Harry felt his stomach knot further as he licked his lips and gathered up the courage to do so. "Alright...what were you thinking about in the cupboard?" He whispered it, almost afraid that if he spoke any louder that it would send the blond into another fit. Not to mention he was nervous as hell, especially after he had admitted to so much mere moments ago.
"You." Malfoy said it so quietly that Harry nearly missed it completely, his entire body still, even his heart stopping it's beating to make sure he could hear every little word and catch every little nuance in his cadence.
"What?" Harry muttered as he pressed forward until they were almost touching again.
"I was thinking about you because...because I, fuck." Malfoy shut his eyes and bit his lip as Harry felt himself ready to explode, elation hanging just beyond his fingertips as he waited for Malfoy to finish his thought. The cold fingers on his chin startled him, a huff of pleasant surprise rushing out of him as Malfoy's lips hovered just a fraction of an inch away. "Your hair is a disaster you know? And when you're working in Potions you make these noises..." He was so close, his eyelids heavy and gaze stirring with a storm beneath them, each word settling like a pool of heat in Harry's stomach. In that moment Malfoy seemed ten feet tall, dwarfing Harry in all things. "You can't be missed and I knew...I knew it was you."
Harry felt caught, suspended above himself, looking down at him and Malfoy - a breath between them, Malfoy's hand of his face, the confession hanging in the air like a physical presence, and all Harry wanted to do was press forward and drown again. But his brain was dead, his chest pounding, the words echoing in his head in a way that he couldn't stop listening to.
But then the handcuffs clicked open and clanked against the stone and Malfoy was out the door before Harry could blink.
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Draco's in a bit of a rut. He's nearing forty, divorced, and he still can't figure out how to make his Time Turner reconstruction work. He's bored, he can admit it, so he's not nearly as concerned as he should be when his pet project malfunctions and sends him twenty years into the past. That is, until he ends up relying on a nineteen-year-old Harry Potter for help and starts developing some very inconvenient—and possibly reciprocated—feelings.
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- Part 1 of Time is a Construct
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08 Apr 2025
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When Draco had joined the Department of Mysteries after his time at the university in Rome, Potter had already
The moment Draco had decided not to Obliviate Harry, he'd thought that was the answer to his question in regards to whether or not changing the past necessarily led to alternate timelines. Because the Potter in this world had never indicated even the slightest sign of having had an encounter with a Draco Malfoy from the future when he was nineteen years old.
Except.
Maybe he had.
Maybe Draco just hadn't been paying attention. Maybe he'd not had enough of the facts to recognise the signs for what they were.
Or maybe Draco was seeing something that wasn't there at all, reading secret motives into ordinary actions because he desperately wanted it to be true. It wouldn't be the first time he'd deluded himself, but it might very well be the most devastating.
Well, there was nothing for it. Devastating or not, Draco wouldn't be able to rest tonight—not even on his most deliciously comfortable bed—until he knew the truth, one way or another.
Draco stood and threw back the rest of the whisky, silently apologising to the expensive bottle for not properly savouring it slowly as was its due. Unfortunately, he was urgently required elsewhere.
He had a promise to keep.
⏳ - ⏳ - ⏳
Draco must have been lost in thought for longer than he'd realised, as the sun had already set by the time he Apparated onto the street where Potter lived. This was a good thing, as Draco hadn't even bothered checking the time before dashing off, and for all he knew, Potter might have still be at work. Hell, he might still be at work anyway—he was well-known for working late—or out and about with one of his many friends. Doubt began to pick at Draco's resolve, urging him to turn around and think things through, take a subtler approach instead of barging right into things like some kind of brash Gryffindor.
Every self-preservation instinct he had was screaming at him to let this go, that even if Potter was the same Harry that Draco had fallen for, it didn't mean anything had changed. Twenty years would have passed for Harry, time enough, as Draco knew full-well, to become a completely different person.
But Draco had to know. Whatever the outcome was, it would be better than uncertainty. Besides, he'd promised Harry that he'd reach out to Potter, extend a hand of friendship once more—hopefully this time with better results. Even if the two weren't the same, Draco thought some bit of Harry would be better than nothing at all.
Slowly, he walked up to the front door, squared his shoulders, and knocked.
There was a beat of silence, and then the faint sounds of somebody moving about inside, making their way towards the door. Draco held his breath, doing his best to stand tall and project a confidence he didn't feel as the door swung open.
Harry Potter stood in the doorway, golden light spilling out around him and into the dark night. He was dressed comfortably in jeans and a soft-looking emerald jumper, and Draco's throat tightened at the sight. Draco had always thought Harry had grown into a rather handsome man, but now all he could see were the similarities to the boy he'd once been. All Draco could see was Harry. He was older, of course he was, skin puckering a bit around his eyes, his lines of his face more defined, his expression less open than it had been when he was young. But he was still Harry, undoubtedly so, and, embarrassingly, Draco felt his body react to his presence just as keenly as it had to his nineteen-year-old counterpart. He gave himself a rather firm internal scolding—that was not what he was here for!—and gave a cautious smile.
Potter's eyes widened as he took in Draco's presence on his stoop, his brow furrowing with confusion before some emotion stole across his expression. An emotion that looked a hell of a lot like hope. Draco's heart began to race.
"Hello, Harry," Draco said, unable to come up with anything more elegant when faced with the reality of a thirty-nine-year-old Potter for the first time since falling for Harry. He'd never called this Potter by his first name, however, which appeared to be enough.
Potter—Harry's—face broke out into a broad, delighted grin, that same crooked smile he'd bestowed on Draco in a sunny Italian square when he was nineteen years old.
"It's about time," Harry said, still grinning as he stepped aside and gestured Draco inside his home. "I've been waiting."
La fine.
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The Light More Beautiful by firethesound_HP_archive for lumosed_quill
Fandoms: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
06 Dec 2014
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Thirteen years after Draco accepts Potter's help escaping the horror of his sixth year, he returns to England where he makes the unfortunate discovery that Potter is still as obnoxious as ever. And worse, more than a decade overseas hasn't been enough to dim Draco's obsession with him.
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04 Feb 2025
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...and Draco decides he’d much rather watch. He’s hoping Potter will make a grab for Granger. Not that she’d let him get anywhere with it, she’s far too capable a witch for that, and anyhow even Draco’s not cruel enough to stand idly aside as Potter mauls her. But Potter would probably get just far enough to make a complete and utter fool of himself. It’s not quite the spectacle sicking up would be, but Draco will take it. Maybe Granger will even be forced to hex him. Draco smiles at the thought.
“Hermione, I’m serious. Go away.” Potter glances over at Pansy. “And take her with you.”
Pansy looks up at Draco, and he gives her a nod. “Go on.”
“Harry, I really don’t think I should leave you alone with—”
“He’s a bloke, he’ll be fine,” Potter cuts in.
“That’s not what I meant,” Granger says, glancing distrustfully at Draco
“Unlike you, my potion’s coming along perfectly. I haven’t got time to antagonise Potter,” Draco says. The last few steps are delicate and as much as he’d like, he doesn’t have time to bait Potter right now. It’s rather a shame.
“You see? I’ll be fine.” Potter rubs the back of his wrist over his forehead. “Everything’s fine. Just go.”
“If you’re sure. We’ll just go get Slughorn, he’s probably in his office—” Granger begins.
“Slughorn’s bloody useless,” Potter grinds out through clenched teeth. “Get Pomfrey.” The girls hesitate by the door, and Potter snaps at them, “Go now!”
They go. The door thumps shut behind them and for a long moment, the only sound in the potions lab is Potter’s harsh breathing. Draco picks up the decanter of purified water from his workstation and carefully pours half of it into his cauldron, takes up Pansy’s wand again and gives it a stir.
“Malfoy…” Potter says.
“I’m trying to work,” Draco says, levelling a scathing look at the front of Potter’s trousers. “I haven’t got time for you and your little problem.”
The hand Potter holds splayed protectively over his groin doesn’t quite disguise the way his erection tents the front of his trousers. And despite what Draco just said, from the glimpse he’d allowed himself Potter’s problem is certainly not little. He dearly wants to take another look, but forces himself to keep his eyes on his cauldron. He doesn’t need to give himself any more encouragement to fantasise about Potter.
“But you see…” Potter goes on.
“For the love of Merlin,” Draco mutters. He glances up to find that Potter has stood. There’s something about the way he’s holding himself, a tension through him that reminds Draco of a coiled snake, poised and ready to strike. The back of his neck prickles.
“You’ve made a mistake,” Potter says, fixing Draco with fever-bright eyes.
“Oh?” Draco asks. His mouth has gone dry and he forces himself to swallow. The way Potter’s staring at him is frankly unnerving. He backs up a step and his arse bumps into the table behind him, and he raises his wand. Not trying to get the asphodel and moondew into Potter when he still had Granger for backup is starting to feel more and more like a miscalculation. “And what’s that?”
“Expelliarmus!” Potter shouts, and the wand rips itself from Draco’s fingers. Potter tosses it aside as he advances on Draco. “You see,” he continues, “I don’t just like girls.”
It takes a long moment for Potter’s words to make sense. When they do, and everything they imply clicks into place in Draco’s mind, he does the only sensible thing: he bolts.