Draco Malfoy (Remake)

Note: I’m writing this story because I wanted it to be illustrated and slightly expanded.

Draco Malfoy, Slytherin prefect, was lazily strolling along the narrow streets of Diagon Alley when his gaze fell upon a worn notebook lying on the pavement near one of the cafés. On the cover was written: “Book of Rules.” He picked it up with a disgusted grimace and began to read. After reading it, Draco decided it was just another stupid prank by the Weasley twins. “Well then,” he thought with his usual arrogant smirk, “let’s see what those ginger idiots have come up with this time.”

However, within just a few moments, his familiar world began to crumble.

The new rule, written in neat, almost hypnotic handwriting on the first page, read: Ginny “Ginny” Weasley is now the complete **** of Draco Malfoy and is obliged to lick his feet every time he sits down.

Draco had barely managed to snort when the air in front of the café window thickened, and through the glass, like a ghost, she stepped — Ginny Weasley herself. Her appearance was so absurd that Malfoy froze for a moment with a coffee cup in his hand. He had already been looking forward to the look of genuine horror on the Weasleys’ faces when they realized their prank had backfired. But instead, Ginny entered the café, her face frozen in an expression of deep disgust and helpless fury.

She was dressed in Muggle style: a simple pink T-shirt with a low neckline and tight black pants that emphasized her slender legs and hips. Her red hair was slightly tousled, and her eyes burned with a fire that could not possibly belong to an ordinary joke. A pure-blood witch, daughter of an ancient lineage, now looked like an ordinary Muggle girl — a thought that caused a slight wave of contempt in Draco. However, that was far from the main issue right now.

“Yes, Weasley?” he drawled, slowly stirring his coffee with a silver spoon. His voice sounded bored, as if he were expecting another insult.

Ginny stepped closer. Her fists were clenched so tightly that her knuckles turned white.

“I don’t know how you did this, Malfoy,” she hissed through gritted teeth, her voice trembling with rage, “but I want out. Right now.”

Draco raised an eyebrow, feigning genuine confusion.

“Out of what exactly, Weasley?”

With a loud slap, she slammed her palms on the wooden table, leaning so close that he could smell her shampoo — cheap, Muggle.

“Out of this **** contract, Malfoy!” she almost shouted.

For a moment, silence fell over the café. Draco leaned back in his chair, studying her face. Then, quietly, almost tenderly, he asked:

“Are you joking, Weasley?”

In response, Ginny sharply pulled a scroll of parchment from her back pocket and threw it onto the table. The parchment was old, covered in complex magical seals and signatures that even now faintly glowed with gold. Draco unrolled it, and as he read, his pale lips stretched into a predatory, slow smile.

In ancient times, pure-blood families really did make such contracts: sponsorship of education in exchange for absolute obedience. With the advent of house-elves and the changing times, such contracts had faded into the shadows, but the law had never abolished them. Which meant the “Memory Diary” was not a joke at all.

Draco slowly raised his eyes. His silver gaze sparkled with malicious triumph.

“In that case,” he said in a velvety, venomous voice, “shouldn’t you be doing something, Weasley?”

Ginny stood there, trembling with rage and humiliation. Draco raised his hand, stopping her impulse.

“Crawl to me.”

The words sounded quiet, almost a whisper, but the power of the ancient magic contained in the contract was irresistible. Ginny’s face twisted in disgust, yet her knees buckled on their own. She sank to the floor of the café, feeling the cold stone seep through the fabric of her pants. Slowly, agonizingly, the red-haired witch crawled on all fours toward Draco’s table.

Her pink T-shirt with the low neckline revealed a tempting view of a bright red lace bra tightly cupping her full breasts. Despite all the hatred Malfoy felt for the Weasley family, he could not deny it: they produced strong, beautiful children. And now the only daughter of that family was crawling toward him on her knees, like an animal.

When she reached his feet, Draco casually stretched one leg forward, placing his expensive leather shoe directly in front of her face. The sole still bore traces of Floo powder and hearth ash.

“You know what to do.”

Ginny closed her eyes, fighting nausea. Tears of helpless fury glistened on her lashes. She stuck out her tongue and, with visible revulsion, ran it across the dirty shoe. The taste was disgusting — bitter ash, the dust of Diagon Alley, and humiliation that sank straight into her bones. She continued to lick, slowly and thoroughly, while Draco, leaning back in his chair, looked down at her with an expression of absolute satisfaction.

In one hand he still held the notebook. His fingers lightly tapped the cover, and new ideas — more sophisticated, more cruel — were already swarming in his head. The smile on his face grew wider and wider.

There were still so many ways to turn Ginny Weasley’s life into a living hell ahead. And now he had everything he needed to make each one of them a reality