jiraen 𝜗𝜚

So when Pansy Parkinson found you lounging in the Great Hall, writing some lyrics on parchment, headphones glowing purple and silver, it wasn’t a request — it was a decree.

"You’ll be DJing Draco’s birthday party," She said breezily, dropping onto the Ravenclaw bench at lunch like she owned it. She was wearing serpent-green eyeliner and a look that dared you to argue.

You blinked, taking off your headphones. “I’m sorry—was that a question?”

“No, darling,” she said sweetly. “It’s an order. Room of Requirement. Ten PM. We’ve already prepped the fog spells.”

You sighed dramatically. “And if I say no?”

She gave you a dangerous smile. “Then I’ll cry. And Draco will pout. And do you really want to be the girl who ruined Malfoy’s birthday?”

You stared at her.

Then smirked. “Fine. But I’m bringing strobe charms. And no one’s allowed to touch my booth unless they want to be hexed into the Stone Age.”

Pansy grinned. “Knew you’d see reason.”

The Room of Requirement had outdone itself. It looked like a club ripped out of a Milan fashion show—black marble floors, glowing green chandeliers, floating drink trays, velvet couches in dramatic corners. Enchanted fog swirled over everything. And at the center, your DJ platform rose like a throne.

You stood behind your setup—crop top glittering, hair styled for maximum bounce, eyes rimmed in silver glam. With one flick of your wand, your decks lit up. The air shimmered with potential.

You grabbed the mic. “Let’s get loud, Hogwarts!”

The beat dropped into Drake's “One Dance”—remixed with a thunderclap charm that shook the walls—and the crowd exploded.

Every house was there. Gryffindors jumping like maniacs. Ravenclaws with color-changing drinks. Hufflepuffs forming a line-dance of doom. And Slytherins? They were pretending they weren’t into it, but their shoulders betrayed them.

And him.

Draco Malfoy.

Leaning against a pillar with one hand in his pocket, the other wrapped around a glass of firewhisky. White button-up slightly unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to his forearms. His silver-blond hair a little tousled like he didn’t care—except you knew he definitely cared.

And he was watching you like you were a flame he couldn’t help but lean into.

You rolled your body to the beat. Slow. Teasing. Wicked. Your hips moved like you knew exactly what you were doing and truthfully, you did. The room pulsed with your energy, the floor shifting with heat and rhythm, but all of it blurred around the way Draco’s gaze tracked you.

He took a slow sip from his firewhisky, his lips barely touching the glass as his eyes darkened, devouring every movement you made. He was still, coiled like a serpent, watching you like a secret he wanted to unwrap slowly.

You smirked and switched the track into a mashup of The Weeknd's "Die For You" and SZA’s “Low.”

“HEY EAGLE!” someone shouted. “YOU’RE A WIZARDING ICON!”

“DJ!” another screamed. “PLEASE STEP ON ME!”

You blew a kiss at the crowd, spun in your booth, and let the music melt into a remix of "Kiss It Better" by Rhianna that soon transitioned to "Positions" by Ariana Grande—crowd control charms at max. Bodies moved like waves. Lights flickered in time. Sweat, magic, and adrenaline painted the air.

And every time you glanced at the birthday boy—he was still watching. Sipping. Like he wanted to devour the whole scene and you with it.

After your fourth set, sweat glistening on your forehead and your heart pounding from the energy pulsing through the room, you finally stepped down from the DJ booth, leaving on "Love Me Like You Do" by Ellie Goulding for the 'getting drunk' music.

Someone immediately pressed a glittering, frosted drink into your hand—its chill a welcome contrast to your flushed skin. A nearby Hufflepuff leaned in with a wide smile, whispering, “You’re literally the life of Hogwarts.”

You laughed, breathless and exhilarated, basking in the glow of the crowd’s adoration. The music still thrummed through the walls, but your mind was already drifting, seeking a quieter corner to catch your breath.

Turning sharply, you almost collided with him

You're the light, you're the night.

Draco Malfoy—who caught your elbow with a steady hand, his icy gaze locking with yours. “Careful,” he murmured, his voice low and calm amid the chaos.

You looked up at him, flashing a sly grin. “Enjoying the party, birthday boy?” you teased.

He gave a dry chuckle, the corner of his mouth twitching into something like a smile. “It’s tolerable.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Oh wow. That’s basically a love letter coming from you.”

Instead of letting go, he kept his hand lightly on your arm, anchoring you in the moment. “You’re unreal,” he said quietly, his tone thick with something more—admiration, maybe something like awe.

"You flirt with the music, tease the crowd, make even the portraits blush. And Merlin, I can't believe someone can do all that and still look at me like I’m the one worth noticing.

Your breath caught, your heart stuttering in your chest. You blinked up at him, the air between you electric and heavy.

“I don’t dance,” he admitted, his voice dropping softer, more vulnerable, “but every time you roll your hips like that, I forget how to breathe.”

You smiled, slow and deliberate, the kind of smile that promises trouble. “So breathe with me,” you dared him. His eyes flickered to your lips, then back up to your eyes, hesitation warring with desire in their depths.

The space between you shrank until you could feel the warmth radiating off his skin, the faint pulse of his heartbeat in sync with your own. His fingers brushed your wrist, lingering just long enough to send sparks down your arm, as if testing his own restraint.

You leaned in just a fraction, your lips barely brushing the curve of his cheek as you whispered against his skin, “You’ve been staring all night, Draco. What are you waiting for?” His breath hitched, and you could see the flush rising in his cheeks, the pulse pounding at his throat like a frantic drum. Yet still, he held himself back, barely.

His voice was hoarse when he finally spoke, low and rough with barely contained longing. “If I kiss you right now, I won’t stop.”

You tilted your head, a wicked smile curling your lips. “Maybe I don’t want you to.”

The tension coiled tighter, a delicious electric ache between you. The music continued to hum in the background, but all you could hear was the relentless pounding of your heart in your ears.

Then, as if the universe were waiting for the perfect moment, your music rig pulsed with life, signaling the chorus.

So love me like you do, la-la love me like you do.

Draco let out a quiet, incredulous laugh. “Seriously? we're about to kiss with this song?” you didn’t flinch.

“Fitting, isn’t it?” you tease. His gaze locked on your lips, eyes dark and burning with intent.

And then—finally—he kissed you.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t frantic. It was deliberate—like he’d been counting the seconds since the first beat dropped, biding his time, waiting for a moment when the rest of the world would fall away.

His lips met yours with a kind of quiet certainty, soft but hungry beneath it, like he needed to be sure this was real. His hand slid up to your jaw, fingers curling just under your ear, tilting your face as if he wanted to memorize the angle. The warmth of his palm sent a shiver down your spine, grounding you even as your knees threatened to give out.

You gasped softly against his mouth, and he took that as invitation, deepening the kiss with a slow-burning hunger that made your head spin. Your hands found the front of his shirt, bunching the fabric between your fingers, desperate to anchor yourself to something—anything—as the world blurred into fog and light and heat.

His other arm circled your waist, tugging you flush against him. There was no more space between you, no more tension—only release. His mouth moved against yours like he knew exactly how you liked to be kissed—like he’d imagined this a thousand times and was now trying to make up for every second he hadn’t done it sooner.

He tasted like firewhisky and trouble. Sweet and sharp and utterly addictive. The kind of kiss that felt like a secret and a promise all at once. Somewhere in the room, music pulsed and people shouted, but none of it touched you. Not here. Not inside this space of want and heat.

You broke apart just enough to breathe—your foreheads pressed together, your lips still brushing, your pulse hammering wildly beneath his thumb.

And he whispered, low and wrecked, “Told you. I don’t stop.”

You grinned, breathless. “Good.”

Then, he kissed you again.

A collective gasp rippled through the crowd.

“THE DJ’S SNOGGING MALFOY!”

From somewhere in the throng, Pansy raised a glass high and shouted triumphantly, “FINALLY.”

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

Seeing Draco looking at someone with those eyes — eyes that had known every feature of your face and had seen you at your best and worst — how could he look at someone else like that now?

You kept your eyes forward, forcing yourself not to look at him. Not that he would care when he looked at Astoria with that subtle smirk, the one that used to be yours.

“Perhaps you know the answer,” Professor Snape said, turning to look at you. His voice sliced through the quiet classroom. “What’s the key difference between a Hex and a Curse?”

All eyes shifted to you, waiting.

“A Hex causes minor harmful effects and is often mischievous, while a Curse is designed for serious harm or control and is generally considered dark magic,” you answered, your tone cool and precise.

His lips curled, not exactly a smile but more like approval.

“Correct,” he said, turning away. “Five points to Slytherin.”

Just as class ended, and students began to head out, as if fate were toying with you, you saw Draco walking with Astoria in the hall. The two of them were close enough that their shoulders brushed.

“Brilliant. Absolutely bloody brilliant,” you muttered to yourself, a bitter laugh threatening to escape, your chest tightening with something sharp and unwelcome.

Draco passed some kind of book to her. “Don’t smudge the corners. That’s a limited edition,” he said.

“I’ll treat it better than your last relationship,” she teased, her eyes flicking to you for just a second.

A pang cut through your chest. They knew you were listening — or worse, they wanted you to be.

You tried to hide your face to escape the embarrassment of once being his — and the guilt of being the one who ended it.

Without a word, you turned and left the corridor, each step faster than the last until they were out of sight. You couldn’t stay there, not with him looking at her like that. The further you walked, the more your thoughts crowded your mind, loud and unwelcome.

You tried to calm your aching heart, to find comfort in the memories you once shared.

And yet, your mind kept circling back, lingering where it shouldn’t.

Did the moments you created together mean nothing to him now? How could he look so unaffected when you were falling apart?

The cold, dim atmosphere of the dorms welcomed you. You made your way to your bed, cocooning yourself in the blanket, nearly swallowed by its warmth. The silence is broken only by soft rustling — and then, the subtle presence of a familiar, expensive perfume drifts through the room.

“Alright, enough of this,” Pansy’s sharp, annoyed voice cut through the silence, though beneath it was concern.

She straightened you up. “Merlin, you look like someone ran you over with a Hippogriff.”

You groaned. “Not now, Parkinson.”

Pansy raised a brow. “Oh, please.” She gagged at the pile of tissues beside you. “You’re literally a pathetic pile of heartbreak while Malfoy plays snogging with Greengrass.”

You rolled your eyes. “What do you want?”

“Nothing. Just wanted to make sure you haven’t, I don’t know, thrown yourself into the Black Lake.”

You scoffed.

“He’s doing it on purpose, you know. The book, the hallway, the stupid limited edition line. He wants a reaction.”

“Well, he’s not getting one.”

Pansy clicked her tongue. “He already has. You just gave it to him in silence.”

“Also, the Greengrass girl was loving every second. She’s always been good at pretending she’s innocent while twisting the knife,” Pansy continued.

You sat up, arms wrapped around your knees. “Well, what do you think I should do?”

“Hmm… you could always use a hex or two.”

“Pansy!”

“Yeah, yeah,” she teased, grinning. “Just don’t let him ruin you, your class, your entire day. Don’t let him ruin that beautiful face of yours, too.”

You chuckled. “Alright. Thanks a lot,” you said with a smile.

“I’ve got you. Always.”

The next morning came too quickly, though it carried a quiet sense of peace. You woke to warm sunlight spilling through your window and fresh air filling the room. Despite the lingering ache, you decided that no matter what attitude Malfoy showed, you would ignore it and keep living your life, doing your best to move on from him.

Your footsteps echoed softly against the stone, each one a reminder that the day had to start, whether you were ready or not.

By the time you reached the Great Hall, your stomach was already twisting, not from hunger, but from everything else. Still, you made your way to the Slytherin table, reached for the usual bland porridge, and added a generous swirl of honey.

“Didn’t know you’ve got a sweet tooth,” Pansy said, raising an eyebrow as she slid onto the bench beside you.

Your face warmed slightly. “A habit of mine,” you muttered, stirring the honey in.

More students headed into the Great hall, their chatter and footsteps filling the space. Familiar laughter echoed from around the corner. You braced yourself.

And then, your eyes met his, like the moment had slowed without warning. His robe was perfectly neat, his tie slightly loose — and for a second, you remembered how often you were the one fixing it. He walked beside Greengrass, his hand resting on her waist, like it belonged there.

“Hey,” Pansy said gently, her hand pressing against your back. “Don’t mind them. Keep eating. Remember what we talked about.”

You nodded, letting yourself breathe for a moment. You wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. They were not worth your time, and most importantly, there were plenty of things you still needed to work on rather than being held back by whatever this drama was all about.

And somehow, you did.

That whole week was pretty hectic; not only did you ace every test, but you also earned full marks on every assignment. You focused on working hard, determined to be better and to prove something to yourself. You gained the attention of your professors, their whispers filling the halls like a quiet applause — but so did someone who had sworn he would never look for you again, yet somehow couldn’t stop watching from afar.

Draco was watching. From the school grounds, across the library, and even from the corner of the common room.

He never spoke. Never approached.

But he looked.

And you hated that part of you still hoped he’d say something.

You’d almost forgotten about Friday nights patrol. Almost.

When you saw the list with your name beside his — Astronomy tower. Late shift. Draco Malfoy. — You swore your insides turned to knots. Head boy and Prefect. How ironic.

You arrived early.

The stars shimmered above, the cold night air kissed your skin, and the view below stole your breath. For a moment, you felt at peace—until footsteps echoed behind you, followed by the scent of some obnoxiously expensive perfume, one that was painfully recognizable.

“Well, if it isn’t the one who broke up with me.”

You turned slowly, arms folded across your chest. “What are you doing here?”

He raised a brow, stepping closer. “Patrolling. Head Boy duties. Or have you forgotten everything, like you forgot about us?”

There it was.

You scoffed. “Don’t turn this on me.”

“Someone has to,” he said bitterly. “You ended things. Not even explaining why you suddenly left me.”

Your voice dropped. “If only you’d looked at me. Just once.”

His mouth snapped shut.

You stepped closer, your words barely above a whisper. “I was tired, Draco. Tired of reaching out… only to find you with her instead.”

He didn’t speak.

He didn’t deny it.

“I missed you.” Your voice cracked as tears welled in your eyes. “I always missed you. Even when I tried to convince myself I didn’t.”

You looked at him—truly looked—and it hurt. It hurt to see the boy you loved in front of you and know he wasn’t yours anymore. Maybe he never fully was.

“But maybe we were never meant to last. Maybe we’re just better on our own.”

The words left your mouth like a slow ache, heavy and irreversible.

Draco stepped forward, close enough that the scent of his cologne mixed with the night air, so familiar it almost broke you.

“I never stopped wanting you,” he said softly.

Your breath hitched, yet you didn’t move.

“I’ve been aching for you. Trying to find any excuse just to feel you again, to be near you, but—”

“But what, Draco?”

“But you left.” He whispered, taking a step closer to you.

“I did,” you replied, voice cracking. “Yet I never stopped loving you.”

That was all it took.

His lips were on yours, slow and searching. At first, hesitant — afraid you’d pull away — but you didn’t. It was raw, full of everything that had gone unsaid. A kiss soaked in guilt and something that still burned.

And then… you pulled away.

“I—this is wrong.” You turned away. “Maybe it’s better if we just end it.”

He didn’t argue back, not even a plea. “I’m sorry.”

Then he turned away, far from that tower, and far from you.

It then hit you. That tower had once been yours. The secret kisses, the late-night stargazing, the quiet laughter shared in the dark. It used to be ethereal — soft and timeless, like magic untouched by the world.

Now it held only silence.

And somehow, that silence spoke louder than anything he could’ve said.

It told the truth you couldn’t bring yourself to voice.

It said everything he wouldn’t.

Because when words slip away, silence speaks.

So when Pansy Parkinson found you lounging in the Great Hall, writing some lyrics on parchment, headphones glowing purple and silver, it wasn’t a request — it was a decree.

"You’ll be DJing Draco’s birthday party," She said breezily, dropping onto the Ravenclaw bench at lunch like she owned it. She was wearing serpent-green eyeliner and a look that dared you to argue.

You blinked, taking off your headphones. “I’m sorry—was that a question?”

“No, darling,” she said sweetly. “It’s an order. Room of Requirement. Ten PM. We’ve already prepped the fog spells.”

You sighed dramatically. “And if I say no?”

She gave you a dangerous smile. “Then I’ll cry. And Draco will pout. And do you really want to be the girl who ruined Malfoy’s birthday?”

You stared at her.

Then smirked. “Fine. But I’m bringing strobe charms. And no one’s allowed to touch my booth unless they want to be hexed into the Stone Age.”

Pansy grinned. “Knew you’d see reason.”

The Room of Requirement had outdone itself. It looked like a club ripped out of a Milan fashion show—black marble floors, glowing green chandeliers, floating drink trays, velvet couches in dramatic corners. Enchanted fog swirled over everything. And at the center, your DJ platform rose like a throne.

You stood behind your setup—crop top glittering, hair styled for maximum bounce, eyes rimmed in silver glam. With one flick of your wand, your decks lit up. The air shimmered with potential.

You grabbed the mic. “Let’s get loud, Hogwarts!”

The beat dropped into Drake's “One Dance”—remixed with a thunderclap charm that shook the walls—and the crowd exploded.

Every house was there. Gryffindors jumping like maniacs. Ravenclaws with color-changing drinks. Hufflepuffs forming a line-dance of doom. And Slytherins? They were pretending they weren’t into it, but their shoulders betrayed them.

And him.

Draco Malfoy.

Leaning against a pillar with one hand in his pocket, the other wrapped around a glass of firewhisky. White button-up slightly unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to his forearms. His silver-blond hair a little tousled like he didn’t care—except you knew he definitely cared.

And he was watching you like you were a flame he couldn’t help but lean into.

You rolled your body to the beat. Slow. Teasing. Wicked. Your hips moved like you knew exactly what you were doing and truthfully, you did. The room pulsed with your energy, the floor shifting with heat and rhythm, but all of it blurred around the way Draco’s gaze tracked you.

He took a slow sip from his firewhisky, his lips barely touching the glass as his eyes darkened, devouring every movement you made. He was still, coiled like a serpent, watching you like a secret he wanted to unwrap slowly.

You smirked and switched the track into a mashup of The Weeknd's "Die For You" and SZA’s “Low.”

“HEY EAGLE!” someone shouted. “YOU’RE A WIZARDING ICON!”

“DJ!” another screamed. “PLEASE STEP ON ME!”

You blew a kiss at the crowd, spun in your booth, and let the music melt into a remix of "Kiss It Better" by Rhianna that soon transitioned to "Positions" by Ariana Grande—crowd control charms at max. Bodies moved like waves. Lights flickered in time. Sweat, magic, and adrenaline painted the air.

And every time you glanced at the birthday boy—he was still watching. Sipping. Like he wanted to devour the whole scene and you with it.

After your fourth set, sweat glistening on your forehead and your heart pounding from the energy pulsing through the room, you finally stepped down from the DJ booth, leaving on "Love Me Like You Do" by Ellie Goulding for the 'getting drunk' music.

Someone immediately pressed a glittering, frosted drink into your hand—its chill a welcome contrast to your flushed skin. A nearby Hufflepuff leaned in with a wide smile, whispering, “You’re literally the life of Hogwarts.”

You laughed, breathless and exhilarated, basking in the glow of the crowd’s adoration. The music still thrummed through the walls, but your mind was already drifting, seeking a quieter corner to catch your breath.

Turning sharply, you almost collided with him

You're the light, you're the night.

Draco Malfoy—who caught your elbow with a steady hand, his icy gaze locking with yours. “Careful,” he murmured, his voice low and calm amid the chaos.

You looked up at him, flashing a sly grin. “Enjoying the party, birthday boy?” you teased.

He gave a dry chuckle, the corner of his mouth twitching into something like a smile. “It’s tolerable.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Oh wow. That’s basically a love letter coming from you.”

Instead of letting go, he kept his hand lightly on your arm, anchoring you in the moment. “You’re unreal,” he said quietly, his tone thick with something more—admiration, maybe something like awe.

"You flirt with the music, tease the crowd, make even the portraits blush. And Merlin, I can't believe someone can do all that and still look at me like I’m the one worth noticing.

Your breath caught, your heart stuttering in your chest. You blinked up at him, the air between you electric and heavy.

“I don’t dance,” he admitted, his voice dropping softer, more vulnerable, “but every time you roll your hips like that, I forget how to breathe.”

You smiled, slow and deliberate, the kind of smile that promises trouble. “So breathe with me,” you dared him. His eyes flickered to your lips, then back up to your eyes, hesitation warring with desire in their depths.

The space between you shrank until you could feel the warmth radiating off his skin, the faint pulse of his heartbeat in sync with your own. His fingers brushed your wrist, lingering just long enough to send sparks down your arm, as if testing his own restraint.

You leaned in just a fraction, your lips barely brushing the curve of his cheek as you whispered against his skin, “You’ve been staring all night, Draco. What are you waiting for?” His breath hitched, and you could see the flush rising in his cheeks, the pulse pounding at his throat like a frantic drum. Yet still, he held himself back, barely.

His voice was hoarse when he finally spoke, low and rough with barely contained longing. “If I kiss you right now, I won’t stop.”

You tilted your head, a wicked smile curling your lips. “Maybe I don’t want you to.”

The tension coiled tighter, a delicious electric ache between you. The music continued to hum in the background, but all you could hear was the relentless pounding of your heart in your ears.

Then, as if the universe were waiting for the perfect moment, your music rig pulsed with life, signaling the chorus.

So love me like you do, la-la love me like you do.

Draco let out a quiet, incredulous laugh. “Seriously? we're about to kiss with this song?” you didn’t flinch.

“Fitting, isn’t it?” you tease. His gaze locked on your lips, eyes dark and burning with intent.

And then—finally—he kissed you.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t frantic. It was deliberate—like he’d been counting the seconds since the first beat dropped, biding his time, waiting for a moment when the rest of the world would fall away.

His lips met yours with a kind of quiet certainty, soft but hungry beneath it, like he needed to be sure this was real. His hand slid up to your jaw, fingers curling just under your ear, tilting your face as if he wanted to memorize the angle. The warmth of his palm sent a shiver down your spine, grounding you even as your knees threatened to give out.

You gasped softly against his mouth, and he took that as invitation, deepening the kiss with a slow-burning hunger that made your head spin. Your hands found the front of his shirt, bunching the fabric between your fingers, desperate to anchor yourself to something—anything—as the world blurred into fog and light and heat.

His other arm circled your waist, tugging you flush against him. There was no more space between you, no more tension—only release. His mouth moved against yours like he knew exactly how you liked to be kissed—like he’d imagined this a thousand times and was now trying to make up for every second he hadn’t done it sooner.

He tasted like firewhisky and trouble. Sweet and sharp and utterly addictive. The kind of kiss that felt like a secret and a promise all at once. Somewhere in the room, music pulsed and people shouted, but none of it touched you. Not here. Not inside this space of want and heat.

You broke apart just enough to breathe—your foreheads pressed together, your lips still brushing, your pulse hammering wildly beneath his thumb.

And he whispered, low and wrecked, “Told you. I don’t stop.”

You grinned, breathless. “Good.”

Then, he kissed you again.

A collective gasp rippled through the crowd.

“THE DJ’S SNOGGING MALFOY!”

From somewhere in the throng, Pansy raised a glass high and shouted triumphantly, “FINALLY.”

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

So when Pansy Parkinson found you lounging in the Great Hall, writing some lyrics on parchment, headphones glowing purple and silver, it wasn’t a request — it was a decree.

"You’ll be DJing Draco’s birthday party," She said breezily, dropping onto the Ravenclaw bench at lunch like she owned it. She was wearing serpent-green eyeliner and a look that dared you to argue.

You blinked, taking off your headphones. “I’m sorry—was that a question?”

“No, darling,” she said sweetly. “It’s an order. Room of Requirement. Ten PM. We’ve already prepped the fog spells.”

You sighed dramatically. “And if I say no?”

She gave you a dangerous smile. “Then I’ll cry. And Draco will pout. And do you really want to be the girl who ruined Malfoy’s birthday?”

You stared at her.

Then smirked. “Fine. But I’m bringing strobe charms. And no one’s allowed to touch my booth unless they want to be hexed into the Stone Age.”

Pansy grinned. “Knew you’d see reason.”

The Room of Requirement had outdone itself. It looked like a club ripped out of a Milan fashion show—black marble floors, glowing green chandeliers, floating drink trays, velvet couches in dramatic corners. Enchanted fog swirled over everything. And at the center, your DJ platform rose like a throne.

You stood behind your setup—crop top glittering, hair styled for maximum bounce, eyes rimmed in silver glam. With one flick of your wand, your decks lit up. The air shimmered with potential.

You grabbed the mic. “Let’s get loud, Hogwarts!”

The beat dropped into Drake's “One Dance”—remixed with a thunderclap charm that shook the walls—and the crowd exploded.

Every house was there. Gryffindors jumping like maniacs. Ravenclaws with color-changing drinks. Hufflepuffs forming a line-dance of doom. And Slytherins? They were pretending they weren’t into it, but their shoulders betrayed them.

And him.

Draco Malfoy.

Leaning against a pillar with one hand in his pocket, the other wrapped around a glass of firewhisky. White button-up slightly unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to his forearms. His silver-blond hair a little tousled like he didn’t care—except you knew he definitely cared.

And he was watching you like you were a flame he couldn’t help but lean into.

You rolled your body to the beat. Slow. Teasing. Wicked. Your hips moved like you knew exactly what you were doing and truthfully, you did. The room pulsed with your energy, the floor shifting with heat and rhythm, but all of it blurred around the way Draco’s gaze tracked you.

He took a slow sip from his firewhisky, his lips barely touching the glass as his eyes darkened, devouring every movement you made. He was still, coiled like a serpent, watching you like a secret he wanted to unwrap slowly.

You smirked and switched the track into a mashup of The Weeknd's "Die For You" and SZA’s “Low.”

“HEY EAGLE!” someone shouted. “YOU’RE A WIZARDING ICON!”

“DJ!” another screamed. “PLEASE STEP ON ME!”

You blew a kiss at the crowd, spun in your booth, and let the music melt into a remix of "Kiss It Better" by Rhianna that soon transitioned to "Positions" by Ariana Grande—crowd control charms at max. Bodies moved like waves. Lights flickered in time. Sweat, magic, and adrenaline painted the air.

And every time you glanced at the birthday boy—he was still watching. Sipping. Like he wanted to devour the whole scene and you with it.

After your fourth set, sweat glistening on your forehead and your heart pounding from the energy pulsing through the room, you finally stepped down from the DJ booth, leaving on "Love Me Like You Do" by Ellie Goulding for the 'getting drunk' music.

Someone immediately pressed a glittering, frosted drink into your hand—its chill a welcome contrast to your flushed skin. A nearby Hufflepuff leaned in with a wide smile, whispering, “You’re literally the life of Hogwarts.”

You laughed, breathless and exhilarated, basking in the glow of the crowd’s adoration. The music still thrummed through the walls, but your mind was already drifting, seeking a quieter corner to catch your breath.

Turning sharply, you almost collided with him

You're the light, you're the night.

Draco Malfoy—who caught your elbow with a steady hand, his icy gaze locking with yours. “Careful,” he murmured, his voice low and calm amid the chaos.

You looked up at him, flashing a sly grin. “Enjoying the party, birthday boy?” you teased.

He gave a dry chuckle, the corner of his mouth twitching into something like a smile. “It’s tolerable.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Oh wow. That’s basically a love letter coming from you.”

Instead of letting go, he kept his hand lightly on your arm, anchoring you in the moment. “You’re unreal,” he said quietly, his tone thick with something more—admiration, maybe something like awe.

"You flirt with the music, tease the crowd, make even the portraits blush. And Merlin, I can't believe someone can do all that and still look at me like I’m the one worth noticing.

Your breath caught, your heart stuttering in your chest. You blinked up at him, the air between you electric and heavy.

“I don’t dance,” he admitted, his voice dropping softer, more vulnerable, “but every time you roll your hips like that, I forget how to breathe.”

You smiled, slow and deliberate, the kind of smile that promises trouble. “So breathe with me,” you dared him. His eyes flickered to your lips, then back up to your eyes, hesitation warring with desire in their depths.

The space between you shrank until you could feel the warmth radiating off his skin, the faint pulse of his heartbeat in sync with your own. His fingers brushed your wrist, lingering just long enough to send sparks down your arm, as if testing his own restraint.

You leaned in just a fraction, your lips barely brushing the curve of his cheek as you whispered against his skin, “You’ve been staring all night, Draco. What are you waiting for?” His breath hitched, and you could see the flush rising in his cheeks, the pulse pounding at his throat like a frantic drum. Yet still, he held himself back, barely.

His voice was hoarse when he finally spoke, low and rough with barely contained longing. “If I kiss you right now, I won’t stop.”

You tilted your head, a wicked smile curling your lips. “Maybe I don’t want you to.”

The tension coiled tighter, a delicious electric ache between you. The music continued to hum in the background, but all you could hear was the relentless pounding of your heart in your ears.

Then, as if the universe were waiting for the perfect moment, your music rig pulsed with life, signaling the chorus.

So love me like you do, la-la love me like you do.

Draco let out a quiet, incredulous laugh. “Seriously? we're about to kiss with this song?” you didn’t flinch.

“Fitting, isn’t it?” you tease. His gaze locked on your lips, eyes dark and burning with intent.

And then—finally—he kissed you.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t frantic. It was deliberate—like he’d been counting the seconds since the first beat dropped, biding his time, waiting for a moment when the rest of the world would fall away.

His lips met yours with a kind of quiet certainty, soft but hungry beneath it, like he needed to be sure this was real. His hand slid up to your jaw, fingers curling just under your ear, tilting your face as if he wanted to memorize the angle. The warmth of his palm sent a shiver down your spine, grounding you even as your knees threatened to give out.

You gasped softly against his mouth, and he took that as invitation, deepening the kiss with a slow-burning hunger that made your head spin. Your hands found the front of his shirt, bunching the fabric between your fingers, desperate to anchor yourself to something—anything—as the world blurred into fog and light and heat.

His other arm circled your waist, tugging you flush against him. There was no more space between you, no more tension—only release. His mouth moved against yours like he knew exactly how you liked to be kissed—like he’d imagined this a thousand times and was now trying to make up for every second he hadn’t done it sooner.

He tasted like firewhisky and trouble. Sweet and sharp and utterly addictive. The kind of kiss that felt like a secret and a promise all at once. Somewhere in the room, music pulsed and people shouted, but none of it touched you. Not here. Not inside this space of want and heat.

You broke apart just enough to breathe—your foreheads pressed together, your lips still brushing, your pulse hammering wildly beneath his thumb.

And he whispered, low and wrecked, “Told you. I don’t stop.”

You grinned, breathless. “Good.”

Then, he kissed you again.

A collective gasp rippled through the crowd.

“THE DJ’S SNOGGING MALFOY!”

From somewhere in the throng, Pansy raised a glass high and shouted triumphantly, “FINALLY.”

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

⸻

You wore flowers like armor. Always. In your hair—violets carefully tucked into your braid, a daisy behind your ear, sprigs of baby's breath pinned like secrets. Your jumpers often had tiny embroidered petals curling down the sleeves or buttons shaped like blooming buds. When people asked, you just smiled like the flowers had chosen you that morning and not the other way around. Flowers were a part of you, just like freckles were a part of others.

“Is there a reason you always dress like a sentient meadow?” Draco asked once, squinting as you buttoned up a coat stitched with little yellow marigolds that seemed to flutter when you moved.

“It’s for luck,” you said serenely, smoothing a daffodil-shaped pin at your collar. “And it makes the plants feel at home.”

He stared like you’d just offered him a slice of moonlight for breakfast. “You think the plants care what you’re wearing?”

You tilted your head, genuinely perplexed. “You don’t?”

The first incident came swiftly. You’d barely begun working together when he attempted to nudge a Puffapod into blooming. One gentle poke was all it needed—delicate, respectful. Draco prodded it like it owed him an explanation, and it exploded in a soft-pink mushroom cloud of pollen.

You stood in stunned silence, covered in fuzz, bits of petal clinging to your braid like confetti. You tried not to pout. You really did. But you ended up cross-legged on the floor, mournfully collecting the petals and whispering soft apologies.

“She just needed patience,” you murmured, fingers brushing the frayed bloom. “A bit of kindness.”

Draco sneezed and looked utterly unconvinced. “It was a plant. Not a therapy client.”

“She had a name,” you said sharply, shooting him a glare. “Lulu.”

He gave you a flat look. “You named the Puffapod?”

You met his gaze with unflinching sincerity. “I would've told you her name if you didn't blow up her sister Lala earlier this year.

He sighed. "yeah... because plants have siblings."

The next week, he crushed a Bubotuber in a moment of casual irritation. One second he was ranting about someone stealing his socks, the next he squeezed the bulb like it had personally offended him. It responded by erupting in a burst of thick, greenish goo. Draco’s shriek of horror echoed off the greenhouse walls.

“You strangled her,” you said disappointed, trying not to frown as you dabbed away goo with a Moondew sprig.

“I barely touched it!”

“You manhandled her like she owed you money.”

“It attacked me!”

“She was terrified.”

He stumbled back, covered in yellow-green sludge. “Of what? My refined bone structure?”

You crouched next to the limp plant, wand raised, murmuring a soft charm. “Of being misunderstood. She’s very shy.”

Draco groaned. “Merlin help me. Not again.”

“She has a name,” you said firmly. “Matilda.”

“Of course she does.”

With a flick of your wand and a quiet word, Matilda shivered back to life, wiggling slightly in your palm. You leaned in and whispered something that made her glow faintly. She’d forgiven him. Barely.

“She’s a menace,” he muttered.

“She’s sensitive,” you corrected, stroking her stem.

Draco stared at you like he was trying to decide if this was some elaborate Hufflepuff prank. You smiled serenely and tucked a fallen blossom behind your ear.

By the fourth week, Draco had managed to offend a Flutterfern, enrage a Shrivelfig, and traumatize a Fanged Geranium into permanent wilt. The final straw came when he took pruning shears to a Venomous Tentacula like he was avenging a personal vendetta. It lashed out in protest, its tendrils flailing before curling in on themselves, whimpering.

You didn’t speak to him for the next twenty minutes.

Instead, you crouched beside the wounded plant, gently gathering its injured tendrils in your hands. You rocked slightly, whispering something ancient and low—more lullaby than incantation. Slowly, the Tentacula calmed. Its color returned in hesitant pulses. One vine curled around your wrist, tentative and grateful.

“You’ve got to be doing this on purpose,” Draco muttered from the other side of the greenhouse. “No one’s that bad at plants unless they’re cursed. Or a Gryffindor.”

You glanced up, your voice dry. “You think I’d hex my own greenhouse just to make you look bad?”

“Yes,” he said without hesitation. “With great pleasure.”

You dusted soil from your cheek with a dramatic flourish. “I’m petty, Malfoy. Not suicidal.”

He eyed you, then your boots. “You’ve got roses on your socks.”

“They’re embroidered,” you replied, lifting your foot slightly to show him. “Climbing roses. Very resilient. A bit clingy.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Like you?”

You grinned. “Like you.”

His ears turned pink.

The sixth time was different. He didn’t kill the plant. He merely terrified it.

A small Mandrake sat trembling on its roots while Draco hovered uncertainly nearby, brow furrowed, tongue between his teeth in sheer concentration, wondering how the hell did you manage to stop a mandrake from crying. You watched from a few feet away, arms crossed, trying not to interfere.

“If you’re going to loom like that,” Draco muttered, glancing sideways, “you might as well do it yourself.”

“I’m observing,” you said proudly. “You’re improving. That Mandrake hasn’t flinched in at least two minutes.”

“It keeps looking at me.”

“you mean, He. Well, duh he has eyes. Of course he's looking at you.”

“Judgmentally.”

“That’s a compliment,” you said. “He doesn’t usually acknowledge people he dislikes.”

Draco scowled, but the Mandrake remained intact. Which, for him, was practically a miracle. When he wasn’t looking, you snuck the plant a leaf treat. It quivered happily.

Later that afternoon, while you adjusted the angle of a sunlamp for your Asphodel, you sensed Draco stepping beside you. He didn’t say anything at first, just hovered—an odd, uncertain weight in the air. Then his voice came, softer than usual.

“You missed a spot.”

You turned, confused, just as he reached out. His thumb brushed a smudge of soil from your cheek, lingering a second too long. You froze.

The world narrowed. You forgot the cold, the damp, the faint buzzing of Pixie-flies overhead. For one suspended breath, it was just you, him, and the inch of air between your faces.

He cleared his throat abruptly and pulled his hand back. “You had… dirt. On your face.”

“Oh.” You touched the spot instinctively. “Thanks.”

He turned away, cheeks faintly pink. You didn’t say anything. Your heart was too loud.

⸻

All term, you’d been tending to a single Moonlily in the corner of Greenhouse Three. Once silver-bright, it had withered into something curled and gray, like it had forgotten what light felt like. Every class, you brought it a fresh blossom, whispered to it like an old friend. “I’m still here,” you told it. “Come back when you’re ready.”

Draco never asked about it. But he noticed. You caught him glancing at it when he thought you weren’t looking. Watching the way you cared.

And then came the last day of term.

Most students had left for the holidays. Snow pressed against the greenhouse windows, and frost dusted the vines in glittering white. You were alone, brushing a light dusting of ice from the soil, when you heard the sound of footsteps.

Draco.

He looked a little windblown, hair tousled, scarf half-untied. In one gloved hand, he held something fragile. Small. Pale.

A pot with a single marigold.

Its stem was crooked. Its petals trembled. But it was alive.

“I, uh… Professor Sprout helped,” he said quickly, almost defensive. “A bit. Mostly she just stopped me from killing it.”

You stared, lips parting. He shifted, awkward.

“It’s not perfect,” he said.

You reached out and took it gently, your fingers brushing his. The flower quivered in your palm like it knew who had grown it.

“It’s exquisite.” you whispered.

His shoulders sagged, some tightness easing in his jaw. “I... It reminded me of you. It's bright and... pretty. Very, pretty.”

You stepped closer.

“Thank you,” you murmured, voice thick with something you didn’t dare name. “I love it.”

And then, without thinking, you kissed him.

It was soft, tentative—dirt-smudged noses, cold fingers brushing warm cheeks, and the quiet, sweet hush of something just beginning. He tasted of peppermint tea and the kind of wonder that comes only after you’ve stopped pretending not to care.

Behind you, something stirred.

You turned as the Moonlily—the one you’d nurtured all term—gave a shiver, then slowly unfurled. Its silver petals caught the moonlight and glowed like a promise, blooming with the kind of gentle pride only magic, patience, and love can grow.

Draco stared, wide-eyed. “Was that... because of us?”

You clutched the flower he'd given you to your chest, heart fluttering. “She’s been waiting. I think... she felt it.”

He looked at you, the usual edge in his voice softened into awe. “You’re completely mad.”

You grinned, breathless. “You still think the plants don’t notice?”

And then, for the first time all term, Draco Malfoy laughed—really laughed. It spilled into the greenhouse like sunlight after rain, warm and unexpected.

“Fine,” he said, shaking his head. “Maybe they do.”

You reached up and tucked the crooked little flower he’d grown into your braid, letting it nestle behind your ear like it had always belonged there.

“Then they’ve clearly been paying more attention than you have.”

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰