⋆˚𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒍˚⋆

It was a quiet evening after dinner. Y/N was curled up in her common room, a soft white tank top hugging her frame, little cotton shorts, cosy socks warming her feet. Her braid slipped over her shoulder as she flipped through the pages of a thick book on her lap, chatting with her friends, her cat purring in the crook of her arm.

That’s when a prefect walked in. His expression was unreadable, bored, pissed at his life.

“Y/N,” he said. “You need to come with me. The Slytherin prefect’s been looking for you.”

Her brows knit, gentle confusion softening her features. “Me? Oh, alright.” She gave her friends a soft smile, cradled her cat a little tighter, and stood up.

No fear. Just that warm, quiet kindness she carried like second skin.

But when she stepped into the Slytherin common room, it felt like she’d entered the wrong world. The room was full, students draped over couches, a group of boys hunched around a game, girls with cigarettes in manicured fingers. The air was thick with laughter, smoke, and a tension that snapped the moment she stepped in.

Silence.

Y/N stood at the edge, out of place, her cat still in her arms, braid over her shoulder, looking as soft and ethereal as moonlight.

The Slytherin prefect was waiting.

He stepped forward, arms crossed, and without so much as a greeting, spoke loud and clear, “You were seen leaving an unused classroom today—moments before it reeked of smoke.”

She blinked. “Oh-..I was just looking for a place to read, I didn’t notice anything wrong…”

“You didn’t smell anything?” he interrupted, lips twisting. “Funny. Because others did. But you? You just floated out like nothing happened.”

“I’m sorry, truly, but I don’t smoke,” she answered gently. “I never have.”

“Sure,” he said dryly. “Little miss innocent. You were in there alone, weren’t you? After curfew, in a room that smelled like fire, and now you show up here holding your cat like you’re some storybook character.”

A soft gasp came from somewhere behind her. She didn’t flinch.

“I promise, I haven’t done anything wrong,” she said, voice still sweet. Still unshaken. “I didn’t know there’d been anything suspicious.”

“You just happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time,” he drawled. “Bit of a pattern with girls like you. All sugar and tea and perfectly sweet smiles.”

That’s when the temperature dropped.

Draco’s voice cut through the room like a blade.

“She already said she didn’t smoke.”

The prefect turned, startled. “I was just—”

“Pushing” Draco said, calm as ice. He stepped forward from the shadows, all sleek black and unreadable fury. “Poking at her. Trying to sound smart.”

“She was in the room—”

“And she told you why,” Draco replied coldly. “You heard it. The whole room heard it. So either you’re calling her a liar, or you’re just being a prick for fun.”

The prefect hesitated.

Draco tilted his head.

“You’re not her prefect. You’re not even her house. So why are you so interested, exactly?”

Y/N stood frozen, eyes wide, arms curled protectively around her cat.

“This is about maintaining order—” the boy began again.

“Then stick to your own common room and your own students,” Draco snapped. “You want to go on with this? I’ll let the Headmaster know we’ve got prefects from other houses running disciplinary fantasies. I’m sure he’ll love that., don’t you think ?”

The boy’s mouth snapped shut.

“Leave,” Draco said, his tone making it clear this was not a suggestion.

The prefect muttered something under his breath and turned. The room slowly returned to motion.

Y/N turned to Draco, a quiet thank you on her lips.

He didn’t look at her. Not really. Just a flick of those silver-grey eyes before he turned toward the door.

“Come on. I’ll walk you back.”

She followed beside him, hugging her cat to her chest.

“I didn’t think it would be that serious,” she said softly as they walked through the quiet corridors

“You shouldn’t go when someone from another house comes calling,” Draco replied simply. “Not without confirmation. From now on, don’t go unless it’s your own prefect.”

Her brows furrowed. “I didn’t want to be rude…”

“That’s not rude” he said. “That’s smart.”

They stopped at her common room entrance.

She gave him a gentle smile. “Still… thank you. You didn’t have to.”

He met her gaze, finally—just for a second. “I know.”

Then he turned and walked away without another word.

And the next time someone from another house came looking for her?

Y/N didn’t even glance up from her book.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly, “but I won’t go anywhere unless it’s a member of my house.”

Draco heard about it the next day.

And for the first time in a while, he smirked.

Not because she listened.

But because she was learning to be careful.

—

Draco despised how effortlessly Theo made himself at home with you. He was an outsider. He hadn't earned you. Who gave him the right to touch you like that—so casually, as if you hadn’t just met?

Like at lunch, when Theo would reach over without so much as a glance and wipe tomato sauce on your sleeve, using you as his personal serviette. Not that you were entirely blameless—you did eat messily. Hopelessly, endearingly so. Always some sauce escaping down your chin, or your fingers honeyed with something sticky, totally unbothered by it.

Theo would catch Draco's eye across the table with a crooked smile on his face and jerk a thumb at you. "Messy girl."

Draco would run his tongue slowly along his teeth and reach to wipe your mouth. "Don't call her that."

Your little disasters were his to make fun of—not Theo's.

Or the time he'd decided to imitate Draco—an open-mouthed goodbye kiss—theatrical, entirely too long. Poking something to see what it did. He'd been very pleased with himself for approximately one moment before Draco's hand connected with his back and sent him cleanly into the nearest bush.

—

Theo bothered Draco so much he catalogued every trace of him he found on you, like small offences.

There was the sitting. When you perched on your chair like the boyish way Theo sat—legs parted, swinging idly, with a lackadaisical posture on top of it. Draco's eye would twitch and press his loafer gently against your ankle, nudging your legs back together.

“Sit properly.”

Then there was the language. Theo's crassness—cazzo and merda slipping out of your mouth too easily, accompanied by some vulgar little hand gesture that he’d clearly had you practice. Draco would stare at you for a long moment. Waiting for you to shrink and redeem yourself, deciding how disappointed to be. Then his fingers would find your lips with a soft, idle flick.

"Watch it."

And there were drawings, too. Tucked into the margins of your notes—crude sketches that bore the unmistakable fingerprints of Theo's humour. Draco would look at them for exactly one second before ripping out the page, jaw set. He hated how Theo made you tactless. Hated how it diluted you.

It wasn't the knowledge itself. He didn't want to keep you ignorant. It was this version of it—gutted, profane, all meaning flattened before it ever reached you. A facsimile of tenderness. Poetry unravelling back to prose. And you, with that open, unguarded curiosity of yours, absorbed the counterfeit.

The revulsion sat deeply in him. He didn't quite know why at the time—only that it was beneath you. Because you deserved the full weight of things. Deserved better than that shallow, careless, adolescence of boys who didn’t act with any semblance of intention.

Deserved better than the coarse company of Theo.

He wanted to bite you at the collar, drag you to his room and smother you until you never come out.

—

Still, Draco gritted his teeth through it all.

Because you seemed to have a particular fondness for him, the way you did with strays. Something you found charming about people who had absolutely nothing to lose and nothing to gain.

But just because he could not rid himself of Theodore Nott did not mean he could not make his life quietly, efficiently hell.

Draco had never needed his fists for that.

He was better at psychological attrition. He would make references—casually, conversationally—to the dense texts that formed the bedrock of any proper upper-echelon education. Wizengamot formation. Early British wizarding law. Political history that the two of you had been tutored through before you could properly write.

"It's the same problem Fernwick identifies in the founding charter. The language around hereditary magical integrity was deliberately vague—intentionally, so it could be applied selectively."

"The 1347 charter," you'd say.

Draco would glance at Theo then knowing he'd find that blank expression.

"Fernwick's treatise on early British wizarding law." A perfectly placed beat. "Thin book, green cover. Your tutor never assigned it?"

"I don’t think—"

"It's forty pages, Theo. It's not a commitment." A light-hearted laugh edged with mockery.

It was also, of course, a well-known fact—unspoken in polite company but known—that Theo was a child born out of wedlock. Which placed him considerably lower in the pecking order. Further from the money.

So Draco would command the house-elves to watch him. To peer at him through half-open doors and half-drawn curtains, to let themselves be caught doing it, to eye him suspiciously whenever he strayed too close to the Malfoy antiquities—the glass cases, framed correspondence, things that had provenance and value. Draco would also make a show of sliding his rings off when he arrived and pocketing the silver.

What seemed like little things reduced him to something furtive. Make the Manor itself treat him like an amateur thief who hadn't yet been caught.

Be so utterly, architecturally cruel that Theo could taste the distance between their lineages.

It was only after Draco had choked him within an inch of his life—that moment when Theo had decided to truly hurt you—that he thought better of being so familiar with you again.

SUMMER TERM, PRESENT

When you woke up, you felt his breath first.

Slow, lightly brushing against your stomach—his head rising with each inhale, as if you were the only thing keeping him afloat.

You had accidentally stayed the night at Draco’s dorm.

It felt rather strange. It had been a while since you’d slept on the same bed, yet he laid on you like nothing had changed, like he still weighed nothing at all. But he did and you could feel it now—the considerable length of him, the firm cords of muscle wrapped around your waist. You recall his growth spurt had hit him like a freight train.

You exhaled and traced the arch of your foot along his calf, noting the shape of him, the warmth seeping into your skin. Sending a faint shiver through you.

Then you felt a damp patch on your stomach.

Drool. Ew.

You glanced around. The others had already gone—no doubt chasing relief from their hangovers in the Great Hall. Only Theo remained, stirring faintly, rubbing sleep from his eyes. A head of long dark hair slipped from the far side of the bed and tiptoed out with hardly a sound.

You hadn’t noticed her last night, but that was definitely not Daphne.

Draco stirred. Lifted his head. Then laid it back down again—he wasn't ready to see you. His eyes were probably puffy. He was never his best hungover, you'd seen him in worse states, but he cared much for his vanity. Shy and embarrassed, too, for the way he acted the night before.

Then he lifted his head again. His hair had gotten long—you hadn't cut it in a while—and it fell loose around his face now, framing it softly.

For a moment he simply looked up at you. Sunlight caught his eyelashes and made his eyes glassy, pale. His lips still faintly wine-stained. He looked a little girlish like that. You had the sudden urge to run your hands through his face and ruin him.

He saw the look in your eyes and raised himself up fully, hovering above you.

Go on then.

You stared at him for a while. The calm on his face doing nothing to interrupt the reel running behind your eyes—and it was a reel, not a memory, because memory implied distance you didn't have yet. Footage of perfidy. Shots of bittersweet heat and want. Frames of defection you kept returning to the way your tongue finds a broken tooth.

Then you slapped him. Hard. A rapid flush crawling up his wintry cheek.

Your first words this fine morning were, "I hate you."

You shoved him off. Then went after him.

Fists at his chest—beating, graceless.

"Hate you! How dare you do this to me?"

How dare you not touch me the way I want? How dare you make yourself unavailable? How dare you choose—how dare you—and then, underneath everything, the thing that was really being said: don't you know who I am to you?

He had forgotten, it seemed, that the entitlement ran both ways in this particular arrangement.

Your hands found his throat.

Draco let you. Lay there and let you make him repent, nails and all, your weight on him, the wanting turned inside out and landing however it needed to. It felt like a kiss.

—

Theo surfaced from sleep to the crack of a slap and something that might have been a whimper.

He blinked. Registered the fervent movement to his right. Understood, in approximately two seconds, everything that was happening.

He exhaled a soundless whistle. Reached for his shoes. 

He did not want to get involved.

—

Eventually you tired from hitting him.

You collapsed against him, breathing hard, your anger spent. Your foreheads found each other the way they always had. Like old friends. Hello. How are you? It's been awhile. What a time we've wasted not doing this.

"I missed you," You confirmed.

His first words this fine morning were, "Kiss me again."

His tongue grazed your top lip. You took him into your mouth and suckled on it. His hands cradled your head, keeping you there, moaning lightly at the sensation.

He never quite pulled away, instead breathing into your mouth. You kiss like me, he thought delightfully, as your teeth clattered against his.

—

On the other side of the dormitory door, Theo found a weedy fourth year haunting the corridor like he'd been there a while.

"Theo—"

"It's Nott to you." Theo clicked his tongue, rolling his shoulder into his jacket.

"Sorry—Nott. Is Malfoy in?"

"Busy."

"I'd only be a moment." The boy's eyes shifted with the eagerness of someone who had rehearsed this. "I wanted to ask him about yesterday's game—"

"Busy."

—

You felt his length throb against you. That familiar warm firmness of him. You reached in between you.

Draco caught your hand. Intertwined his fingers with yours and held it still.

“Don’t you want to—“

“Mm.” A slight shake of his head. Eyes still closed, mouth still moving against you.

No—don’t you feel it too? When I kiss you, I don’t just want sex. I expect everything that comes with it.

Your Pepperup potion beside my bed when I’m sick. You dragging me to the kitchen in the middle of the night because you’re craving something. Your ears, your mind, when I play the pianoforte. Your shoes beside mine at the lake. Even your hair in my drain.

Can’t we stay there forever? Maybe you’ll work on your research and I can make you come when you get frustrated. Maybe I’ll try cooking for you, and you’ll return the favour when I lose my patience. Maybe something we’ll take care of, someday. I haven’t thought it through. Only that it would have your temper—and my jealousy.

I only want your future. Plainly. I want it for myself.

—

“I'm participating in the tryouts this year, I just want to know—”

Theo leaned back slightly, peering through the narrow gap in the door as he rambled on.

Inside, Draco kissing you, hand buried in your hair, the other at the small of your back. Entirely absorbed.

Theo stared back at the prattling boy.

“…the exercises for those maneuvers near the end—”

“Actually, you know what?"

Theo sucked his teeth.

"It’s your funeral.”

He opened the door and shoved the student inside.

—

Draco pulled back from you at the skidding sound—limply—and looked down at the fifth year now on all fours on the dormitory floor, blinking up at him.

A long cathedral silence.

You felt the shift in the air before you turned around. Draco eyes piercing at something.

Heat crashed into your face like a wall.

“Who—“ You started.

The boy scrambled upright, already flushing to his ears. "Um—! I'm Collin, I just wanted to—"

Draco’s eyebrows lifted, as if he couldn’t quite believe the boy had managed to keep talking.

“Sorry! I’ll—yes, I'll go.” the boy blurted, shuffling toward the door, deciding he’d gotten more than he’d bargained for.

The door clicked shut, through it, you could hear a sharp cackle.

You turned back to Draco.

Opened your mouth. Closed it. Horrified.

—

You had known, vaguely, what this would entail.

Names and scandal passed through the school like sweets—plentiful, irresistible. You had rolled them against your own tongue often enough to know. You just hadn't considered what it felt like to be the flavour. The way it barrelled forward. The way it twisted and melted into something unrecognisable—a cruel, runaway game of broken telephone, worst among the lower years who had the most enthusiasm.

You couldn’t get a grip on it. It left you reeling.

Because it wasn’t as simple as being caught snogging Slytherin’s star player.

No, not given your recent alignment with Harry Potter. Duelling at night. Constant dinners. The Slughorn party, where you had arrived at his side and people filed it away for exactly this kind of occasion.

This wasn't just gossip. It was sacrilege.

An offence of the highest order against Hogwarts' golden boy—and never mind that Draco was your confidante, that this was a moment with an entire history behind it. Never mind that nothing really transpired between you and Harry. None of that was the story. The story was simpler and more satisfying and rolled off the tongue.

Did you hear about—yes, her, Potter's—well apparently she and Malfoy—No. The next day. The next day they lost! She didn't. She did.

She's so—I know. 

Everyone knows.

Merlin. Bold.

That's an understatement.

It had tasted too sweet.

—

You'd tried Harry first.

But it was Hermione and Ron that met you at the Gryffindor common room entrance when you asked for him, shoulder to shoulder, his united front assembled.

"Sorry." Hermione's voice was understanding, though you still couldn’t help but feel ashamed. "It’s better he not be seen with you. Not right now."

—

Draco, then. He will say something—clarify something, offer something that might restore a version of the narrative you could actually live in. You knew his capacity for reframing a situation when it suited him.

What you had miscalculated was how thoroughly this one already suited him.

You heard it in class. Someone leaned toward him, trying to be subtle.

Is it true she cheated on Potter with you?

Draco failed to disguise the quirk of a smile on his face.

I don't kiss and tell. He turned a page. But, who would blame her, really.

Then that childish, arrogant laugh.

There it was. Hauteur, cresting. In his version of events you had both emerged from this gloriously, Harry Potter diminished by association. Arranged into a triumph without considering what shape it was taking around you.

It seems he hadn't heard what they were saying about you specifically, that they had avoided telling him.

You wanted to explode on him. But the anger kept snagging on the same thing. How certain, you had been, without ever saying so, that you were the one person in his world he would never speak about that way, no matter the audience. Yet, he had affirmed you were a mere prize in his story. That you weren't his equal.

—

It was the oldest feeling in the world.

Eclipsed under the big reputations of two self-absorbed, strong-willed boys—teenagers, no less, which made it worse. You felt suddenly, sourly diminished. Stripped of everything that usually distinguished you—the composure, the mind, the self-possession—and reduced to something embarrassingly hormonal and ordinary.

You could almost watch it from outside yourself. Some ancient, recurring humiliation finding its feet again with your name attached to it this time. She was a girl. Full stop. End of analysis. She was a girl and he was Harry Potter and the other one was a Malfoy and really, what did you expect, you know how girls are when there are boys like that involved—soft things, girls, porous, impressionable, ruled by wanting in ways they can't quite govern.

The boys would walk out of this mythology intact. Draco gilded by it. Harry sympathetic within it. And you—the girl—would walk out of it as a lesson to both of them.

"He didn't send me."

Theo arrived sideways as always, his hands up when he found you buried under a stack of books in the library. You were well into your examination revision and what appeared to be your fifth draft folded and waiting to be sent to Potter.

"I come in peace." He set a wrapped package on top of your notes. "Concessionary sandwich?"

"You can't eat in here."

"Mm." He unwrapped it and took a bite anyway.

The alluring smell hit you immediately—rich, salty. Prosciutto, maybe. Mozzarella. Something sharp and sweet—balsamic. It was bachelor food made premium.

You swallowed drily.

—

You hadn't been eating properly. Finals gnawed at you. You'd also shut yourself in your room and started actively rerouting your entire daily existence to avoid being seen with Draco. Arriving and leaving before him for every class. The library at lunch and dinner.

Anything not to stoke the rumours.

He’d taken the hint. Or something like it. Now, one lay crumpled on your table.

Minou —

Send me the questions you're not sure about. I'll go through them.

Beseechingly, Draco.

—

"Try it." Theo angled it toward you, seeing your expression. "You look a bit tragic."

"Thank you, Theo. Truly."

You took a generous bite anyway, not registering that you were being fed by hand.

“S’good,” you admitted. “Too salty, though.”

"It’s not my problem you prefer guys that don’t season their food."

"Spice intolerant?"

"English."

You laughed at that.

"He seasons his food just fine."

"M'kay."

“What did you put in this, though?”

"I'll teach you." He tore off another piece. "Even do it from scratch. Just take me off cake-decorating duty."

Oh, Draco's birthday.

You drifted, setting your pen down. In three weeks. You're too furious to even look at him. But you still have to celebrate his birthday. You must, he won't do it otherwise, would spend the whole day pretending it wasn't happening. But, how do you—when it hurt to—

A voice behind interrupted your thoughts, not quite bothering to lower itself.

"—haven't seen her in a while. Gone into hiding, apparently." A girlish giggle.

"Slytherins. Who's next? Nott?"

A chuckle. "It would only be fitting."

"How noisy." Theo's voice, quiet and flat, beside you. He raised his wand lazily. "Langlock."

The girls' mouths sealed mid-laugh. Their eyes went wide. They looked at each other, then found Theo and you through the bookcase, then decided collectively that this particular corner of the library was no longer worth their time and left.

In the quiet, a raw sob came out of you.

Theo stared at you.

"Gods." A pause. "Are you crying."

Another one. You pressed your hands to your face.

"Stop that." His expression shifted into something between distaste and mild alarm. He reached over and patted your back twice—the way you'd pat a surface to check if it was sturdy. "Right now. Stop."

You could not.

"I expected more from you, you know." His eyes swept the library once—calculating whether any of this could be traced back to him.

"Shut up," you said into your hands.

"You're not that special. Everyone screws around." It was not the least bit meant to comfort you but somehow it was the most effective. "Nobody's going to care in a month."

You looked up, eyes red. 

"So dramatic. Who cares?" A shrug, the full-body kind. "Do whatever you want.”

You wiped your face with your sleeve. Looked at him properly.

"...Why are you being nice to me?"

Theo who would pull your ear, lean in like he had a secret, and instead bellow something filthy directly into your eardrum.

Theo who would glare beneath your chandelier—run his fingers along the crystal drops—and then yank.

Theo who would knock you clean off your bike and then crouch down and press his thumb into the bruise. That single dimple appearing when you yelped. Like he'd won something.

“Because I know how it feels—” He stopped. To feel Draco’s personal brand of belittlement. To feel limited against him. Tried again. "To have people decide what something means before you've decided yourself."

His eyes held you in it softly. For the first time.

Your opalescent tears. The way you curved inward and made yourself smaller. The glassy quality of your eyes. The frailty swelled something inside him.

You had always existed, in his particular arithmetic, as something adjacent to Draco—which meant adjacent to poison, kept at bay, never fully trusted with anything. Teeth he might one day find at his throat. Or ammunition.

Now, you were just someone who was hurting.

Just someone he wanted, instinctively, to stop hurting.

He bit his lip.

"Eat the rest," he said instead.

And he stayed. Asked nothing, offered nothing further. Just sat in the library in the middle of a Tuesday with his head resting on the table and watched, peripherally, until your last bite and your tears long since dried.

THREE WEEKS LATER

Do you want to come for tea?

I'm leaving the house. Without sunscreen.

What did I do? You're being annoying.

Do you have my toothbrush? Give it back.

I bet I did better on Herbology than you. I’m telling your mum.

You are a horrible kisser.

You glared at the Malfoy owl. It had lost some of its severity over the past few days—fluffed from the relentless back and forth between the summer house and your estate, less large intimidating bird of prey and more something resembling a disgruntled house pet. Its abyss-black eyes regarded the letter in your hand with its head tilted at an angle that was almost unbearably reminiscent of a dog urging you to throw something.

You had not written back to any of them. This latest one read:

I'm sorry. Please hate me from here.

You hadn't shown.

For the three days before his birthday—when everyone would usually begin arriving—you had not shown up.

A letter from Blaise arrived for Draco on the first morning instead.

Can't come. Called away to Marseille. Back in time for the formal. Don't ruin my rackets.

Happy birthday, you little prat. Don't do anything I wouldn't do.

— B.

Draco had laughed at that. Blaise had been born four months earlier and considered this gap a permanent evidence of his superior wisdom. He mentioned it regularly.

You had been suspended between going and not going when the owl returned late that night.

Another letter tucked in its beak. Only this time it didn't land.

It simply hovered. And hovered.

Just far enough that you couldn't reach it from the window.

You watched it. It watched you back.

Then it turned and disappeared into the dark, the letter still in its beak.

You stared at the empty window for a long moment—it felt like skin bracing before the pierce of shrapnel.

Then you started packing.

—

"You surely took your time. He's driving me nuts."

Theo appeared at your bedroom door, leaning lazily against the frame.

"Is he at the lake?"

“Mm.” He tilted his head slightly. “Hate how eerie he gets when he’s mad.”

You sighed into your closet, stuffing the last of your underwear into a drawer with slightly more force than necessary.

Then you turned to him. Sunkissed. Chiseled. Loose brown curls nearly brushing the top of your door frame. After the little snippet of sympathy at the library, it seemed Theo felt more tangible. More defined.

“You’re tanned more than usual.”

“I started my summer early.” He pushed himself off the frame and wandered in, dropping onto your bed with a self-satisfied grin.

“Where?”

“It began at Les Ambassadeurs, then Annabel's—ended in someone’s cellar, if I recall correctly.” He droned the itinerary like exhaling smoke.

Your brows knit together. “With?”

“The Browns. Palmer. Davie Whitmore.”

Muggle-borns.

"You know I don't particularly care about blood purity," you raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms. "But you ought to be more careful about where you're seen. And with whom."

He shifted onto his side, propping his head up with one hand. His linen shirt slipped slightly as he did.

“Well, they prove far more stimulating company."

The movement exposed the line of his collarbone—and just beneath it, faint marks. Two small bruises, violet against gold.

You stared without meaning to.

Theo followed your gaze, then looked back at you, that one dimple denting his face.

“Might’ve been your best friend's cellar.” Daphne.

You bit the inside of your cheek.

How easy it must be, to be so unruly.

To surrender to vices, amours and never be faulted for them—never admonished, never reduced by them. To be a man was, apparently, to move through the world without the specific tithe levied on everything ‘she’ did.

You had to pay and you had not even indulged in them.

To hell with it.

You crossed the room.

Theo straightened at once, your sudden movement sharpening his attention. His eyes flickered. Throat working as he swallowed, rising back to sitting as you closed the distance—until your shadow fell over him and his long legs bracketed yours. Close enough to catch the scent of him: woody, musky, the familiar ghost of his Luckies.

Close enough to make out the particular texture of the bruises on his skin. It left too much to the imagination. Had she pressed her mouth there to consume him, or only to consecrate him as hers—briefly, carelessly, the way you might fold the corner of a page in a book you never meant to finish?

Here he was. Someone's almost. You could take him into your mouth, taste him and spit him back out if you wanted.

If everyone already considers me a libertine too—why not?

"Tell me what you want."

He whispered carefully.

You became suddenly aware of the warmth radiating from his thighs, the large hands that had found their way to yours, sliding upward.

You looked down at his amber eyes. There was something unusually warm, almost wounded in them, it made your stomach churn. It reminded you he belonged in piazzas and lemon groves and oh, has he always been this tender?

He licked his rosy lips. “Let me make you feel better.”

Before you could answer, he pulled you in by the waist and pressed a soft peck to your mouth.

"This is okay?" he murmured against you. "We've done this before."

You nodded once.

"Mhm?" He kisses you again slowly as you savour the faint bitterness of cigarettes on his tongue.

His hand slid higher, your dress whispering along your thighs.

His fingers reached the fabric of your underwear. He swallowed, it felt like he was running a hand through dew-wet petals.

You moaned softly into his mouth, at the sensation of him thumbing your clit through your underwear.

"It's okay. Just feel good, baby." He cooed as he took in your pleasured expression.

He drew the fabric aside. One long finger pressing into you, as you gripped his forearm. Nails grazing the firm muscle and the little fuzz of his body hair—the masculinity unmistakeable.

"Mmm…”

I might not be the one you want, he thought. But I can be good for you tonight.

Your breath stuttered as his fingers moved. They were long enough to reach deep, his palm rolling against your clit with every slow stroke. You steadied yourself with a hand on his shoulder, his angular nose tipping to nuzzle at your neck.

"See?" he breathed. "It doesn't have to mean anything."

It felt like he threw cold water at you.

The moment it left his mouth it didn’t reassure you like how he’d intended. It hollowed. The truth of what this was. And the truth was that you wanted it to mean something. You felt it in how suddenly the pleasure drained out of you—disruptive now, where it had been tender a moment ago.

Your mind went back to the girl who had slipped from his bed a few weeks ago—dark hair, bare feet, gone by morning. It didn't feel like it was for you. You didn’t want relief, didn’t want to be baby just for tonight.

"Stop." You stepped back, drawing his hand away. "I—I can’t."

He looked at you—hands at your sides rumpling your dress, cheeks flushed.

You weren't sure of much when you'd kissed him last summer. But you were sure of this. This one you could not let slip by.

"I can't, Theo."

He held your gaze for a moment. Then, quietly: "Okay—"

But you were already gone.

—

Draco smelled you before he saw you. The smell of your hair when it weaved with the damp scent of the lake. Only now why did you smell like smoke, too?

He sat up slowly, eyes gleaming up at you in the night.

"You."

A rough kick at his groin.

"Fuck—" His hands flew between his legs, curling forward.

"Don't ever talk about me like that again."

All at once Draco felt ten years old again—hitting the carpet, the ire on your face, the silence that had followed the first time the word bitch had escaped his mouth.

"What are you—what are you on about—"

"Like I'm something you conquered."

He went still.

You stood over him, your gaze searing, the calm waters swishing behind you. "You. Out of everyone. Belittle me?"

“Who could blame her, really?” You repeated mockingly. “Like I was nothing to you.”

The realisation moved through him slowly. Then all at once. His ears burned, an ache in his chest. How fragile the craving had been—he saw that now—how quietly it had curdled into the franticness of taking, so effortless, that it was beneath his notice.

"I'm sorry." His voice came out quieter than he intended. "I wasn't—I didn't think."

A sob came out of you. His eyes fractured at the sound.

Your heart felt raw. With wanting him to talk about you the way you talked about him—like you were telling them come outside, come look at the moon. It's consuming and unnerving but isn't it beautiful?

"I hate this," you said finally. "I'm all messed up inside."

He was quiet for a moment. Then he shifted—propped himself on his knees, wrapped his arms around your thighs, pressed his face against them. It reminded you of how he'd help putting your shoes on for you. How, before the incandescence of intimacy blurred everything, before the roll of the dice, before the winter night, it had been this. Just this.

"I love when you scream those annoying songs in my ear." He kissed your thigh.

A tear slipped down your face.

"I love when you leave crumbs on my bed."

You lowered yourself slowly, the grass cool beneath you.

"I love how you outsmart me in Astronomy every single time."

You laid on top of him, knees knocking against yours.

"I love when I only have to look at you and you already know what I'm thinking." His hands cradled your face.

A beat. His thumb traced your cheekbone.

"You are half of me. I love you." Come back to me.

The syllables of your name rolled slowly off his tongue, cementing it was all for you.

You pouted, tears teeming down your cheeks. "Don't ever embarrass me like that again."

He shook his head, kissing them away.

"I’ll make it right in school. Swear it." Breathless against your mouth. "How do I make it right here, now?"

His lips moved to your jaw, your throat.

He squeezed your waist. “Tell me how.”

"Those earrings you were eyeing?" A kiss at the shell of your ear.

"New vinyl? Box seats?" Kiss.

"Tell me, princess." Kiss.

Against your thigh, he didn’t seem to realise he had gotten hard.

You loosed a breath, eyes trailing downward.

He caught your face with his hands immediately.

"Ignore it.”

Draco thought, you cannot mistake this.

You cannot reinvent this moment.

You cannot mistake this for simple pleasure.

It is so much more.

You nudged your forehead against his. “I want to."

Still, he waited. One beat. Two. Searching for any sign of a flicker.

Instead, your pupils swelled. “Show me, Draco. Please.” Properly, lovingly, wholly this time.

It made his length feel heftier in between his legs. He flipped you, spreading you beneath him. “I’ll show you exactly how sorry I am.”

Soft kisses pressed along your collarbones. Then, you could suddenly feel a sniffing sensation against your skin. His nose tickling you, tracing something.

“What is it?”

“Hm. Nothing.”

He quietly filed the bitter smell away. The way it intruded rudely with your natural balmy scent. Later.

He lowered himself to your supple breasts, licking his lips at the way it swelled out of your wispy barely-there dress—one of your summer’s greatest blessings—as he tugged at the neckline.

Under him, you preened without meaning to, searching his eyes as his hands moved over you—so large and mannish—tracing the soft curve, the femininity you were still not accustomed to.

He drew his lips over your nipple, squeezing and testing. His mouth felt unfairly cold, like he had been chewing ice, causing your nipples to pebble. You sighed as the wet muscle of his tongue worked circles around the bud, how he suckled harder as your back arched.

His grey eyes flickered to yours mid-motion as he ran your other nipple along his row of teeth, saliva running down the mound.

If you didn’t know how he felt about them, you knew now. He sucked them like he was hungry—like he wanted to draw something out. Committing the taste of your skin, the distinct salt of your sweat to memory.

Your hands grappled at his messy hair—the heat had given it texture—as he moved down your stomach, kissing moles, marks as he went.

He licked long, ardent stripes onto your slick underwear, the wet cotton sticking transparently onto your cunt. You moaned, your thighs pressing together instinctively while his hands held your hips steady. Your vision blurred with sensation, only the sight of your best friend’s head in between your legs and the sweet, sweet sounds he made, grounding you.

The moon as a boy—with his white linens and translucent skin—was eating you.

He finally slipped your underwear away, pocketing them and drawing your hips forward a little too eagerly, your fingers curling into the grass beneath you.

This time, his soft lips clamped onto your clit, while his fingers traced your folds, patient, gathering. Once he collected enough of your slick, he pumped them slowly inside you, your walls now better at taking them in than before.

“Mhm? Like that?” He purred into you as your nails dug onto his scalp. You rolled your hips into him, roughly dragging at his nose, both of your exertions needy and feverish like the night had casted an opium haze. Draco’s eyes once so striking now glazed over from intoxication.

He tested one more finger—his ring finger—throat bobbing at the tightness at your entrance. Despite how slippery you were inside, his prodding had stuttered. He tucked it away. Not yet.

The familiar churn rose in your stomach, the still woods upside down above you, turning and turning each time you blinked—your vision trying and failing to right itself, the world tilting pleasantly off its axis.

"I love you. I love you. Come in my mouth."

It was all you heard before your eyes squeezed shut, his name dissolving behind your teeth as the feeling crested—his tongue and fingers merciless, your orgasm damn near agonising.

You sighed up to the void. At the stars, hanging like holier-than-thou eye witnesses to the act. You could hardly care. Let the cosmos know Draco Malfoy could put his mean mouth to good use.

When you came back to yourself, Draco was sitting up—pale hair pressed flat against his forehead, cheeks flushed like he’d just went on a run. Except he was sucking his fingers clean, eyes on you.

"We can stop here—" he loosed a breath.

Your feet lifted to his bulge before he could even think you were finished. Kneading hard onto the firm length with the ball of your feet.

He groaned. His hand caught your ankle.

“Take it out.” You whined. He was right, you were a spoiled brat. How could you not be? When you knew he would always bow to you like this.

You wanted soil under your nails, leaves caught in your hair, the lake watching. The woods watching. For him to take you here in the open summer air, to press your body into the soft earth and make a thumbprint out of you. Wanted him to make a mess of you.

You nudged at his trousers with your foot, teasing, until the waistband caught awkwardly against the print beneath. A faint dampness showed through.

You laughed as he swatted your foot away with a huff, half amused, half flustered.

For a moment, he hesitated, then pushed his boxers down. His pale cock sprung free, the tip flushed and dewy—nearly purple from the ichor rushing through it. He reached for your hand where it rested in the grass and guided it around his girth, his fingers closing firmly over yours.

A broken whimper slips out of him as he began to slide himself from the thick, veiny shaft to the sensitive head with your fingers—spreading the thick spurts through the length.

His eyes flickered to yours, searching.

“How is it?” he asked so quietly you nearly missed it.

You drew yourself closer, flush with his thighs, guiding his length against your stomach. A sharp breath caught in your chest as you realized just how much of him there was—how far he would go if you meant to take him fully. It nearly reached your belly button.

“I want it inside me,” you said as steadily you could, though you couldn’t tell if your core pulsed from apprehension or want.

He slipped the dress away from you and paused, taking you in where you lay against the grass. All softness and curve. So pliant and kneadable in his hands. Laid upon the grass like you were one of those marble muses at his estate, left beneath an open sky to be worshipped.

Then his focus shifted—to his six-foot self, to the length in his hands. The clean lines of his stomach, the masculine sharpness in his hips, the strength in the angles of his body. You were equals in every way that mattered—and yet here, the cruel truth of your bodies, of your biology. How easily he might hurt you. And not even intend to. His chest ached.

You saw the shift in his eyes. The drunkenness receding, replaced by brooding. His thoughts had turned, from the urge to please to caution, the awareness that it might impale you instead.

You had to remind him you wanted it as much as he did, that it still ended in pleasure.

You caressed his cheek, guiding his gaze back to yours.

“You’re not hurting me.”

He caught his lower lip between his teeth, eyes flickering over your face. “Tell me,” he said. “and I’ll stop.”

You nodded.

“I need to hear it.” He brushed a strand of hair from where it clung to your cheek.

“Yes, Draco.”

He began sliding his plump tip through your folds. An involuntary jolt each time the raw, fleshy texture met with your clit. Your breath hitched, turning uneven as sensation built in quiet, insistent waves.

The air felt thick with it—the musky, heady scent of skin, of him, of you. The lake as the overarching note. You wanted to bottle it up.

You pushed yourself up onto your elbows, needing to see. The sight alone made your breath catch again—the creamy head spearing through you slit. He was leaking so much you'd thought he came already.

“Bit wider.” He spread your legs, trying to ease in the rounded tip.

He winced at the squeeze of your entrance. In his manoeuvres to fulfil your wishes and have him inside you—he alternated between gathering slick and fisting it in little by little. But for the life of him, your poor hole could not even accomodate the tip. His cock bending, surrendering each time he tried to press into you.

While he was concerned for your pain, you were trying not to come from him simply rubbing and trying to enter you.

You took him back into your hands before you could, guiding him inside. This time, you pressed more firmly, groaning at the chafing sensation—pain and pleasure blurring together as he finally began to give, the tip breaking into you.

He arched forward, moaning with you, the pressure undoing him. He mumbled against your lips—soft, breathless I love you's and I'm sorry's, repeated like a mantra. His fingers crushing your hips.

Oh, you, he thought, as you strained to take him. Everyone was wrong. I’m not empty—my heart is right here, in my hands.

A tear slipped from the corner of your eye, and he caught it instantly, brushing it away with a kiss.

He was nearly all the way in now, your bodies folding into one another, closing the distance inch by inch—like two hands reaching for each other. His face nuzzled the curve of your neck, licking apologetically.

“Love you. You’re doing so well.”

He breathed slowly into your hair, the life pulsing through you now thrumming against his cock—the warmth, the wetness. How it had all been his doing.

You laid back onto the grass, your arms rising to clasp around his neck.

“I’ll start moving, okay?”

He began moving his hips, the tiniest of increments, as your hole bore the girth, the shape of him. Feeling every heartbeat from his veins. Gods, you could not bear it.

You searched his face, finding the same tension there—the same furrow in his brow, as though the feeling was almost painful.

“Deeper, Draco.”

“Mm. It will hurt.”

“I want all of you inside me.” How could he ever say no to you when you talk to him like that?

He drew you closer, pressing you flush against him, fingers stuttering at your hips. You felt a sharp stab of pleasure go through you from the spot he reached deep inside, you were dripping so much now it seemed to slip him in without trying.

“Taking it so well,” He whimpered as you squeezed around him again.

Only because you fit inside me so perfectly.

He found a rhythm then, deeper, steadier, each thrust accompanied by a stroke of your clit. Though, just the snap of the mound of his pubic bone could make you come.

“I can feel you,” you mewled, a faint metallic taste on your lips—you had bitten your lips too hard.

"Does it feel good?" he asked despite everything.

"Yes, gods, keep going."

He was unraveling. His face had turned completely red. You could see it in the way he rutted sloppily inside you, how desperately he grasped your body, the stutter of his navel. He was straining not to come first.

You realised, for all his ego, this was his first time too. That he, himself, could not bear it.

And then—

Like last summer. Something caught at the edge of your vision.

That pale gossamer hovered on the lake again. Breathing light. It drifted, gathering itself, no longer just a fleeting shimmer but something more defined. Something forming. A ghostly creature.

A broken moan drew you back to Draco.

You reached up instinctively, inserting two fingers into his mouth. He took them in without hesitation, sucking, placating himself. He looked like he might cry.

“Come with me,” you whispered.

He moved faster then, his rhythm faltering at the edges as the moment overtook him. The earth pressed against your back, re-moulded with every thrust.

“I—I’m close,” he breathed.

You could almost feel the thumping, the rush of his orgasm course through his cock inside you.

Every time he tore the grass from his exertions, he had to move his palms to another patch, and ground himself anew.

You had the oddest compulsion to wrap your legs around his waist to keep him there, and hold his come inside you. You filed the thought away for later.

His thumb kept steady work on your clit, squeezing your orgasm out of you, willing you to come around his cock.

He gnawed on your fingers now, barely holding himself together. Your other hand gripped his bicep tightly, nails pressing into the muscle as you reached your limit too.

All of a sudden it felt like you could identify you and him everywhere.

A pair of lungs unfurling. A double egg yolk merging.

You broke first.

And it might have been the hardest thing Draco had ever done—to hold back, to stay present through the overwhelming pull of your cunt, your walls nearly emptying him clean.

You were still mid-orgasm, when he pulled out so quickly it felt like a part of you was yanked with him.

He came in thick ropes, the pale pigment like spilled milk on the grass. He hadn't wanted to come on you, but some of it still landed and glazed your puffy folds.

“Oh, fuck,” he murmured roughly—spent, as he stroked himself through his orgasm.

You curled in on yourself, the aftershocks still moving through you, your fingers desperately pressing down hard on your clit, trying to counter the blinding pleasure with pain. For a sensation that felt like you weren't falling through the sky.

But you couldn’t help it. You grabbed his tender cock, still flinching from the last of his seed and squeezed, inclining more of it to come out.

He fell against you with a low groan, a teeth impression carving itself deeply into your collarbone. His hands piercing your sides as you continued to apply pressure.

“Fuck! Fuck—please I can’t anymore.”

You ceased your torment, satisfied with his overstimulation.

“Mm—it’s not a toy.” He huffed, still panting.

You laughed breathlessly. Always a tally with you.

For a while, you simply heaved against each other, letting the heartbeats speak for themselves. Before your breath could catch up to you, the little moonlit creature fizzled back into the lake. You sighed exasperatedly.

Slowly, your senses began to return.

He had given it to you. Something lasting. You and him eternally embedded into the earth like a root finding its depth.

The orgasm faded gradually, though you couldn’t quite tell when it ended. It felt as though your body was still aching from being carved.

Draco remained melting over you, his breathing shallow, still caught in that moment. The soft gauze dirtied from where his knees dug the earth.

You scratched his back lightly, nails grazing him back to you. How he had shattered already made it apparent, but you wanted to hear it from his mouth. Wanted to know if he held this moment as preciously as you did.

"Draco," you said finally, cradling him against you.

"Hm?"

"Did you ever—" You paused. "Did you sleep with Parkinson?"

You felt his smirk form against your shoulder. Parkinson. Until now she had never been Pansy—you hadn't been able to afford the familiarity.

"I did." His voice was low. "You should have heard her."

He shifted against you, pitching his voice high and breathless. "Yes—fuck me, Draco—Oh! Fuck me harder—" Grinding into you as he said it, the faux moans so committed it was almost impressive.

You shoved him off and hit him—open palm, hard enough that his head turned with it.

He laughed, "I love when you do that."

You said nothing, your expression souring.

"Did you know your neck is exactly ten kisses long?" He asked suddenly. "Or that your nipples harden from just my breath? Or that when you come, you make this little—"

"I get it." Your face was hot.

He bumped his nose against yours, gentle. "I'm all yours. Always."

Life becomes more bearable when you look as crazy as me, he thought.

You stared up at him, searching for the words. You wanted to offer something, too.

"I kissed Theo," you said. "Last summer."

Oh.

Draco's lashes fell.

Like a grand curtain, the eyes of someone retracting to a place they do not speak of. That same place last winter. But this time the quiet didn't feel solemn. It was older. Predated language, predated the names you had for things like love and want and mine.

And then he laughed nervously, too lightly, making your stomach churn. Because he laughed like that when he was buying time. Had heard it once before, in the pretty palace that was your room, on the pristine carpet with his hand at Theo's throat and Theo's face going the colour of something dying, and you had said stop it, Draco, what are you doing and he had laughed exactly like this and said, he's fine—

The glint of your locket against your skin drew his gaze down, a small silver mercy. His hand came to your neck, large and warm, nearly swallowing it whole.

"How did it make you feel?" His thumb moved, barely.

"Don't look at me like that."

"What else?"

"Nothing else." A beat. "Nothing."

Draco hated that he could tell when you lied.

a/n: Thank you for being patient and the check-ins in my inbox I will get to them soon. 🤍 I'm all good, just busy and didn't want to post anything half-hearted.

answering the doorbell, he saved himself in the nick of time from getting trampled. college girls and guys had appeared by the bucketful, filling his apartment as if it was the shady back of a drug dealing alley. stuffing his hands into his pockets, he let the show begin. for the next hour he entertained jocky dudes, flashed smiles at shrieking girls and ranted stories about his lavish life and parties to all. the audience listened on with rapt attention as if he was the prime minister himself.

just when he reached the climax of his hilarious incident with the u.s. airport police, his eyes caught the door. he’d left it unlocked as an open invitation for everyone to join, but of course he only noticed you entering.

and the worst part? his heart fluttered when you walked in. physically rammed against his ribs as if to jump out and run towards you and beg on his knees for forgiveness. but of course, his ego was too high to even be caught looking at you again. so he continued with his story, meekly finishing it while glancing in your direction every ten seconds.

curse you for looking drop dead gorgeous as usual. pretty, glittery dress hugging your figure and reaching the middle of your thighs, angelic eyes that seemed to beckon him further. couldn’t you even try to act as if the break-up had fucked you up as much as it did him? but he guessed it was beyond your ability to look anything less than beautiful in his eyes, even if you tried.

but wait…who was that next to you?

a man entered his line of vision, linking arms with you and laughing along. you were staring up at him, eyes crinkling in a smile.

something in his chest seemed to settle, heavy and painful. a sharp pinch of anger soared through him before dulling into an ache. you weren’t tied down to him anymore, nor did you owe him anything. you had every right to waltz in with whoever you chose.

but at his house, seriously? you had to be messing with him. and god, it was working. too well for his own good.

his eyes fell on your ‘friend’ instead. his brain was screaming at him to just be rational, but he couldn’t. he found himself sneering, and wondering to himself what you even saw in that guy. he was too polished, too uptight and meek of a man to be with someone like you. he wasn’t even your type.

..was he? how could he not know? regardless, mr. uptight looked nothing like him…but was he even your type? why did he automatically hold himself as the baseline for all the men you’re attracted to?

god, all this thinking was making his brain hurt. he’d never had to think about a girl so much. it felt horrid. is this what you had to go through everyday with him?

to rid himself of the discomfort now seeping into his bones, he sought out for the nearest pack of girls. sauntering over, he began distracting himself in the only way he knew how. he started a conversation, laughed at all the right places, leaned just enough to make their pupils dilate, and made flirty remarks until they blushed. but a few minutes in, a realisation hit him. not a groundbreaking one, something that he seemed to have subconsciously known for a while now.

he wasn’t really enjoying this.

he wasn’t present in the moment like he used to be, because some part of him kept reverting back to you. a bubble of guilt rose up in his throat every time a girl touched him, or laughed at his jokes a little too flirtatiously. he felt empty, like he was performing a play he didn’t understand.

maybe it was because he was too used to the rush of emotion he got every time he talked to you, or stared at you. going from that to the cheap scraps of making some other stranger laugh felt like a massive downgrade, one that he didn’t want to get accustomed to. with a pang he remembered that he couldn’t even recall the last time he made you laugh.

disentangling himself from the crowd, he balefully dragged his feet to the corner where his best friend stood. without a second glance, he snatched his drink and downed it in one go. a weak protest sounded from his friend's lips, but one good look at him gave him enough insight to shut up.

out of habit, his eyes wandered once again to you. he saw the guy next to you becoming increasingly touchy, his hands roaming across your skin. the fingers on his right hand were playing with the strap of your dress, and his other palm was lodged firmly above your ass. anger swirled inside him as his hand crushed the now empty cup.

“that fucker. he’s touching her.”

his friend looked on with furrowed eyebrows, following his line of sight. seeing the scene, he let out a small “oh.”

“what an asshole”, he gritted out, inwardly making up his mind to confront the loser right then and there.

“dude, i’m pretty sure she’s fine.”

“what?”

“yeah. more than fine, actually. she seems to like it.”

his eyes panned until they settled on you. and damn it, as much as he didn’t want to admit it, you did seem to like the attention. you were giggling and staring at your touchy date like he was the only person in the room.

you used to stare at him like that.

the heaviness that settled in his chest this time hurt more. because it came with a realisation. a realisation that he never even checked once to see if you were okay with it, that he automatically assumed you would be uncomfortable; and you weren’t. you were fine.

you were fine without him.

your eyes met his from across the room. he could see you hesitating even from the distance. but ultimately, one side in your inner debate won and you raised a hand in his direction, shooting him a wavering smile.

and he could do nothing but stand there and return it.

When you were about ten years old, you became the humble recipient of the cat distribution system.

Your parents had always firmly refused to get you a pet. Neither of them were particularly fond of animals—your mother especially couldn’t stand the idea of fur on the furniture, and your father wanted nothing to do with cleaning out a litterbox. They were convinced that at your age, you wouldn’t be able to take care of a cat on your own anyway.

But the universe, in its infinite generosity and chaotic wisdom, had other plans.

One cool summer day, while playing in your backyard, you heard the strangest warbled wailing coming from the direction of the trash cans. Curious and slightly concerned, you went to investigate—and that’s when you saw it.

Peeking into one of the bins, you found a cat with its head stuck in an empty pickle jar.

Maybe the jar was just that small, or the cat was just that big, but somehow it had managed to wedge itself inside and couldn’t get free. You panicked. You were too short to reach in properly, and too scared to hurt it. So, you did the only thing you could: you ran crying to your father.

Together, you both tried your best. Your dad pulled with all his strength, and you sobbed beside him, begging him not to hurt the poor thing. But no matter how hard he tried, the jar wouldn’t budge. In the end, he loaded you—sniffling and red-eyed—and the filthy, desperate cat into the car and drove straight to the vet.

Somehow, the professionals there managed to safely free the cat from its glass prison. The vet gently explained that the cat had a pretty severe skin infection that would need treatment if it was going to survive. Your dad, reasonably, declined—this wasn’t even your cat, after all.

But then you started crying again. Loudly.

You cried and wailed and begged with your whole heart until your father, completely outmatched by your ten-year-old sorrow, gave in.

And that was how he ended up having to explain to your mother why there was a scabby, flea-ridden stray running around her clean house.

To your credit, you meant every promise you’d made to your dad. You took care of that cat. You bathed him with the medicated shampoo the vet gave you, even when he scratched your arms bloody. Your mom was terrified at first—convinced you were going to catch rabies—but you wouldn’t be swayed. You nursed him back to health, dutiful and loving, until his fur grew thick and glossy and he finally looked like a proper cat again.

And he adored you for it. Absolutely, completely adored you. Followed you everywhere. Slept on your bed. Watched TV with you like a tiny judgmental roommate.

You never wanted him to forget where he came from—or how you found each other. So you named your tomcat the only name that made sense.

Pickles.

When you got your Hogwarts letter, it was a given that Pickles would be coming with you. There was absolutely no way you were leaving him behind for nine whole months. It simply wouldn’t do.

Your poor baby would die of despair if his favorite person in the world—the one he saw every day, the one who scratched behind his ears just right—suddenly up and disappeared for nearly a year. No. That wouldn’t do at all.

Even your parents, who had once sworn up and down they didn’t want a cat but ended up loving the little guy, admitted he might be a good source of comfort once you inevitably started to feel homesick. After all, you had never spent more than a week away from them. And it wasn’t like Pickles was going to miss them.

In fact, you were fairly confident that if your parents dropped dead in front of him, he’d simply fart in their faces and carry on with his day.

So they helped load the two of you onto the Hogwarts Express—Pickles curled up in his clear backpack carrier, peeking out with the quiet judgment of an old man. They promised to send the rest of his “luggage” once they figured out how magical post worked and got a sense of how big your dorm room would be.

His three-story bed, which he hardly used, his scratching posts, and his aggressively chewed squeaky toy would be shipped out soon. For the first week, he’d have to make do with his favorite bed of all time: your arms.

Which suited him just fine.

Now, six years later, Pickles was living the Hogwarts life better than you. He was practically a celebrity in the Gryffindor common room. He and his best friend Crookshanks, slept in the sun, ate like kings, and took long, fat naps in front of the common room fireplace. Every single one of your dormmates spoiled him rotten, feeding him treats at all hours of the day.

He didn’t even get lost in the castle halls like you did. Somehow, Pickles had mastered the moving staircases better than most seventh-years.

And worst of all?

Pickles was doing better than you in your love life.

“(L/N)!” A sharp voice snapped behind you, yanking you out of your thoughts.

You turned just in time to see Draco Malfoy stomping up, looking like someone had just told him the Malfoy vaults were being taxed. His face was twisted into an expression of absolute disgust, and in his arms… were two cats.

He was holding Pickles with one hand—just dangling him under the belly like a sack of potatoes, all four limbs flopping over like spaghetti. His legs were hanging loose, his expression the epitome of “I just woke up and I don’t know where I am but I trust the process.” Thankfully, he hadn’t made the mistake of scruffing him. In his other arm, cradled like precious cargo, was what could only be described as a giant, fluffy dandelion.

“Get your disgusting mutt away from my cat!”

Your brows furrowed as you immediately took Pickles from him, clutching your boy to your chest and gently scratching the top of his head. Unbothered by Draco’s dramatics, Pickles began to purr loudly.

“His name is Pickles,” Tou said coolly, “And you should know better than anyone that cats don’t typically do as they’re told.”

Draco’s lip curled, face souring further, “Perhaps not your mangy animal. Riddled with disease, that one.”

You rolled your eyes. “I know you’re very ‘mudblood this, mudblood that,’ Draco—but these are cats. They don’t care about blood status.”

“Speak for yourself,” he huffed, lifting his cat higher up his chest like royalty. “Belladonna is a rare breed. A show-winning feline with impeccable genetics, perfectly healthy, thick coat, never sheds. She’s been treated like a queen since the moment she was born. She has a pedigree. That thing—” He gestured to Pickles, who chose that exact moment to yawn directly in his face—“was probably found at the bottom of a dumpster.”

Your eyes widened, surprised at how he managed to get it right on the nose, “So what if he was?” You shot back, “He’s scrappy. He knows how to survive. Your little princess over there wouldn’t last a day without her weekly spa treatments!”

You held Pickles closer, your voice rising, “My angel faced death. He stared it down and came back stronger. He wouldn’t want to be with your stuck-up cat anyway! Her face looks like the backend of an ass! And not even a nice one!”

Draco’s jaw dropped like you’d slapped him, “Excuse me?!” he shouted, already launching into a flurry of extremely colorful obscenities.

You didn’t wait to hear them. You spun around with Pickles in your arms—still purring contentedly, eyes half-lidded, perfectly at peace—and stormed off, muttering about “pureblood delusion” and “privileged puffballs.”

Pickles, naturally, had no idea what just happened. But he was warm, fed, and in your arms.

Life was good.

Draco Malfoy did not “own a cat.” He curated one.

She was a purebred Ragdoll with a coat like white clouds and eyes the color of the clearest summer ocean. Her name was Belladonna, and she was, without question, the most refined creature in the entire wizarding world—present company very much excluded.

He had acquired her from an exclusive breeder in Wiltshire after months of meticulous research, pedigree scrutiny, and a waiting list that included two minor royals and the head of the French Magical Opera House. Belladonna ate hand-prepared meals (which Draco personally oversaw), sat on velvet cushions charmed to maintain the perfect temperature, and had an entire wing of Malfoy Manor designated for her grooming and relaxation.

Even now, at Hogwarts, she was treated like nobility. She had a gold-embroidered travel bed, a crystal water bowl that refilled with glacier water from Switzerland, and a personal grooming appointment every Hogsmeade weekend. Narcissa sent a box of curated organic treats every Thursday without fail. Draco had collars in twelve different colors—each embroidered with her initials—and a seasonal rotation of enchanted accessories to match.

He couldn't imagine loving his own hypothetical child more than he adored Belladonna. In his eyes, she was his child. His delicate, aristocratic, high-maintenance firstborn.

Belladonna was, in a word, impeccable.

So you can imagine Draco’s absolute horror—his visceral, soul-deep revulsion—when he saw that cat.

That scruffy, gremlin-looking, mongrel of a cat rubbing against Belladonna like some horny, hormone-fueled street rat in heat.

It was unacceptable. It was criminal. It was filth mingling with divinity.

And the worst part?

She didn’t seem to mind.

She purred. She leaned into it. She gave that degenerate alley cat the same slow blink she usually reserved for Draco when he fed her roast chicken off a silver fork.

He felt betrayed on a biblical level.

You were minding your own business—lounging on the grass near the Black Lake, sipping pumpkin juice and soaking in the sunshine—when you heard it:

The rapid, purposeful crunch of approaching footsteps.

You looked up just in time to see Draco Malfoy storming toward you like he was about to duel someone to the death.

His robes were perfectly pressed. His hair was a work of art. And his expression?

Murderous.

Once again, both your cats were cradled in his arms.

Ever since the incident, you’d really tried to keep an eye on Pickles. You didn’t want him bothering Belladonna anymore—after all, she was Draco’s cat, and no matter what your personal opinions were, he technically had a right to decide who she spent time with.

But Pickles?

Pickles was a free spirit.

Short of locking him in your dorm room all day (which was impossible, since your dormmates couldn’t open the door without letting him out), there really wasn’t much you could do. Which led you to your current situation.

Draco stopped in front of you, eyes blazing.

“Control. Your. Beast.”

You blinked, took another casual sip of your juice, and replied, “Good afternoon to you too, Malfoy.”

“I’m serious,” He snapped, holding Pickles out like he was radioactive, “Your disease-ridden rat is trying to court my cat.”

Your eyes lit up instantly, a delighted smile spreading across your face as you stepped closer. “Is that right? Are you in love, boy?” You cooed to Pickles, “Are you in love with little Bella here?”

“Her name is Belladonna,” Draco hissed through his teeth, “And he better not be in love, or I swear, my father is going to hear about this.”

You rolled your eyes, “You can’t control love, Malfoy. Besides, Belladonna seems to like him.”

As if to prove your point, Belladonna—regal, graceful, dignified Belladonna—leaned over and licked Pickles’s ear.

You watched in smug satisfaction as Draco’s soul visibly left his body.

“I’m going to exorcise her,” He muttered darkly, “This is demonic possession. This isn’t her.”

“Malfoy,” You said flatly, “she’s grooming his neck.”

He froze.

Belladonna had nestled into Pickles’s scruffy fur and was now purring. Purring.

Draco felt bile rise in his throat. One hand clutched his robe lapel like a Victorian widow witnessing her daughter marry the village stable boy.

He was definitely writing to his mother about this.

You stood, shouldering your bag with Pickles now sprawled lazily in your arms, looking more satisfied than ever. “Maybe if you stopped judging him and gave him a chance,” You said, “you’d see he’s got a lot to offer.”

Draco scoffed, “Like fleas, I’m sure.”

You sighed, “Draco, I get it—you want to protect Belladonna, and yeah, she’s got amazing pedigree. But at the end of the day… they’re cats. They don’t care who’s above or below them in social status.”

Your voice turned just a bit more smug, “Because to them? We’re all beneath them anyway. And honestly? I think you could learn something from that.”

Draco looked down at Belladonna, who was now curled up in his arms with one paw lazily touching Pickles’s tail, like the scandal meant nothing to her.

And for once, he didn’t have a snarky response.

Only quiet, seething defeat.

The turning point came exactly two weeks after that lakeside confrontation—two weeks of eye-rolls and casual jabs, of Belladonna purring traitorously in Pickles’s presence, of Draco’s poor weak heart nearly giving out every time he saw them nuzzle together like a couple in love.

It happened when Belladonna didn’t come home for dinner.

It was unthinkable.

Belladonna had done plenty of un-Belladonna things lately—grooming a mutt in public, fraternizing with Gryffindors, sharing her window seat—but missing her dinner?

Never.

She was like clockwork. 9:00 PM sharp, every evening since she was six weeks old. Draco had built his routine around it.

At first, he waited. She was probably just late. Distracted. Maybe Pickles had lured her into some dark corner to show her how to chew a sock.

But by 9:10, irritation had given way to full-blown dread.

His friends didn’t get it. “She’s probably napping somewhere,” Blaise said with a shrug. “Cats do that.” “Have you checked the tower?” Theo yawned.

But Draco knew. Belladonna didn’t do tardy. She didn’t get stuck. And she certainly didn’t miss meals.

So instead of explaining himself to people who clearly didn’t grasp the gravity of the situation, he went to the one person who might.

Which was how Draco Malfoy found himself standing stiffly outside the Gryffindor common room, looking like he’d just wandered into enemy territory.

His dark green robes stood out like oil in water. He adjusted his collar, trying to look composed, but the Fat Lady was already glaring down at him from her portrait frame, lips pursed like she smelled something foul.

“Password?” She asked sharply.

Draco blinked, “Oh. Um— I don’t know. Can you just… call out for (Y/N) (L/N)?”

She sniffed, “I’m a portrait, not a messenger owl. Password?”

“Right. Uh…” He hesitated, “Dumbledore?”

“Wrong.”

“Godric?”

“Incorrect.”

“Gryffindor pride?”

She looked personally insulted, “Absolutely not.”

Draco sighed, dragging a hand down his face, “Look, it’s important. I just—can’t you make an exception?”

The Fat Lady squinted at him, “Are you the boy who said my frame needed ‘restoration work’ two years ago?”

“…Possibly.”

She crossed her arms, “Password.”

“Oh for the love of— (L/N)!” Draco shouted, pounding a fist against the portrait like it had personally wronged him. The Fat Lady shrieked at him for being a rude little git, and the two launched into a full shouting match—one that only ended when, after two solid minutes of banging and arguing, the portrait finally swung open from the inside.

You stood there, confused and tired, Pickles draped around your neck like a lazy, judgmental scarf.

You blinked at the sight of him, “…Malfoy?”

He let out a shaky breath, like he hadn’t properly inhaled since dinner, “Belladonna’s missing.”

Your expression shifted immediately, “What?”

“She didn’t come back for dinner,” He said quickly, the words tumbling out in a rush, “She’s never late. Ever. And I know you’ll probably think I’m overreacting, but I’ve looked everywhere—common room, Astronomy Tower, library—nothing.”

Your brows furrowed, “That’s not like her…”

Draco nodded, clearly trying not to spiral, “I thought—maybe—if anyone would know where she is, it’d be that walking dust bunny of yours.”

At his mention, Pickles stretched languidly across your shoulders and let out a slow yawn, looking entirely unbothered.

You glanced down at him, “…Pickles, do you know where your girlfriend is?”

Pickles blinked.

Then, without warning, he wriggled free of your arms, landed with a soft thud on the stone floor, and trotted off down the hallway with alarming purpose—tail high, strut confident.

You stared after him. Then looked back at Draco.

“…After you.”

The castle was quiet at this hour—eerily so.

Lit only by the occasional floating candle and the faint tap-tap of Pickles’s determined paws echoing down the stone halls, the two of you trailed behind him like anxious parents following a toddler on a mission.

You’d just rounded the corner near the Charms corridor when a grating voice sliced through the silence like a rusty blade.

“Oi! You there!”

You froze.

Filch.

He emerged from the shadows like something out of a horror story, lantern swinging in one hand, the other gripping a battered cane like he fully intended to use it. Behind him, Mrs. Norris slinked close to the wall, her yellow eyes glinting as she honed in on Pickles with twitching suspicion.

Draco stiffened beside you, his whole posture bristling with irritation and nerves. You instinctively stepped in front of him.

“Out after curfew?” Filch growled, eyes narrowing, “You think the rules don’t apply to you just ’cause you’re out on a midnight date?”

“Out of bed, out of bounds, out of line!” He hissed, “Detention, both of you—and your mangy little creature!”

Pickles let out an indignant mrrrow, scandalized.

“Are you kidding me?” Draco snapped, turning on him with a snarl, “We’re in the middle of something important, you moldy old—”

You slapped a hand over Draco’s mouth so fast it nearly knocked him off balance.

He made a muffled growl of protest against your palm.

“Mr. Filch,” you said quickly, stepping forward before Draco could verbally self-destruct, “I know it’s past curfew, and I’m really sorry. But we’re not out here for fun. We’re looking for his cat. She hasn’t come home.”

Filch narrowed his eyes, “So you thought you’d go traipsing through the halls like you own the place?”

“No, sir,” you said, softening your voice, “but she means everything to Draco. And she’s never late for meals. She’s been missing for hours. I know you understand—if Mrs. Norris ever didn’t come home, you’d be out here too. Wouldn’t you?”

Filch looked down at his beloved cat, who had now approached Pickles and was sniffing him with wary curiosity. Pickles, unbothered as ever, sniffed her back like a gentleman who had once eaten a sock but still had his dignity.

Mrs. Norris didn’t hiss.

That alone was a miracle.

Filch’s scowl wavered. His eyes flicked to you, then back to the cats.

“…What’s the cat look like?” He muttered.

Draco opened his mouth, but you beat him to it, “White ragdoll. Blue eyes. Very regal. Very spoiled. Answers to Belladonna.”

Filch grumbled under his breath and gave Mrs. Norris a meaningful look. She meowed softly, then slinked off down a side corridor, tail swaying—like she’d accepted the mission.

Filch sighed, “I haven’t seen her. But if you’re lying, and I catch you sneaking about—”

“We’ll go straight back to our dorms,” You said quickly, “Promise.”

Draco still looked like he wanted to hex something, but you grabbed his wrist and tugged him forward before he could blow it.

As you rounded the next corner, Draco finally exhaled.

“You... handled that well.”

You shrugged, “At the end of the day, aren’t we all just crazy cat ladies?”

Draco let out a soft, reluctant laugh, “I suppose we are.”

You didn’t say anything else—but when you glanced down, you noticed Draco’s hand was still gently brushing yours.

And—perhaps more surprising—he didn’t pull away.

Pickles led you down staircases, across courtyards, and finally out through a side passage beyond the castle walls, nose to the ground like a hound on a mission.

The night air was damp and cool, the scent of rain clinging to the stones. The grass was slick underfoot, and mud squelched beneath your shoes as you followed Pickles out into the overgrown field that skirted the castle’s edge.

Draco muttered something about this being absolutely ridiculous, but he didn’t stop walking.

You passed the greenhouses, the Quidditch pitch in the distance, and then—

Pickles halted.

He sat abruptly at the edge of a shallow dip in the land, where a muddy slope descended toward a narrow drainage hole set into the castle’s outer wall. The earth around it was slick with runoff from the recent storm, and a shallow stream of water trickled through the grass, spilling over the edge and down into the hole.

And just inside it—barely visible—was a familiar puff of white fur.

“Belladonna!” Draco gasped, rushing forward and crouching near the entrance.

You moved beside him, dropping to your knees as you peered inside. Belladonna was crouched deep within the narrow crevice, her fur soaked and muddied, one paw half-lifted like she’d tried to climb out and slipped. Water had pooled at the bottom of the slope, turning the ground into a sludgy mess. Her big blue eyes blinked up at you in distress.

“She’s stuck.” You murmured.

Draco’s breath hitched, “She’s going to catch cold—she can’t stay in there, her fur will mat—she’ll get sick—”

“Draco,” You said gently, “She’s okay. But we’ve gotta get her out.”

You looked at the small opening. It was barely wide enough for your arm, and the earth around it was already saturated—slick, heavy, and cold.

Draco stared at it. His face twitched. His hands hovered.

He hesitated.

Years of being taught to avoid mess, to preserve appearance, to never degrade himself with something as undignified as crawling through mud—it all played behind his eyes in a blink.

He didn't get his hands dirty, he paid others to get their hands dirty.

He stomach bottomed out, feeling utter shame at his reluctance to save his most prized girl.

You didn’t wait.

Without hesitation, you dropped to your belly beside the hole and shoved your arm in, shoulder-deep, wincing as cold mud squelched up your sleeve. You began scooping out handfuls of thick earth, making a channel for the water to drain so Belladonna could climb up.

Draco stared, watching the girl he had been barking at for the last month for not being good enough—for not having a cat that was good enough—now getting her uniform, her skin, her everything covered in mud to save his cat.

Only for a second, before he was on his knees beside you, shoveling at the mud with both hands, trying to make a larger channel for Belladonna to climb out.

And then Belladonna mewed again—soft and uncertain.

You tilted your head toward her, “C’mon, sweetheart. It’s okay. You’ve got to climb. We made you a way out.”

Draco reached out, dipping his fingers into the hole, wiggling them ever so slightly, “Come on, darling. It’s just mud. You’re going to be fine.”

Belladonna took a trembling step forward. Then another.

The water drained slowly through the channel you dug. Finally, she scrabbled forward—and Draco reached in, arms filthy, eyes wide—and caught her.

He cradled her against his chest like a newborn, mud and all, whispering her name.

You sat back on your heels, breathing heavily, covered in muck.

Draco looked at you. Really looked at you.

“…Thank you.” He said, voice hoarse.

You smiled tiredly, pushing a strand of hair out of your face with your muddy hand, “It was my pleasure. Couldn’t leave my daughter-in-law down there now, could I?”

That was the first time since Pickles and Belladonna had fallen in love that Draco released a deep, boisterous laugh.

The trek back up to the castle was slow and quiet.

Belladonna was tucked safely in Draco’s arms, shivering and damp but breathing steadily. Pickles trotted loyally at your feet like a muddy little sentinel, occasionally brushing up against Draco’s leg as if offering silent support.

By the time you reached the front steps, your teeth were chattering, your robes soaked, and your skin itched with drying mud.

“Come on,” Draco said suddenly, nudging you toward a different hallway, “There’s a place we can use.”

You blinked, “Where are we going?”

He didn’t answer—just took a sharp turn down a marble corridor, Belladonna still cradled carefully in one arm. He drew his wand and tapped on a door inlaid with polished gold and pearl.

“The Prefects’ Bathroom?” You asked, eyebrows raising.

Draco gave you a sideways glance, “Don’t make it weird. She needs to be cleaned.”

He swung the door open, and steam rolled out in a fragrant wave, enveloping you in warmth. The bath was massive—practically a swimming pool—its water bubbling gently, already scented with lavender and bergamot. Dozens of knobs lined the tiled edge, each labeled in elegant script: foaming bubbles, eucalyptus mist, warming steam…

“Wow.” You breathed.

Draco, to his credit, looked more distracted than smug. He set Belladonna gently on a cushioned ledge beside the bath, then stared at her like she might shatter.

She was curled in on herself, still trembling slightly. Her fur—usually immaculate—was a sopping, matted mess.

Draco shifted, visibly uncomfortable, “I’ve… never done this before.”

You tilted your head, “Bathed a cat?”

He nodded once, looking faintly ashamed, “She’s always gone to a groomer. My mother used to hire someone. I don’t know how to—”

“Hey,” You interrupted gently, your expression softening, “It’s okay. I’ll show you.”

You knelt by the bath and adjusted the temperature with a flick of your wand, turning the water warm but gentle. Then, carefully, you reached for Belladonna.

She didn’t protest when you took her—tired, cold, and soggy as she was—and you slowly eased her into the shallow basin you’d prepared, cupping water over her back with both hands.

Draco knelt beside you, watching with wide eyes.

“She’s… letting you.” He murmured, almost in disbelief.

“She better,” You said with a tired laugh, “I have mud under my nail beds and a worm probably somewhere in my sweater right now, all for her.”

He almost smiled.

You worked carefully, your fingers patient and steady as you massaged soap into Belladonna’s sodden fur. She looked pitiful—like a wet, deflated pillow—but her big blue eyes stayed calm, occasionally blinking up at you as if to say I trust you.

You showed Draco how to support her little body, how to stroke behind her ears without getting soap in them, how to use a conjured comb to tease out the worst of the tangles.

And he watched. Closely. Quietly.

Then, without needing prompting, he joined you—his hands a little unsure, but gentle. You guided him with soft instructions, and soon he was rinsing her chest and shoulders like he’d done it a hundred times.

“There you go,” You murmured, “See? You’re a quick learner.”

Once Belladonna was clean, you lifted her carefully from the water and conjured a thick, soft towel, wrapping her up like a newborn. With a flick of your wand, you cast a heating charm just warm enough to soothe her, and she immediately burrowed into the fabric, eyes fluttering shut.

Draco stared at her.

Then he looked at you.

“…Thank you.” He said again, quieter than before.

You met his gaze, muddy and tired but steady, “You already said that.”

“I meant it then. I mean it more now.”

You gave him a small smile, “She’s safe. That’s what matters.”

A beat of silence.

Then—gently, without really thinking—Draco reached out and brushed a streak of dried mud from your cheek with his thumb.

“I think you’re a better person than me.” He murmured, voice low.

You laughed softly, eyes warm, “Then maybe one day you’ll learn to pay it forward.”

You were soaked, your robes stiff with dried mud, your knees scuffed, and your sweater still suspiciously worm-squishy. Draco didn’t look much better—his hair was a mess, his pristine robes stained all the way up to the elbows, and there was a distinct patch of dirt on his jaw from when he’d face-planted trying to widen the drainage path.

You shifted uncomfortably as you glanced down at your clothes, “We’re disgusting.”

Draco huffed a tired laugh, “We really are.”

There was a brief pause. Then, almost too casually, he said, “The showers here are private.”

You blinked, “What?”

He gestured vaguely toward a frosted glass partition on the other side of the bathroom, “The prefects’ showers. There’s a few. Individual stalls. Full doors. Soundproofed. Charms for clean clothes after, too.”

You followed his gaze, taking in the polished brass fixtures and enchanted mist wafting from the far end of the bathroom. The space was massive, marble and quiet and very much still shared.

“Oh.” You said.

You considered your options at first. The baths would definitely not be open at this time, so you'd be reduced to sleeping in your bed caked in mud which was not only unappealing but quite frankly impossible to even think of.

Another beat of silence passed. Belladonna shifted slightly in your arms, letting out a soft sigh.

“You should go first,” Draco said, clearing his throat, “I’ll dry her off a bit more. Make sure she’s fully warm before I head in.”

You nodded, clutching the towel bundle a little tighter before setting her down on a velvet cushion nearby.

“Thanks.” You said, already turning toward the showers, trying to ignore the way your heart suddenly sped up.

It wasn’t like you were showering with him. Obviously. You had your own stall. He’d have his. It was no different than when your entire dorm got ready for the Yule Ball at the same time, right?

It wasn’t like you were showering with him.

Obviously.

You had your own stall. He had his. Solid walls. Separate doors. It wasn’t like you were exchanging shampoo or anything.

It was no different than getting ready with your roommates during Yule Ball season. Right?

…Except it was different.

You weren’t really one to shower when the girls' baths were crowded. You liked your space, your quiet. You’d never been flustered about that kind of thing.

But this?

This was different.

He was a boy. And he was just a few mere feet away from you.

Naked.

You physically shook your head as if that would shake the thought loose.

The hot water hit your skin, washing away grime and mud and the bone-deep cold that had settled into your muscles, and for a moment, it felt like the world exhaled.

You let your head fall back under the stream, breathing in the lavender steam and bergamot oils—but your mind didn’t settle.

Because just across the room—on the other side of a few inches of stone and the faint hum of silencing charms—Draco Malfoy was standing under the exact same stream of water.

Maybe leaning back against the wall, eyes closed. Maybe raking a hand through his hair. Maybe—

You clenched your eyes shut.

Nope.

Absolutely not.

You rinsed faster than you normally would.

When you stepped back into the main space with your hair wrapped in a fluffy conjured towel, dressed in your clothes that you had cleaned with a simple 'scourgify', cheeks flushed from the heat—and something more complicated—Draco was there.

He was sitting on a cushioned bench, freshly cleaned. His hair, normally so perfectly styled, was now damp and curling slightly at the ends, a rogue strand falling into his eyes. He held Belladonna like she was made of glass, her towel gently unwrapped now as he ran his fingers carefully through her drying fur.

He looked up when he heard you. And for a moment, his eyes did that thing—flicking down, then back up. Fast. But unmistakable.

His throat bobbed.

“You alright?” He asked, voice low and hoarse.

You smiled, trying to ignore the way your heart skipped a little. “Regretting not trying harder to be a prefect,” You joked, padding toward him, “Can’t believe I’ve been missing out on these showers.”

His mouth twitched, “You can come back anytime.”

You raised a brow, “That an invitation?”

He hesitated. Just a second. Then looked you straight in the eye. “Yeah,” He said, “I owe you.”

You tried to brush it off with a smile, “You don’t owe me anything. I didn’t do it for you, I did it for her.”

He looked down at Belladonna, who was now snuggled up in his lap like a warm little dumpling. Her purring was soft, steady—proof she was safe and content.

In the weeks following the rescue, Draco was utterly incapable of letting Belladonna out of his sight. The poor cat, traumatized by her muddy ordeal, had adopted a new routine of clinging to the safe confines of her daddy’s room like a tiny, furry shadow.

Which meant that Pickles—her devoted, scruffy little boyfriend—had also become a permanent fixture there.

Which meant you—Pickles’ very concerned owner, who had nearly filed a missing cat report the moment her gluttonous furball missed a meal—were now also a regular guest in Draco Malfoy’s room.

It had been like this for about a week.

Despite Draco’s repeated (and exasperated) assurances that all you had to do was send him an owl and he’d gladly confirm Pickles’ whereabouts, you insisted it was easier to just drop by.

And once you confirmed that your boy was safe and sound, you’d make yourself perfectly at home on Draco’s floor—Pickles immediately climbing into your lap, soon followed by Belladonna, who clearly believed she owned the place. The two of them would curl into each other and purr like synchronized engines, while you absentmindedly stroked their fur.

It had gotten to the point where your presence didn’t even require Draco’s.

So when he returned from class one afternoon to find you sprawled across his bed—Pickles draped over your stomach and Belladonna nestled against your shoulder, both cats sound asleep—he simply sighed, slinging his bag onto the floor with a dramatic thud.

“Have we officially abandoned the concept of common courtesy then?” He drawled.

You didn’t even blink, “She sat on me and fell asleep, Draco. What was I supposed to do—move her?”

He rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. Instead, he crossed to his storage chest and pulled out two porcelain dishes—each filled with what looked like five-star gourmet cuisine—and set them gently on the floor. Like clockwork, both cats stirred, stretched, and padded down to their plates like royalty answering the dinner bell.

Draco muttered under his breath, “I still can’t believe I’m wasting perfectly curated, nutritionally balanced, hand-selected ingredients on that mangy mutt…”

“That mangy mutt is your son-in-law, Malfoy.” You said smugly.

He shook his head but softened. After Pickles rubbed against his leg and meowed up at him with those pleading eyes, Draco—deep down a simple cat lover and now a begrudging admirer of Pickles’ role in rescuing his precious Belladonna—gave in.

The cats were busy eating—Pickles scarfing his food like it might disappear any second, Belladonna delicately nibbling at hers like a Michelin critic—and for once, you and Draco were left without furballs sprawled across your lap.

You’d relocated to the floor by his desk, leaning against the foot of his bed while Draco lounged sideways in the armchair nearby, sleeves rolled up, socks mismatched—looking dangerously like someone approachable.

The silence between you wasn’t awkward anymore. If anything, it felt almost… easy.

“So,” Draco began, casually flicking a stray cat hair off his trousers, “how’s Potions going?”

You groaned, flopping your head against the mattress with dramatic flair, “Don’t get me started. No, seriously. If I have to think about the methodology for the Draught of Living Death one more time, I will actually cry.”

Draco snorted, “It’s not that hard.”

You lifted your head to glare at him, “Right. Well, oh intelligent one, not all of us are big, huge nerds. Honestly, you should’ve been in Ravenclaw.”

He smirked, unfazed, “This big, huge nerd just got an ‘O’ on the latest mock finals.”

You perked up instantly, “Wait, really?”

He didn’t seem to catch the trap in your tone, puffing his chest out proudly, “I did.”

“That’s amazing! So you can help me study!”

“…Excuse me?”

“Yeah! Ugh, Draco, you’re brilliant. This is perfect!”

“I wasn’t—”

“You’re a lifesaver! I’ll meet you here tomorrow during your free period!”

And just like that, before he could get a single word in edgewise, you scooped Pickles into your arms—his mouth still glistening from liver pâté—and dashed for the door.

“Sleep well, study buddy!” You called as you disappeared down the hall.

You slowed to a walk once you reached the common room, exhaling in victory. Pickles looked up at you, his expression blank as ever.

You sighed fondly, “Great job, wingman.”

Pickles blinked.

You fist-bumped his paw.

It was a lazy Saturday in the Slytherin common room.

The fire crackled quietly, casting warm shadows against the stone walls. Blaise sprawled across the velvet couch like a bored cat, Theo sat upside down in an armchair for no reason other than chaos, and Pansy twirled her wand with the kind of elegance that suggested she hadn’t read a single word of Witch Weekly in her lap.

Finally, Pansy broke the silence.

“So. Are you shagging her?”

Draco choked on his tea.

“What?” He coughed, nearly dropping the cup. Pickles, curled beside him on the armrest, hissed at the sudden jolt.

Blaise didn’t look up. “(L/N),” He said evenly, “You know. The Gryffindor who’s basically moved into your room. Owner of the mongrel you supposedly hate. Ringing any bells?”

“I—what—no!” Draco snapped, “Absolutely not! Why would you even ask that?!”

Theo flipped upright with a shit-eating grin, “Because you’ve been unreasonably pleasant lately. Smiling. Not threatening first-years. Suspicious behavior.”

“Almost like you enjoy seeing her kitty.” Blaise added smoothly, glancing down at Pickles who had moved himself to Draco's lap but judging by the smirk on his face it was clear he meant something else.

Draco turned bright red, “That’s not—”

“Mm-hm,” Pansy hummed, eyes glinting, “She was in your room for three hours yesterday.”

“She’s there for the cats,” Draco snapped, “Pickles won’t leave Belladonna’s side, and she won’t leave mine. (Y/N) just checks on him. That’s it. You all know this.”

“Sure,” Blaise drawled, “Just cats. That’s why you panic when she doesn’t show up at her usual time, right?”

“I do not—”

Before he could finish, the door to his dorm creaked open.

You stepped out, hair tousled, jumper slightly off one shoulder, Belladonna draped lazily around your neck like a scarf. You were clearly mid-thought, not yet noticing the audience.

“Draco,” You called, casual as ever, “come back in—someone’s missing their daddy.”

The room went silent.

Draco’s soul visibly left his body.

Theo’s mouth dropped open. Pansy squealed into her sleeve. Blaise grinned like he’d won a bet he hadn’t even made.

Draco groaned into his hands, “She meant the cat.”

“Sure she did.” Theo said, practically vibrating with glee.

It started innocently.

Draco was lying across his bed, legs crossed at the ankle, a Transfiguration textbook open in his lap—though he hadn’t actually turned a page in the last ten minutes. Pickles was curled up contentedly on his stomach, rising and falling with every slow breath. Across from him—well, technically on the bed but lying in the opposite direction—you were stretched out with your head by his feet, your own legs propped against his pillows like you lived there.

Which, to be fair, you kind of did lately.

Belladonna was nestled on your chest, queen of her tiny kingdom, batting half-heartedly at your fingers as you played with her paws, making little punching motions.

“And bam! And pow!” You said dramatically, “You’d never hurt me though, right, Bella? Us girls have to stick together.”

She stared up at you with her wide, imperious blue eyes.

You sighed, your fingers going limp in her fur, “Or maybe you’re not a girls’ girl after all. You got yourself a boyfriend first. Traitor. And now you’re no help either…”

Draco raised a brow, glancing down from his book, “Should I book you a trip to St. Mungo's, (L/N)?"

You ignored him, voice going high and sweet as you lifted one of Belladonna’s delicate paws and made her wave, “Not your fault, is it, darling? Your daddy’s so dense he can’t tell when a girl’s flirting with him to save his life. And you can’t knock some sense into him, can you? You’re just a cat.”

That made Draco freeze.

“Excuse me?” He said, sitting up just slightly, the book nearly sliding off his stomach.

Still, you didn’t look at him. You kept your attention on Belladonna, now rubbing her behind the ear like she was your emotional support therapist.

“Honestly, I’ve tried everything,” You sighed, dramatic and long-suffering, "Casual compliments. Gifts. Repeated close physical proximity. But nooo, nothing. He just sits there like a lemon, being oblivious and stupidly attractive.”

Draco blinked.

“I’m sorry,” He said slowly, “are you talking about me?”

You sighed, giving him a single glance before looking back at Belladonna, "He can't even tell when someone's blatantly talking about him either. Your daddy's a lost cause."

He looked like you’d just told him he was half-kneazle.

“You—you like me?”

You tilted your head, “I’ve been hanging out in your dorm for weeks, Draco. Do you think I do that for fun?”

“Well—yes? I thought you liked Pickles being around Belladonna!”

“Oh, I do,” You grinned, lifting Belladonna so you could sit up, “but I happen to like Belladonna’s daddy a lot more.”

A beat of silence.

Draco’s ears turned red. His entire face went warm. And he stared at you with an expression you couldn’t quite name.

Then—

“…Do you want to go to Hogsmeade with me next weekend?” He asked, voice slightly breathless, “Like—on a date?”

You reached out and laced your fingers with Draco’s, casual and easy like you’d done it a thousand times before.

“I’d love to go.” You said softly.

And from the way Draco looked at you then—wide-eyed, a little dazed, absolutely besotted—you had a feeling this was going to be the start of something very good.

Bonus:

“(Y/N) (L/N)!”

You shot upright, heart lurching at the sound of your boyfriend’s furious voice cutting across the room like a curse.

Draco Malfoy never yelled. He condescended. He complained. He drawled insults like an art form.

But this? This was new.

You stared at him from your perch on the couch, blinking.

He stood in the doorway of his dorm room, chest heaving, face pale with horror—and Belladonna tucked gently in one arm like a fragile glass ornament. His other hand was shaking. Literally shaking.

“…What’s wrong with you?” You asked slowly.

He marched across the room, holding Belladonna aloft like a witness to a crime.

“You said that thing was neutered!” He hissed, venom dripping from every syllable, clutching his cat to his chest like he was protecting her from the lump of orange fluff currently rolling around on the rug, trying to eat his own tail.

You stood slowly, voice tight, “I was told he was neutered.”

“Well, clearly you were lied to!” Draco snapped, setting Belladonna down on a velvet pillow with surgical care and clutching his hair like he was about to pull it out in clumps, “Because my daughter is pregnant.”

You stared at him. Then down at Pickles.

Then back at Belladonna, who had begun daintily licking her paw, looking vaguely smug.

There was a long, long pause.

“I’m gonna be a grandma!” You wailed, hands flying up to your face, “Oh my God, I’m gonna be a grandma!”

Draco gaped at you, “I just found out my baby is having babies and this is how you’re reacting?!”

Pickles burped.

Draco made a strangled sound, “That is the father of my grandchildren.”

You were laughing so hard you wheezed.

And somehow… somehow this entire disaster only made you love him more.

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You looked up, bracing for the usual sneer, the cutting remark, the cold dismissal.

But instead, his silver eyes locked onto yours.

His gaze was slow, deliberate—traveling from your eyes to your nose, down to your lips, and back up again.

You felt like your heart had stopped for a moment.

“I said I’m sorry,” you managed softly, standing up then pushed your crooked glasses back up your nose.

He opened his mouth as if to snap at you, to put you in your place, but then he blurted out, “Why are your eyes lopsided?”

Your brow furrowed, confused.

He immediately followed up, trying to cover himself, “And your laugh. You sound like a laughing troll!”

You blinked, unsure whether to be insulted or amused.

He added, “And let’s not forget about your glasses. They look like something my grandmother would wear.”

His voice was sharp, but there was a strange hesitancy in it—like he was fighting against something inside.

“You’re terrible at insults, Malfoy,” you said, a small smile breaking through your embarrassment.

He stared at you, caught off guard, eyes searching yours like he was trying to figure out exactly what to say next.

With the two of you locked in each other’s gaze for what felt like an eternity, you finally found your voice. You cleared your throat softly and murmured a polite, “Excuse me,” before stepping past him.

Your shoulder brushed his as you walked away, but he didn’t move. Neither did you dare to look back.

Once you turned the corner, your heart finally remembered how to beat again.

What was THAT?

⸻DRACO'S POV⸻

Bloody hell.

She walked straight into me—again.

Instead of acting like a decent human being who'll accept and forgive her apology, I panicked and said a crude remark instead.

“Watch where you’re going, Glasses!”

I wanted to say something cutting, something that would put her in her place and end the conversation before it could begin.

But then she looked up at me.

And everything inside me stilled.

Her glasses were crooked, her hair slightly messy, and she looked at me like she was genuinely sorry. Not scared. Not angry. Just… apologetic. Like she cared.

Merlin, why did she have to care?

I couldn’t look away. My eyes dropped to her nose, then her lips—just for a second—and I caught myself wondering what it would feel like to kiss her right then and there in the middle of the hallway.

“I said I’m sorry,” she said softly, her voice small and fragile in a way that made my chest tighten.

My heart started pounding, which was ridiculous. I was Draco Malfoy.

I didn’t get flustered.

Especially not over her.

Except I did.

Because she was standing there, looking at me like I was a monster, and I couldn’t take it.

I panicked.

“Why are your eyes lopsided?” I blurted, voice too sharp, too fast. My brain screamed at me, what are you doing?!

Your eyes are the most beautiful I’ve ever seen. Their color is perfect—just like your face. Especially in the sunlight—it makes them even more mesmerizing. The sun doesn’t even compare to your beauty. In fact, it should be ashamed that someone outshines it.

The way your eyes sparkle when you’re excited—it lights up everything around you. And when you’re annoyed or mad, there’s this shadow that falls over them, and I swear even that is captivating. No artist could ever capture someone as gorgeous as you. They’d need years just to paint every bewitching detail of your face.

Amazing, lovely, charming, mesmerizing, ethereal, alluring, ravishing, heavenly—these words in the dictionary don’t just mean beauty. They mean you.

You’re breathtaking.

"And your laugh. You sound like a laughing troll!" My insides were begging me to shut up. What are you doing?!!

Your laugh is melody itself. I can't imagine how someone could laugh that graceful. It sounds like a choir of angels singing when you open that loud mouth of yours. But I'll never complain when you talk, of course. Far from that. That sweet voice of yours will be the last thing I want to hear when I get so old that I'm going deaf. Old, which means growing old with you.

Weird Sisters—or any song and band in that matter—can't compare to your laugh. It's music to my ears when I hear you babble about the recent romance book you read, or about the comeback you snapped at someone trying to bully you. You're so clever at that snappy comebacks of yours, no one could ever think of what to reply.

Especially me.

Definitely me.

"And let's not forget about your glasses. It looks like something my grandmother would wear."

Yes. I'm right, of course. Your glasses do look like something my grandmother would wear. But you make it look like an angel wears glasses.

You're the angel.

You rant about how you'll look prettier without your glasses, but I think the opposite. I think—no, I know. I know that you shine brighter than any definition of beauty. Your glasses? They’re just the frame around the masterpiece.

And when you took a step toward the front of the Great Hall in first year, I knew. I knew that you were the most beautiful person to exist in this cruel world. The whole world is imperfect except for you.

You're always the only exception.

Those large brown square-framed glasses of yours are the prettiest thing I’ve ever laid eyes on. Maybe it’s the stickers you used to put on them in your early years, or the slight cracks on the glass—caused by Merlin knows how many times you dropped them. It’s stunning. If you think otherwise, I’ll prove to you every day that you’re wrong.

They're perfect.

You're perfect.

And I think I like you.

“You’re terrible at insults, Malfoy.”

She stared at me with those beautiful eyes of hers—soft and piercing all at once. Merlin, I could lose myself in them forever. Her brows were slightly furrowed, a small frown tugging at her lips, her cheeks tinged red with what looked like embarrassment.

The wind from an open window blew through the corridor, sweeping a few strands of hair out of her face, and for a brief second, she looked like something out of a dream. We stood there—just the two of us—frozen in the middle of the hallway like the world had stopped spinning.

And she wasn’t moving.

Neither was I.

For what felt like an eternity, we just stared at each other. Studying. Searching. Like maybe we were both trying to understand something neither of us could say out loud.

Then she cleared her throat gently and broke the silence, her eyes shifting away from mine. No. Look at me again. Please.

“Excuse me.”

She brushed past me, and just like that, the moment was gone.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to run after her. I wanted to say something, anything—to pull her back and make her stay.

Don’t go. Not yet. Not like this.

But I didn’t move.

Because I’m a coward.

Because the truth is, if she hates me now—after the stupid things I kept saying—what would she think if she saw the real me?

The one who doesn’t hate her at all.

The one who’s been falling for her for longer than he’ll ever admit.

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

Your presence was marked by the delicate clink of a wooden, heart-shaped box that you carried everywhere instead of a satchel. Inside it, as rumor had it, were dozens of trinkets and oddities: broken jewelry, lost pins, empty perfume bottles, and other forgotten treasures no one else would bother keeping.

Some said you were mental. Others laughed and called you loony. Most didn’t bother to understand.

But Draco Malfoy never mocked you. In fact, he never said anything at all. He just watched you—curious, uncertain, and increasingly unable to look away.

At first, it was idle observation. You were a fellow Slytherin, after all, and an odd one at that. But soon, he found himself looking for you without thinking about it.

In the Great Hall, his eyes would drift down the table until they landed on you, sitting at the edge with a cup of tea cooling beside your untouched plate, your fingers gently turning over a silver button as though it carried the weight of memory.

During classes, he noticed how you never quite focused like everyone else. Your quill would pause mid-note as your eyes wandered toward a bit of ribbon caught on someone’s shoe or a leaf drifting in through the window.

There was a stillness to you that unnerved him—like you were always listening for something no one else could hear. And he couldn’t explain why, but that made him want to understand you even more.

It was during one of his late-night prefect patrols when he finally spoke to you. The castle was quiet, dimly lit by torches and streaks of moonlight falling through high windows. Most students were asleep, and Draco had already scolded two third-years for sneaking into the kitchens.

He was heading back to the dungeons when he saw you—half-shadowed at the end of the corridor, crouched beside a tapestry with your wooden heart-box resting beside you.

Your hands were curled around something small, something glinting faintly in the torchlight. He watched you for a moment before stepping closer, and when he spoke, his voice was more curious than accusatory.

“You know it’s past curfew, don’t you?”

You didn’t startle. Instead, you looked up at him with calm, unreadable eyes and said softly, “The castle doesn’t sleep. Why should I?”

Draco hesitated, thrown off by your answer.

He followed your gaze to the open corridor, the soft flicker of torchlight dancing on the ancient stones. Something about your words clung to him.

He nodded toward the box you carried. “Looking for more lost things?”

You nodded. “Always.”

There was no trace of shame or hesitation in your voice—only quiet conviction. When he asked why you did it, you didn’t answer with words.

Instead, you lifted the lid of the box and offered it to him. He stepped forward, peering inside at the collection nestled carefully within. It wasn’t junk, not to you.

Each item had been arranged with care—a cracked mirror, a torn glove, a ribbon with faded embroidery. And near the top, folded neatly, was a Slytherin tie.

His tie.

The one he’d ruined with ink weeks ago and tossed aside under a library bench. He reached for it slowly. “This was mine,” he said.

You nodded again. “I know.”

“Why’d you keep it?” he asked, his voice quiet.

Your fingers traced the edge of the tie as you said, “I keep everything that’s been left behind. Things deserve to be remembered, even when no one else cares.”

The words caught him off guard, landing heavier than they should have. He glanced at the other objects again, seeing them differently now. “But why?” he asked. “Why these things?”

You didn’t look at him when you answered. “Because they were once loved,” you said. “Even if only for a moment. I don’t like when things are left behind and no one remembers they mattered.”

Your voice was gentle, but Draco felt it all the same—like something twisting inside his chest.

Because suddenly he knew you weren't just talking about things. You were talking about people.

And maybe—though you didn’t say it—you were talking about him.

He didn’t know what to say after that. The silence stretched between you, not uncomfortable, but dense with things unsaid. Then you closed the lid of your box with a soft click and slipped past him into the shadows, your footsteps quiet against the stone. He stood there for a long time after you were gone.

Days passed, but Draco couldn’t get you out of his head. He found himself searching for you in hallways and between classes, his eyes darting toward any flicker of your presence.

It wasn’t obsession—at least not the dangerous kind. It was something quieter. Like he had found something he didn’t know he’d lost.

One evening, after dinner, he saw you leaving the Great Hall alone, the heart-box tucked carefully under your arm. Without thinking, he followed.

You walked with a calm kind of purpose, as if the castle spoke to you in ways no one else could hear. But before you could turn the corner, a voice cut through the hallway—sharp, mocking.

Urqheart. A seventh-year known for his cruelty and disdain toward anyone he didn’t understand. He stepped in front of you, sneering.

“What are you collecting tonight, little freak? Ghost tears? Bit of someone’s soul?”

You said nothing, only tried to move past him. But he grabbed the edge of your box and gave it a rough tug.

“Maybe I’ll take a look—see what rubbish you’re hoarding now.” That was all it took. Before Draco realized what he was doing, he stepped in, shoving Urqheart back with a glare so cold it could have frozen fire.

“Touch her again,” Draco said, his voice low and deadly, “and you’ll regret it.” Urqheart scowled, muttered a slur under his breath, but Draco didn’t move. Eventually, the older boy backed off, disappearing into the shadows.

You stood silently, your grip tight around the heart-box. “You didn’t have to do that,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes, I did,” he replied without hesitation. There was a pause. Then, softly,

“You don’t think I’m loony?”

Draco turned to you, and for once, he really looked. At the way your hands shook slightly, at the way your eyes, always so distant, now shimmered with something unspoken.

“No,” he said. “I think you’re the only real thing in this whole place.”

You stopped walking. Slowly, you turned to face him. In the torchlight, your expression was unreadable, luminous. And when you spoke, your voice carried something ancient—something too heavy for your age.

“And I think,” you whispered, “if I had to be forgotten by the world, I’d still be glad I was remembered by you.”

Draco didn’t know how to answer you. But in that moment, as the castle breathed around them and the shadows stood still, he realized something terrifying and beautiful:

You had seen him—truly seen him—before he ever dared to see himself.

And maybe, just maybe, he didn’t want to be forgotten either.

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

He stares at it, his brow furrowing as he wonders if it’s some joke. A prank. Who would leave something like this in his robes? He’s about to toss it aside when he feels a strange pull to keep it. For some reason, the button doesn’t feel like an intrusion. It feels like… like it’s supposed to be there.

Without much thought, he slips it into his pocket, and the moment passes. He heads to the exam, but as he stares at the test before him, something feels different. His mind, normally clouded with thoughts of his father’s disapproval or his next move, clears. The questions seem easier to answer. By the end of the exam, he’s finished ahead of schedule. He walks out with a sense of accomplishment, something he hasn’t felt in a while.

Later, he checks his grade: top of the class.

Draco doesn’t believe in luck. Not really. But as he stands there, staring at the paper, his fingers instinctively reach for the charm still nestled in his pocket. He doesn’t question it—he simply keeps it.

A few weeks later, the charm reappears again, this time at a Quidditch match.

Draco pulls on his gloves before stepping onto the pitch, and tucked inside his left glove, he finds something small and coiled. At first, it’s nothing but a slight vibration against his fingers, but when he pulls it out, he sees a miniature broom, made of green thread and silver accents.

He examines it briefly before noticing a tiny inscription hidden on the side.

“For steadiness. And aim.”

Draco rolls his eyes at the absurdity. It’s another charm, no doubt—one of those ridiculous little trinkets that had become a nuisance around Hogwarts, but there’s something almost soothing about the weight of it in his hand. He tucks it into his pocket with a sigh, deciding it can’t hurt to keep it for good measure.

The match itself feels different than usual. His focus sharpens. He plays with a fluidity he hasn’t felt in months, his broomstick gliding through the air as if it’s an extension of himself. The team wins, of course—victory after a clean sweep—but it’s the ease with which they’ve done it that lingers in Draco’s mind.

When he later pulls the charm from his pocket, it feels like more than a silly token. It feels like something that worked.

He still doesn’t believe in luck. But he starts to think that maybe there’s more to these charms than he’s letting on. And once again, he tucks it into his tin.

Over the following weeks, Draco notices the charms popping up more frequently. Each time, it’s something different, something subtle—an object that seems so small but always holds a significance that lands right when he needs it most. A paper crane, its wings unfolding and refolding in a rhythmic pattern whenever he’s about to get a question wrong in class. A smooth stone with etched runes of protection, just when his father sends another cold letter. A tiny moon made of thread, glowing faintly in his hands, during the rare moments he’s truly alone.

It’s like magic—real, tangible magic—that only appears for him, and only when he needs it most. He doesn’t know who’s behind it. Doesn’t know how they’re doing it. But as time goes on, he doesn’t question it.

Not really.

Instead, he starts paying attention.

He notices you one afternoon in the library, bent over a stack of parchment, fingers working methodically on a charm of your own. You’re quieter than most, a bit of a mystery even among the usual crowd of Hogwarts students. But Draco’s not the only one who notices that there’s something different about you. While most people bustle about, you’re always where you need to be, your hands always working, always helping.

You’re not flashy. In fact, you’re the opposite of attention-seeking. But when he sees you slipping something into Pansy’s cloak before her Defense class, and then sees Pansy humming softly to herself like her cold walls crashed down, Draco knows. He doesn’t need anyone to confirm it.

It’s you.

And somehow, that doesn’t feel like a surprise.

One morning, Draco wakes up to find another charm tucked under his pillow, folded neatly like a forgotten note. He hadn’t expected it—not after the intensity of his father’s letter the night before—but there it is, sitting like a small spark of hope. It’s a simple charm—just a tiny star, stitched in gold thread, but it feels warm in his hand as though it’s been waiting for him.

“For brightness on dim days.”

He doesn’t know how you knew. He doesn’t need to know. But for the first time in months, he sits with it, feels its warmth against his fingers, and lets himself believe that things might just be okay. That maybe he’s still allowed to be good.

That he’s still allowed to be more than just a Malfoy.

The charm stays with him longer than any of the others. He keeps it in his pocket for a week, letting the weight of it ground him. It becomes his little secret, a reminder that even in the darkest moments, there’s light—somewhere, somehow.

By now, Draco knows where to look. He doesn’t have to search the hallways like he did before. He simply keeps an eye on you, watches as you slip in and out of classes, a quiet observer in the background, always stitching and folding and mending things that no one else notices.

One day, he catches you in the library, sitting by the window with a small bundle of thread in your hands, your eyes focused on your work. He knows better than to approach you immediately. He’s learned to wait, to observe, and so he watches you for a while, seeing the way you pause when someone asks for help, seeing how you always offer something when others least expect it.

He clears his throat when he’s close enough, making you jump slightly in surprise. Your eyes widen, but you don’t back away.

“Who are they for?” he asks, his voice steady but filled with curiosity.

You blink, surprised at the directness of his question. For a moment, you hesitate, then answer, “Depends who needs them.”

Draco raises an eyebrow. “And who decides that?”

You smile, the kind of smile that makes him wonder if he’s stumbled upon a secret. “I listen.”

Something inside him shifts at those words. It’s so simple, yet so profound. You don’t just make the charms. You feel them. You understand them.

Draco finds himself leaning against a table, unable to break his gaze. He doesn’t say anything more. But from that moment onward, he watches you even more closely, noting the way your hands move with such intention, how your eyes flicker with understanding when someone comes to you for something more than just a charm.

And, in a way, he starts to wonder if he might need something more, too.

The next Saturday is sunny and warm—a rare break from the usual dreariness of Hogwarts. Draco finds himself walking through the halls, his thoughts preoccupied with the latest charm he’d received, a small coin that had somehow found its way into his pocket before a particularly tense conversation with his father. His fingers close around it now, absentmindedly, as he walks toward the greenhouse, only to stop short when he sees you.

You’re kneeling in front of a row of plants, your hands buried in the dirt. He watches you for a moment before he speaks.

“Got a charm for me?”

You look up at him, startled. Then your lips curl into a smile, soft and hesitant.

“I thought maybe you were ready for something different.”

You reach into your bag and pull out a small note. It’s folded neatly, no charm this time, just a scrap of paper with delicate handwriting.

Draco unfolds it carefully and reads the words:

“For when you’re ready to ask me to Hogsmeade.”

He looks up at you, his heart thumping in his chest, and for once, he doesn’t hide his smile. Not from you.

He holds out his hand, offering the same quiet invitation he’s kept hidden in his heart for so long.

“You free next weekend?”

And the smile you give him in return is all the answer he needs.

“Yes.”

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

"My special quill broke during charms..." you said pouting. "It was the prettiest quill I've ever had, Draco. And it broke!" you huffed.

"The pretty pink and blue flowers that were growing near the lake also withered now. The snow covered them all! Such a shame."

"And then, the WORST of all—the fudge flies were out! Again!" you exclaimed, your brows furrowed, your arms crossed on your chest.

You were expecting Draco to tend your complaining but instead you were met with silence. You looked up at him, his brows were slightly furrowed as he reads.

"Draco! Are you even listening to me."

His eyes flicked down to you briefly, lips twitching at your obvious sulking. “I am,” he said, voice even, though his gaze returned to his book almost too quickly. “I’m listening.”

You narrowed your eyes, not convinced at all. “Doesn’t seem like it.”

“I am,” he repeated, turning a page. “Trust me.”

But you didn’t. Not really. You huffed again, a little louder this time, and shifted away just slightly, hugging your knees to your chest. Draco glanced at you from the corner of his eye but didn’t comment, and the two of you sat in near-silence, save for the occasional crackle of the fire.

He’s definitely not listening, you thought, your pout deepening.

You stayed like that until you eventually fell asleep against him, still lowkey sulking.

⸻

The next morning, Draco was nowhere to be found. You looked for him at breakfast, in the common room, even near the library—his usual haunts. But nothing. By lunchtime, you were really starting to feel annoyed.

So much for him listening, you thought bitterly as you sat by yourself near the window in the Great Hall, picking at your food.

It wasn’t until late in the afternoon, when you were wandering aimlessly down one of the quiet stone corridors, that you heard footsteps behind you.

“Love!” Draco’s familiar voice called out.

You turned, about to scold him for disappearing, but stopped short. He was holding something behind his back, looking a bit smug but also… hopeful.

“What are you—”

Before you could finish, he stepped forward and presented a sleek new quill, the same color as your old one but somehow even prettier, with a shimmering silver tip and soft, elegant feathers.

“For the one you broke,” he said casually, though there was a tiny flicker of nervousness in his eyes.

You blinked in surprise, taking it gently. “Draco…”

He wasn’t done. With a flick of his wand, he levitated a small box into your hands. You opened it—and gasped.

“Fudge flies!” you exclaimed, eyes wide. “How did you—”

“They restocked early,” Draco interrupted smoothly. “I… may have asked them to."

You stared at him, at a loss for words now, but he was still moving. Finally, with a sheepish smile, he revealed the last surprise: a delicate bouquet of your favorite flowers, charmed to look as fresh and bright as if it were the middle of spring.

“They won’t wilt,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Not even in winter. I… I remembered you said you missed them.”

For a moment, you were too stunned to say anything. Then your eyes softened, your earlier sulking completely forgotten.

“You were listening,” you said quietly.

Draco’s smirk returned, a little smugger now. “Told you I was.”

You couldn’t help it—you threw your arms around him, the flowers crushed slightly between you. He hugged you back tightly, pressing his lips to your temple.

“You’re impossible,” you whispered, smiling into his chest.

“And you,” Draco murmured, holding you closer, “are far too easy to spoil.”

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

“I swear,” you huffed one evening in the common room, dramatically flopping into a chair and kicking off your battered shoes, “these are cursed. Walking around Hogwarts is like a medieval torture device.”

Your friends, used to your tirades, just laughed and kept chatting, not paying much attention.

But the next morning, something unexpected happened.

Sitting neatly on your bed was a box—wrapped in elegant silver paper, tied with a green ribbon. Your brows furrowed in confusion. Tucked under the bow was a small note, written in clean, slightly slanted handwriting:

“For your poor, tortured toes.”

No name. No hint of who sent it.

Cautiously, you opened the box—and your eyes widened. Inside was a pair of gorgeous shoes: soft, sturdy, and—when you tried them on—shockingly comfortable. Like walking on clouds.

You stormed down to the common room, holding the box high. “Okay, which one of you is my secret shoe fairy?”

Blank stares. Shrugs. Smirks. Everyone swore they knew nothing.

Strange.

And it didn’t stop there.

A few days later, you were crammed into the library, wedged into a tiny spot between two first-years, scowling at your overflowing notes. You muttered under your breath, “The library is always packed during exam season. I can never get my spot. Honestly, what’s the point?”

You didn’t expect anything to happen.

But the very next day, when you walked into the library, you nearly dropped your books in shock. In the far corner—a place you’d never noticed before—was a little tucked-away alcove. It was empty, despite the crowded room, and set up with plush cushions, soft lighting, and a perfectly organized desk.

Floating just above the table was a tiny enchanted sign that read:

“Reserved for annoying overachievers only. (who is mostly known as Y/N)”

Your eyes darted around, but no one seemed to be watching.

Later that week, after losing your hair tie for the third time in a single afternoon, you huffed loudly, “I keep losing my hair ties. It’s like they disappear into thin air. I’m cursed.”

You didn’t expect anything.

But the next morning, you found a little velvet pouch sitting right on your pillow. Inside were enchanted hair ties—smooth, shiny, and softly shimmering with magic.

The note?

“No excuses for messy hair now.”

At this point, your friends were obsessed with the mystery. “You’ve definitely got a secret admirer,” one of them said, grinning. “Come on, who wouldn’t like you?”

You’d laughed it off, but secretly… your heart was starting to race every time something new appeared.

Then, after a long day of running between classes and study sessions, chilled to the bone and completely exhausted, you slumped onto a bench in the corridor, groaning, “I never have time to get tea between classes. I’m going to shrivel up and die at this rate.”

And later that day, as you pulled out your books in class, you blinked down in surprise. Sitting snug in your bag was a self-heating mug—warm and steaming with your exact favorite tea.

The note?

“Can’t have you dehydrated now, can we?”

It was driving you crazy. Every complaint, every little offhand comment—you were starting to realize someone was listening. Really listening. And fixing things in ways that made your chest ache and your stomach flip.

But no one admitted a thing.

Then one night, sitting by the fire after a long day, you sighed without thinking. “Honestly, I don’t even know why I care about any of this. It’s not like any boy actually likes me.”

Silence.

The kind of silence that makes you look up, because something shifts.

And there he was—Draco Malfoy. Leaning casually against the wall nearby, watching you with a look you couldn’t quite place. His arms were crossed, and for once, his usual smirk was gone.

“Well,” he said, his voice low and careful, “for once, I can’t exactly fix that with a note.”

Your heart stumbled. “Wait… what?”

He pushed off the wall, stepping closer, rubbing the back of his neck—a surprisingly shy gesture. “It’s been me,” he admitted quietly. “The shoes. The library spot. The tea. All of it.”

You stared, stunned. “You?”

He nodded, meeting your eyes head-on now. “You never stop complaining,” he said with a tiny, teasing smile, “and I guess… I just wanted to make things better. Because I—” He hesitated, his usual confidence faltering. “Because I like you. I’ve liked you for… a while.”

You stared at him, your heart pounding, piecing together every note, every gift, every quiet, thoughtful act.

“Draco…” you breathed, stepping a little closer.

He shrugged, eyes flicking down. “So… I was hoping I finally fixed that last complaint.”

You grinned, your heart completely full now. “Hmm… not quite yet.”

His brows lifted. “No?”

You smiled, soft and sure. “I think a kiss might do the trick.”

For a split second, Draco looked stunned. And then he leaned in, catching your lips in a kiss that was gentle at first—almost careful—but quickly deepened, full of all the quiet feelings he’d been hiding for so long.

When you finally pulled back, he was smiling—a real, warm, genuine smile, eyes shining.

“There,” he murmured, brushing his thumb across your cheek. “Fixed.”

And for once… you had absolutely nothing left to complain about.

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

The second week, it was a small box of enchanted chocolates—each one shaped like a star, and when you bit into them, they whispered things like, “You’re beautiful,” and “Thinking of you.” The letter that time said:

“A little sweetness to match yours. Don’t share them with Weasley.”

You had giggled at that one, earning a curious look from Harry across the table.

Week three, it was a pressed flower—some kind of rare, deep purple bloom you’d never seen before—enchanted so it would never wilt. The note was shorter that time, but no less meaningful:

“Even something rare and beautiful pales next to you.”

And today? As the owl landed gracefully in front of you, heads turned, and Harry, who had already caught on to the pattern, raised his eyebrows with exaggerated interest. You untied the small parcel and unfolded the parchment first.

It read:

“Meet me tonight. Same place. P.S. You look stunning when you smile at my letters.”

You couldn’t help the grin that spread across your face as you unwrapped the gift—a silver locket. When you clicked it open, inside was a tiny photo of you (one you didn’t even remember being taken) smiling down at something out of frame. Opposite it was a moving image of Draco, eyes soft and a rare, genuine smile tugging at his lips. Your heart squeezed.

“Alright,” Harry said, setting down his fork and leaning forward on his elbows. “This is getting serious now. A locket? You have to tell me who it is.”

Ron and Hermione both looked up, curious and amused, but Harry was the most relentless.

“I’m guessing—hmm—Ernie Macmillan.”

You rolled your eyes, tucking the locket carefully into your pocket. “Nope.”

“Michael Corner?”

“Wrong again.”

“Hmm…” He tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Zabini? He’s smooth.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Lockhart?!” Harry gasped suddenly, eyes wide with mock horror. “Is it Lockhart? You can tell me!”

“Harry!” you squeaked, swatting at him, your face burning as you laughed.

“Look at her blush!” Harry crowed. “It’s Lockhart. Case closed.”

Ron groaned. “Please, no one wants to think about that.”

That night, you slipped out like usual, heart thudding as you made your way through the secret passage to your hidden meeting spot. And sure enough, there was Draco, already waiting, arms crossed, expression… stormy.

You frowned. “Hey… what’s wrong?”

He didn’t answer at first, just glared down at the ground. His jaw was tight, and he seemed to be brooding even more than usual.

“Draco?” you pressed, stepping closer.

Finally, he huffed and muttered, “If your brother keeps talking about other boys, I swear I’m going to hex him into next week.”

You blinked, startled—then burst out laughing. “That’s why you’re sulking?”

Draco scowled but didn’t deny it. “It’s annoying. All day, it’s been Corner this and Zabini that—and Lockhart?! Are you kidding me? I should’ve hexed Potter right then and there.”

You giggled, sliding your arms around his waist. “Jealous, much?”

“Maybe.” Draco didn’t even try to hide it. His eyes were sharp but softened when you reached up to brush his hair back.

“You know it’s only ever you, right?”

That earned a rare, genuine smile. He leaned down and kissed you, slow and deep, pulling you flush against him like he never wanted to let go.

“Let them guess,” you whispered against his lips. “It’s more fun that way.”

“As long as you remember who you belong to,” Draco murmured, smirking now, possessive but playful.

You laughed, pecking his lips. “Always.”

⸻

The following Friday, you thought maybe things would settle down. But oh, how wrong you were.

The owl swooped in as usual—but this time, it carried a huge box. Bigger than any gift so far. You stared as it dropped the package in front of you with a graceful thud.

“Oh, this is serious now,” Harry announced, eyes lighting up as he grabbed the box before you could. “Come on, let’s see what lover boy sent this time.”

You groaned, but Hermione and Ron were already leaning in curiously, and of course, the Weasley twins—never ones to miss out on teasing—slid onto the bench with identical grins.

Harry opened the box dramatically—and all five of them gasped.

Inside was the most stunning gown you’d ever seen: emerald-green silk, shimmering faintly, clearly enchanted, with intricate embroidery that looked too expensive to even touch. You couldn’t stop staring at it.

“Holy—” Fred began.

“—bloody hell,” George finished.

“Is that designer?” Hermione whispered, eyes wide.

Harry held it up, gaping. “This must’ve cost a fortune! Okay, okay, this is big money. We need to think. Who’s rich enough to pull this off?”

You tried to grab it back, face burning. “Harry, stop—”

“Theodore Nott?” Harry guessed first.

“Nope.”

“Mclaggen?”

“Wrong.”

“Zabini?” Hermione chimed in, clearly entertained now.

“Montague?” Fred suggested, holding the dress up to himself with a wink. “If it is, tell him I want one too.”

“Ohhh,” George added dramatically, “I bet it’s one of those international students. Super rich.”

You groaned, hiding your face. “You guys are ridiculous.”

Fred and George shared a look and started chanting, “She’s getting married! She’s getting married!”

“I am NOT—!"

And then it happened.

A sudden clatter of footsteps, sharp and purposeful, echoed across the Great Hall. Everyone turned—and your stomach dropped.

Draco Malfoy was storming across the room, eyes locked on you, face like thunder.

The table fell dead silent.

“Uh… why’s Malfoy coming over here?” Ron muttered nervously.

Draco didn’t stop until he was standing right behind Harry, towering over him with his arms crossed and that deadly glare fixed in place.

“I’m the one who bought the dress, Potter,” Draco announced, his voice cool but sharp, loud enough for half the hall to hear. “Not the cheap students you’re rattling off like some pathetic guessing game."

Silence.

Harry’s jaw dropped. Fred dropped his fork. Hermione blinked like she couldn’t process what had just happened.

Draco turned to you then, gaze softening ever so slightly. “You’ll look stunning in it, by the way.”

Harry's eyes widen even more, practically bulging out of his eye sockets, as Draco leans in to kiss your forehead.

And with that, he spun on his heel and strode out, his cloak following behind him.

There was a beat of stunned silence… and then chaos.

“MALFOY?!” Harry exploded, whipping around to stare at you. “You’re dating MALFOY?!”

Fred and George howled with laughter, practically falling off the bench.

“Ohhh, this is gold,” George gasped between wheezes.

“Best reveal ever,” Fred agreed, wiping tears from his eyes.

Ron just looked horrified, and Hermione… Hermione slowly closed her book, gave you a look, and said, “I knew it.”

You buried your face in your hands, groaning. “…Well. I guess the mystery’s solved.”

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰