quinn

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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