Claire

Interesting Muggle things—cars. Apparently Draco thought it would be amusing to send one for you instead of letting you take the train. And not just any car. This one is enchanted to deliver you to and from your destination without a driver. You're well aquatinted with Muggle technology, being the only witch in your family, but cars cost money. Something you are not acquainted with. 

There was a bit of a learning curve at first. 

You soon discovered that you must not open the car door for yourself unless you want the sleek metal smacking into your shin. Once inside, you thought Malfoy might have to peel you from the seats upon arrival, given how tightly fear kept you pressed into the leather, staring distrustfully at the wheel turning by itself. 

After half an hour with no casualties, you began to relax. You even found enjoying the view outside the window, sprawling fields turn into city streets, and then give way to luxurious homes stretched miles apart. 

Now, the car glides past snowy hedges and sprawling gardens that sit vacant except for—

Are those peacocks?

If Ginny thought Draco was pretentious before, you’ve got news for her. 

Your stomach flips as the car pulls up beside the looming double doors of the manor. The multiple towers of the estate loom over you, cutting silhouettes against the blazing sunset. The moment you come to a stop, you reach for the door handle, eager to be released. 

But the instant your fingers touch the latch, a loud click echoes through the cabin. 

You jerk back and look around wildly. 

The stupid thing has locked you inside! 

A variety of worst case scenarios bombard your mind. What does the car want with you? Is this some sort of Muggle take on the Venus flytrap plant?A metal den designed to swallow unsuspecting passengers whole? Should you scream for help? Would Malfoy even hear you? Surely there’s a maid, or a house-elf nearby…

The car door swings open and a rush of cold air meets your face. 

Oh. Right. 

You’re not supposed to open it for yourself. 

You scramble out quickly, just in case the thing decides not to spit you out after all, but the door remains open until both of your heels touch solid ground. The moment they do, something drops at your feet. 

Just as you lean down to inspect it, the car takes off. Gravel crunches beneath the tires as it drives off on its own, likely returning to wherever it came from on the property. 

Merlin, even the ground looks expensive. Like it’s made of crushed diamonds. 

You frown down at the object and reach to pick it up. 

It’s a ring.

Instead of a gemstone, the flat signet face is inlaid with etched gold. When you squint closer, a tiny image moves across its surface. A miniature version of the car zips across the metal, winking under the twilight sky.  

Ah. A summoner!

You slip it into your dress pocket for safekeeping, silk brushing beneath your fingers as you do. You’ve been sitting in this dress for two hours, and the rich fabric still feels strange against your skin. 

It’s emerald green. Luxurious. Luminous. And it shimmers with every shift of your leg. 

You’re still not sure exactly how Daphne talked you into wearing it. But you made the mistake of mentioning your date with Malfoy over breakfast this morning. She took one look at your face after asking what you planned to wear and immeidately insisted she take you shopping. 

In her closet. 

She made you borrow her heels, too. And if you thought the car was a learning curve...

You carefully traverse the marble steps toward the entrance, only coming close to losing your balance three times. That's half as many as earlier. 

The grand doors stare down at you. Two serpents are engraved along the edges of the frame, intertwined and hissing at each other, their fangs bared. 

You swallow hard. Maybe it’s a trick of the light but…did one of them just move?

Draco’s never spoken to you about his home. Not really. But you know it served as a harbor for Voldemort at some point. You can’t help but wonder if that bothers Draco. 

Is that why he prefers to stay at school—except, of course, when he needs to steal books from his Father’s library for you?

You’ve overheard him complain about his parents once or twice.. Nothing truly incriminating, of course. But they aren’t here tonight. Tonight, it’s just the two of you. 

The air is cold, but that isn’t what sends a shiver down your spine. 

It’s happening tonight. You can feel it. 

Not just fulfilling the promise you made to yourself—that almost sounds silly now in this context. With everything you are to each other, now. 

Because tonight…Draco Malfoy is all yours. 

The door creaks open. 

You instinctively step back, as if someone might catch you standing there with the wildly lascivious thoughts running through your mind. 

But no one does. 

Because there’s no one at all. 

The door swings opens by itself, revealing a cavernous entrance hall made of some kind of white stone. Marble. Quartz. Or, maybe it’s diamond? This is Malfoy Manor after all. 

Across the floor, a sweeping staircase climbs to the second landing. In the dim light of the sconces, the steps glint as though they’ve been carved from ice. 

Taking a deep breath, you step inside, jumping when the door slams shut behind you.  Should you open your mouth to call out for him? Or simply announce your arrival to some unseen soul?

Your gown whispers across the floor as you move further into the impossible display of wealth surrounding you. The house is as silent and lavish as the tombs of the ancient wizards. 

You feel like a grave robber. 

Where is Draco? He’s probably watching from some secret window, waiting for you to flounder like a fish out of water amidst such grandiosity. But honestly, what did you expect? For him to answer the door for his date like a normal person, holding a bouquet of roses?

That’s not Malfoy. 

A sound breaks through the stillness. 

You freeze, mid-step to listen. It’s lilting and faint, the haunting tune of it tugging at something deep in your chest. Music. It sounds like a piano. 

Before you know it, you’re moving with purpose— winding your way through the mansion’s corridors like you own the place. As you grow closer, the music grows louder, filling the air with a vibrancy and fullness of emotion only music can portray. And for some reason, you don’t have to see the artist to know who’s playing. 

The sound tugs you forward until you reach a large wooden door. 

It's been left open, revealing what appears to be an old ballroom. Tall windows line the walls, their curtains thrown back, allowing the last rays of the sunset to spill inside. 

A grand piano sits in the corner of the room closest to you, proud and regal even draped in shadow. 

And there—seated on the bench—is Draco.

He's bent over the instrument, that lock of hair falling over his brow. His long fingers race across the keys with the same precision and control you’ve come to expect from him after all these years of being his rival. 

Gradually, the music slows. You watch, entranced, as the song lingers, almost as if he doesn’t want to let it go, before pressing one final note. It's a soft, low sound that settles somewhere deep in your chest. It brings to mind images of wax seals on parchment, smiling lashes brushing tear-stained cheeks. It's heartbreaking, yet freeing. Lonely, yet complete. 

“That’s a beautiful composition.”

Your voice cracks through the stillness like a whip. 

Draco stands abruptly, sending the piano bench shrieking back against the floor. You hadn’t meant to startle him. With those Quidditch instincts— coupled with that uncanny skill he has of knowing every set of footsteps and who they belong to before they enter—you truly thought he’d heard you come in. 

When his silver eyes settle on you, a thrill runs down your spine. 

“It’s yours,” you say softly. “Isn’t it?”  You’ve seen inside his mind. And brief though your trip was, you recognize his emotions in that music. “I didn’t realize you played.”

He slips his hands into his pockets with a practiced ease and tilts his head slightly, studying you. He looks good in all black. He should wear those dark slacks and button down more often. Then, he turns and strides over to the drink cart by the window. 

“What?” you ask, watching him closely as he begins to make himself a drink. “No snappy retort about how I couldn’t possibly know everything about you, or—”

“What, exactly, are you wearing?” he interrupts. 

You look down at your dress. The lower half is bathed in the last embers of sunlight, glowing bright green like a garden snake’s scales. For a moment, you half expected ink stains to have bloomed on the sleeve somewhere, or for the elegant gown to have suddenly shrunk into a scandalously short skirt with the way he’s scowling. 

But no. 

The dress is perfect, you thought you—you do—look stunning, and now you’re starting to get annoyed. 

“Oh, my apologies, Your Highness,” you scoff. “Is this not fancy enough for you?”

You don’t miss the way the corner of his lips twitches. It eases something tight in your chest. 

“Where did you get it?” he asks. 

“Get what?”

“The dress.”

You huff, annoyed. “Daphne loaned it to me, okay? I thought—”

The dull sound of glass clinking echoes through the room as he replaces the heavy stopper atop a bottle of fire whisky. “Daphne Greengrass?”

“Yes, of course, Daphne Greengrass! What other Daphne do we both know?”

His shoulders seem to drop an inch in relief. He turns back toward you, crossing his arms as he leans back against the drink cart, that infuriating smirk settling back into its rightful place. 

“I didn’t realize the two of you were…close.”

“We’re not,” you say a too quickly. “I mean…I don’t know. We aren’t.”

He hums like he doesn’t believe you. Brilliant. 

You stand there for a moment, the silence settling in heavy as the sun finishes its descent. 

Finally, you gesture around the ballroom, eyes catching on the fireplace as it roars to life magically in the corner. “You have a beautiful home.”

He doesn’t respond, just brings the glass to his lips and watches you over the rim. 

You’ve always known Draco Malfoy to be a guarded individual. But now, you’re beginning to think you may have heavily misjudged just how guarded he can be.

Maybe you’ve been spoiled with all that time watching him on the pitch—his eyes bright and hair windblown, whooping and sneering and hollering. Or, in class, when he gets a potion perfectly, or he answers a question before you do. You’ve seen that smug, satisfied smile, and those broad shoulders relaxed and confident more times than you can count. 

He’s so different here. 

You would expect him to be lounging on one of the sofas by the fireplace, a second or third brandy lazily dangling from his hand. Or maybe strolling the grounds outside with this peacocks, hands in his pockets, chin lifted proudly as he gazes upon the mansion that will one day be his. His birthright. His home. 

Instead, he reminds you of a younger him. The boyish, self-centered wimp scared of his own shadow. Even now, his eyes flick to the dark corners every few seconds, like something might lunge from the shadows and drag him down into the dungeon. As though even playing his own piano might summon a demon to his doorstep.

You open your mouth to say something—anything—but he speaks first. 

“Come with me,” he says, setting his glass down carefully on the piano bench. 

“Where are we going?” You ask. 

He brushes past you. “I want to show you something.” 

“What is it?”

He stops beneath the doorway, exasperation clear on his face. “Merlin, you’re in rare form tonight.”

You scoff. Rare form. You stomp after him as he heads for the staircase. “I’m not any different today than I was yesterday. Or the day before that.”

Your heels click sharply against the steps as you follow him up. 

“Or the month before,” he adds over his shoulder. “Or any day in the last decade I’ve known you, if we’re being honest.”

So, he’s teasing you now? That’s better. The weird, awkward tension seems to dissipate with every step you take away from the ballroom.

The upper landing is darker, the sconces on the wall unlit, and the second you arrive, his hand shoots out and grabs your waist. Your heartbeat thrums at his unexpected touch as he guides you backward until your back presses against the cold railing.

Over his shoulder, you catch a glimpse of a giant tapestry hanging on the wall behind him. It’s Draco’s face, etched in silk thread. His profile shifts slightly in the woven fabric, his hair stirring as if touched by some unseen breeze. some unseen wind. He looks so sullen. So grey. Like a statue carved for the tombstone of his own fortune. 

It’s a poor likeness. Awful, really. 

But maybe you should have a little pity on the artist. Because they’ve clearly never seen Malfoy as he truly is. As you know him to be. Standing here in front of you, eyes bright and piercing, his heart pounding under your touch. 

“Be honest, Malfoy,” you breathe into the sliver of space between your mouth and his. “Have you lost your taste for me after all these years? Being my arch-nemesis can be so tiring, I know.”

“Mmm, maybe,” he muses, eyes dropping to your lips. “Perhaps you should kiss me. Just to be certain—”

You don’t have to be asked twice. 

You grab his shirt and pull him down to you, kissing him with a passion meant to melt that frosty composure of his. It works. He responds instantly, licking into your mouth and pulling you closer. 

He tastes like fire whiskey and sin. Your back arches under his sure hands, brows drawing together as you kiss him over and over. 

He chuckles, the vibration of it rumbles under your roaming palms. But the sound quickly dissolves into a groan when your hands drift lower. A dark thrill sparks through you when he not only doesn’t pull away, but arches into your touch. He’s warm, and eager, and he’s done denying you. 

Tonight, he’s giving you everything you want. 

“Desperate tonight, are we?” he murmurs against your mouth.

Normally, you would bristle against him and whisper a harsh ‘shut up, Malfoy’. But right now, as you rake your hands through his hair, and he drops hot kisses down the column of your throat, you just want to tell him the truth. 

“Yes,” you gasp. “I want you.” 

His lips pause against your skin, causing you to arch into him impatiently. 

“Say it again.”

Your head spins as heat pools low in your belly. You’re doing what he taught you—using your words. Asking him for—no, telling him—what you want. 

“I want you.”

His hands slide up your neck, fingers brushing the nape in a fleeting caress before lifting higher to ruin your hair. 

You should’ve known better than to painstakingly put every strand in its place, smoothing it into an elegant updo before arriving here. He loves to take your hair down. Likes to pull you apart piece by piece. 

And damn, he’s good at it. 

When your locks finally fall around your shoulders, he makes a satisfied sound deep in his throat. 

“Come along,” he rasps. “We’re not there yet.”

He steps back, taking your hand and pulling you forward at a pace that barely allows you time to cast small beads of light into the sconces lining the dark corridor. He shoots you a flat look, as if simply illuminating the hallway has made you a showoff. 

“What?” You shrug. “It’s dark in here.”

He opens his mouth to retort, but then you watch the way his eyes catch on the way your mussed hair. How the strap of your green dress now hangs off your shoulder, and then he resumes his fast pace down the—now well-lit—hallway. When you reach the end of it, Draco pulls you into a room and quickly shuts the door behind you.

Your jaw drops at the sight before you. 

The bedroom is bathed in candlelight. 

Sleek candleholders wield long wax stems, their flames blinking brightly. Along the far wall, dark curtains frame a tall window. Below that, sits a desk scattered with books. And even more candles. 

His room is surprisingly unassuming, other than the sea of wax. Otherwise, it’s almost bare of personality. A large bed sits in the center, dressed in dark green bedding, and a globe spins slowly on the corner of his desk. 

The only reason you know it’s his room at all is the old Nimbus 2000 Quidditch broom resting in the corner. 

“Hmm,” you tease, lifting your nose slightly. “Were the rose petals too much, or…?” 

Draco nods with false sincerity. “I thought so.”

You smile against his lips as he leans in to steal another kiss. 

The fact that he went as far as recreating something you once mentioned in your journal makes your heart ache. His hands find your waist again, and you don’t even register you’re moving until your thighs bump the bed. 

Suddenly, everything becomes sharper. Realer. Are you really going to do this? Is he really going to let you do this? Does he want this, too?

You pull back gently and blink up at him. 

He looks different in candlelight. Softer. Warmer. Gorgeous, of course, but it’s nothing compared to the way moonlight touches him in the Forbidden Forest. Or how the glow of dragon fire traces the sharp line of his cheekbones and the masculine slope of his nose. His silver eyes lose some of their brightness in this light, but the hunger you find there makes your head spin.

“Well, Snitch,” he murmurs, “you’ve finally got me all to yourself. Don’t pretend you haven’t been waiting years for this. Might I suggest where to start?”

You roll your eyes as he gestures crudely to the button of his slacks. 

“Such a gentleman.”

He smirks and you can’t deny the way that attitude of his sends heat coiling low in your belly. You place your hands against his chest and abruptly push him back, forcing him to switch places with you. Curiosity flickers across his features as he allows his lean body to be guided down onto the edge of the bed under your touch.

“Fine.” You mutter, running a hand through his hair as he looks up at you. “If you insist on teasing me, then I might just have to take into consideration how much you like to be teased. I could edge you all night.”

He chuckles as you climb into his lap. “Cruel.”

“I never promised otherwise,” you whisper. 

He surges forward, capturing your mouth again in a bruising kiss. 

You breathe him in, loving the way he feels in your arms. Merlin, you missed him. It’s been days since you’ve had him like this. 

His hips roll up to meet yours, drawing a soft sound from your throat at the pressure of his erection through the silk of your dress. His hand lingers at your shoulder before slowly slipping the strap of your gown down your other arm. Your dress stays up, but he takes advantage of the newfound access to your collarbones and shoulders. 

“Draco?” You murmur. 

He hums against your skin. 

You try to pull back again, but his arm tightens around your waist. “Is something wrong?” 

His shoulders stiffen under your touch just slightly, but his mouth is still warm and pliant against you. His tongue flicks your chin, your ear, and you gasp, breathless. 

“Nothing’s wrong,” he says. There’s no deceit in his tone, but you’re still not satisfied.  

“But, it’s just—”

“Merlin, Snitch,” he groans. “I’m doing really good work here. Just—try and enjoy it, would you?”

You sigh, biting back a whimper as his hand pinches your nipple under the soft fabric.

“Tell me what you want,” he rasps. A rush of heat spreads through your core at the low pitch in his voice. “Want my mouth on that pretty clit? Get you nice and ready for me?” 

You bite your lip and grind down on him eagerly.  

“No?” He whispers, dragging a hand down your back, slipping under the silk. “Well, I could always lay you down and feed you my cock over the edge of this bed. We both know how obsessed you are with your newfound skill.” 

You pull on his hair and drag his mouth back up to yours. He kisses you deeply. Once. Twice. Before whispering, “And we both know how wet sucking my cock makes you.”

A moan escapes your throat at the rush of slick heat his words cause. That mouth. But as appealing as all that sounds…you can’t shake the feeling that there’s something he’s not telling you. 

When you squirm in his hold and try to sit up again, he groans in annoyance and breaks the kiss. 

“Don’t make me shut that mouth up, because I will.” He warns, looking you dead in the eye. “Oh, right. I forgot. You do enjoy the whole restrainingthing.” He taps the tip of your nose teasingly. Adoringly.  “Although, if memory serves me correctly, you’d prefer being the one doing the tying, is that— Oomph—”

You plant both hands on his chest and shove. He falls back onto the bed, and you’re on top of him in a second. 

You know what? He doesn’t want to admit to anything? As if he’s not nervous as hell, too? Fine. Two can play at this game. And whenever Draco is involved, you don’t make a habit of losing. 

His hands fly to your hips to push you off, but you’re ready for him. You catch his wrist and push upward instead, pinning his arm against the sheets above his head. His chest rises and falls quickly under yours, stuck between too many layers, and you’re suddenly struck with the deep desire to feel his skin against yours. 

“Stay,” you command. 

He swallows, watching unashamedly as you straddle his hips and gather your dress up around your thighs so the silk won’t tangle up in your knees. 

Your fingers make quick work of the buttons on his shirt as you pepper his mouth and throat with greedy kisses that have him whimpering underneath you. 

When your hands finally meet the warm, smooth skin of his abdomen, a soft sigh escapes your lips. You leave one last victorious kiss to the corner of his mouth before sitting back to admire your work. The pale skin of his chest glows in the candlelight, shadows carving alluringly over his toned abs. 

And then you see it. 

Right there, over his left pec, something catches your eye. 

It’s a mark of some kind. No, a wound. It’s long healed by now. Small, but deep. Circular, with faint white lines radiating outward, like whatever caused it seized him hard and refused to let go. 

Your stomach drops. 

The energy in the room shifts, and when Draco sees what you're looking at he freezes underneath you. Then, quick as a flash, he pushes you off and you both roll away and to your feet, staring at each other. 

“Draco…” you murmur, gaze roaming over him, searching. For what, you don’t really know. 

He pulls his shirt closed. “No.” 

The softness in his voice shatters your heart into a million pieces. 

Your mouth opens, then closes. Then, opens again. You shouldn’t push him. You know better. But that scar is too perfectly round and deep to be anything but deliberate. 

And you don’t have to ask what happened to know who did it. 

“Show me what he’s done to you,” you say.

Draco scoffs. “Who?”

You both know who.

You try hard to keep the anger out of your voice. “Your Father.”

You fail. 

His eyes drop to the floor. “What makes you think he’s—”

“Just—” you interrupt quietly. “Show me.”

You’re past all this. The rivalry. You both know you’re too far gone to try and use information against each other, or look for ways to get ahead.After all this, you’re standing in a room, half-dressed, about to make love, and this is what he’s worried about?

Still, Draco just stands, frozen, staring at the bed like it personally offended him. 

After a long moment, you realize there is only one way forward. 

You’ve never shown anyone. But, it’s Draco. And if you’re asking him to trust you, then you have to show him that you trust him, too. 

“Here,” you say softly. You turn your back to him and sweep your hair over your shoulder. “I’ll show you one of mine.”

He hesitates for a moment. Then, you hear him come up behind you. You tilt your head, exposing the narrow strip of scalp above your ear that winds to the crown of your head. 

“My family…we’ve never really had money,” you admit quietly. “And with having to stretch meals to feed ten people, we’ve always lived in places that are…less than ideal. When I was nine, we moved into the house we live in now. It’s a rundown shack on the outskirts of town. In the beginning, my seven siblings and I all had to share one room. My bed was the top bunk.” Your mouth runs dry, but you force the words from your lips anyway. “The ceiling was so low from the caving, and the bed so high, I couldn’t sit up without hitting it.”

Draco remains silent behind you. You bite your lip, forcing your feet to stay planted as his breath coasts along your neck. You feel barer right now than if you were naked in front of him. Briefly, you consider giving into your desire to just shut the hell up. But a deeper part of you wants him to know. For some strange, fucked up reason you can’t explain, you want to tell him. 

So, you steady yourself and continue. 

“Our first night there, I woke up from a nightmare. I was so scared, and it was so dark, I forgot where I was for a second. When I sat up, a nail sticking out of the ceiling caught my head. Thank Merlin I turned my head at the last second, and it just sort of—,” you gesture vaguely, searching for a better word but not finding one, “—scalped me instead of killing me.”

You drop your hair, embarrassed. “It’s why I wear this up all the time,” you add uselessly, “If I arrange it right it... hides the bald spot...”

When you turn around, you avoid his eyes. You can’t bear to watch the moment he realizes who he’s actually been tangled up with—someone who at one point in her life couldn’t even afford a proper bed. A far cry from the kind of company he’s supposed to keep, you’re sure. 

Blood status and wealth have never really been a topic pf conversation between the two of you. Probably because there’s never been a-two-of-youconversation.

After a long, tense moment, he finally speaks. 

“You’re lucky.”

You glance up at him, surprised. But he isn’t looking at you. His gaze is fixed on the wall, like he can see through it and into the empty mansion beyond. 

“You have seven of them,” he mutters. “Must be…nice.”

You twist your fingers together in your dress. “What?”

“Siblings,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. 

“Oh.” 

You watch him out of the corner of your eye as his shoulders rise and fall in a heavy breath. Then, he slowly sits back down on the edge of the bed. 

“I thought you came here to shag,” he says, gesturing weakly toward the mattress, “not compare scars.”

He’s deflecting. Giving you one last chance to go back to the way things were before. You walk towards him, and when you’re close enough, he opens his knees for you to stand in between them. 

For a charged moment, the two of you just look at each other. 

Then, his hands find the buttons of his shirt. You hold his gaze, not looking down until he purposely reveals his scar. You raise your hand hesitantly, and he flinches, but he doesn’t move away. The skin feels puckered and silky under your fingers. 

“It’s a brand.” Draco answers your question before you can ask it. 

A brand? You peer closer, careful not to spook him. 

“I don’t see an emblem, or symbol…” you whisper. 

He shakes his head and moves to close his shirt again, but you press your palm gently against his chest, holding him steady. 

Draco exhales heavily. “It’s his cane.”

No. 

Your hand flies to your mouth in shock.

So that’s why he’s always rubbing at his chest for way longer than necessary whenever you’ve jabbed at him with your wand. You always assumed he had weak ribs or something. Not that his father was cruel enough to stick the end of his cane into the fire and then press it into his son’s skin. 

Draco is marked in more ways than one. Between this and the dark mark, he’s worn multiple brands to show anyone and everyone, that he is property. To be used in treacherous games of society, or sacrificed in wars.

“Draco...” You start, but he cuts you off by standing abruptly. 

“Don’t pity me, Snitch.”

“I wasn’t!” You swear.

“You were,” he says, grabbing your wrist and pulling your hand away “You are.”

“I’m not.”

He looks away, jaw pulsing. 

“Sit back down,” you say.

He scoffs. “I’m not taking orders—”

“Malfoy,” you snap, stepping forward. “If I really pitied you, I wouldn’t be bossing you around, would I?” You point at the bed. “Now sit down.”

To your surprise, he obeys.

He still looks put out, and a little angry, but more than anything, he just looks…tired. He leans forward over his knees, head bowed. The silver signet ring on his finger catches the candlelight. 

You drop to your knees in front of him and reach up, threading your fingers gently through his hair. It’s soft, and the look he gives you is even softer. 

Slowly, you take his hand in yours. He looks at you, curious. Then you bend forward and part your lips, taking his index finger into the warm, wet heat of your mouth.

He gasps, surprised, and you slide your mouth down the length until your tongue glides over the cool metal at his knuckle, groaning softly at the feel of the wet muscle working his ring loose. Your teeth catch it, and you pull it free, drawing it slowly from his finger. 

When you look up at him, his gaze is fixed on your lips. He curses under his breath when you flash the ring between your teeth. 

Under his watch, you take it from your lips and slide it onto your finger instead. You both look down at the silver ring, gleaming with your spit in the candlelight. 

“You may be a Malfoy,” you murmur softly, looking up at him from the floor. “But tonight…”

You pause until his eyes meet yours again. The sadness there nearly breaks your heart. 

“Malfoy,” you whisper. “Be mine.” 

He huffs out a sound that could be a laugh, but it sounds much more like a whimper. He raises a hand to tuck your hair behind your ear, and for a second, he looks like he might say something. But then—

“Bloody hell,” he groans. “C’mere.”

You’re on each other in a second. Hands raking through hair, mouths sliding and parting over and over. His shirt hangs wide open now, and you take advantage of it, pushing up to straddle him and sliding the fabric down his arms.

“Snitch,” Draco murmurs. “I—”

“I know,” you say. Then more softly, “I know.”

He tugs your dress dangerously low and as he kisses you again, deep and desperate. Before you know it, you’re underneath him. The blanket whispers beneath your hair as he lowers his mouth to your chest, closing his lips around your nipple through the fabric. 

“Oh, Merlin. Please…” you moan. 

“Don’t ask for him,” Draco chastises teasingly against your skin. “Ask for me. Only me.”

“Only you,” you repeat, biting your lip to hide your smile. 

A sudden sound cuts through your heavy breathing. 

You both freeze. 

Somewhere downstairs, a door slams. Suddenly, you’re both scrambling up at the same time. 

“I thought you said no one would be here?” you whisper harshly, jumping off him as he yanks his shirt back on. 

“No one is supposed to!” he hisses, fastening the buttons as quickly as he can. “Stay here. I’ll check it out.”

“Stay here?” You repeat incredulously. “Malfoy, what—”

But he’s already slipping out of the room, wand drawn. 

Stay here. Does he even know you?

You ease the door open after him and follow quietly into the dark hallway, keeping close to the wall as you listen for whoever entered. 

Damn it. You really should’ve caught up on your intruder spells. You actually know quite a few. Recently, you found one that turns any unwanted visitor into a worm. Temporarily, of course. Slow, easy to catch. Slimy though. And too small to really find if you lost it—

“Mother?” Draco’s voice echoes down the halls, loud enough for you to hear. “What are you doing here?”

Your entire body locks mid-step. His…parents?

“We returned early,” Narcissa replies. “Mr. Greengrass insisted we come home at once. He mentioned something to do with Astoria. Where is she?”

Astoria?

Your mouth runs dry. 

“Draco,” a deep voice says. Ice floods your veins. Lucius. His tone is downright menacing. “Who else is in this house?” 

“No one.” Draco answers calmly. 

“You’re lying,” Lucius says. “Aparecium.”

Something invisible and sharp hooks into your chest. You try to resist the pull but your foot move without your permission. Before you can reach for your wand, you’re yanked down the hallway and pulled toward the staircase at breakneck speed. 

You open your mouth to scream, but with a sudden whoosh of air, you’re suddenly standing in the grand entryway. Right in front of the entire Malfoy family. 

Lucius and Narcissa stand beneath the dim sconces like carved statues. The light throws shadows across Lucius’s sharp features as he glares down at you like you’re a distasteful rodent he’s found in his study. 

“What is the meaning of this?” He asks coldly. 

Your heart pounds painfully behind your ribs. You glance toward Draco, but he isn’t looking at you. Or his Father. He’s looking at his mother. 

Lucius strikes his cane against the stone floor, the sharp cracking sound making you flinch. “Answer me! What is your business here?”

“I believe her purpose here is quite obvious,” Narcissa says softly. She has such similar eyes to her son’s. Right now, they are fixed on your mussed hair and the stubborn strap of your dress still hanging off your shoulder. 

You hurriedly fix it, cheeks flaming. Perhaps you should just leave. Yes, you’ll remove yourself from the situation, and things should calm down. 

“She’s here with me,” Draco says firmly. “And you will not speak about her that way.”

Lucius turns on him. “How dare you lecture me. In my own house.”

You notice Draco’s hand curling into a fist at his thigh, the tips of his fingers turning white. You drop your eyes to the floor, your mind scrambling for a way out of this, fighting the urge to reach for him. To comfort him in some way. Are you even allowed to do that? Does he want you to? You don’t know. But maybe if you can get him away for a moment—just long enough to calm down—you can leave, and perhaps he can handle the fallout better once you’re gone. 

Hesitantly, you place a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Walk me out?”

When you lift your chin, Narcissa’s eyes meet yours. You’re not sure what she sees on your face, but her thin mouth parts. When she glances back at Draco, something in her expression softens.

“Draco,” Lucius mutters coldly. “I’m sure your whore is perfectly capable of finding the door herself. You and I have more pressing matters to discuss.” 

Draco rears back as if his Father has slapped him. Narcissa instantly steps forward, placing a light hand on her husband’s arm.

“Lucius,” she murmurs. 

You shake your head. “It’s alright. I’ll go.”

Draco looks at you, a war raging behind his eyes. “He doesn’t—I don’t—”

“I know,” you assure, reaching out again for him, but thinking better of it.

 Before he can argue further, you turn and head for the door. Behind you, Draco’s father continues his reprimand him. You wish there was something you could do, but staying is only adding fuel to the fire.

“…and what of your betrothed?” Lucius hisses. “You’re a disgrace to this family...”

You freeze, wobbling in your heels. Betrothed?

Surely you heard wrong. Your body urges you to keep walking, but your heart refuses. All it would take is one look in his eyes, and you’d know for sure. 

You turn just as Draco lifts his gaze across the room to meet yours. 

The weight of it sinks like a stone in your stomach. Deep down, you knew this was too good to be true. You knew it. That unease twisting in your gut every time Astoria was around. Every time her name was mentioned. 

And you ignored it. Because you trusted him. 

The room seems to tilt under your feet. He’s engaged. 

You’re such a fool. 

“Snitch, wait,” Draco calls, but you’re already out the door. 

Embarrassment threatens to swallow you whole as you burst out of the grand double doors and into the cold night air. The moon hovers just over the horizon, casting long black shadows across the grounds.You look around wildly for a place to go before you remember your summoner ring. 

You yank out your wand and anxiously tap the ring with the tip. Somewhere in the distance, an engine roars to life.  

“Snitch! Stop!” Draco shouts, bursting through the doors behind you. “I command it.”

Gravel crunches in the distance and you turn to see your sleek black vehicle tear through the night towards you. 

“Oh!” you scoff, purposely not looking at him. “You command it?” 

The car screeches to a halt in front of you. You accidentally catch a glimpse of Draco's platinum hair beneath the moonlight trimmed mansion as you circle the car and grab the door handle. 

Tears burn in the corners of your eyes as the door stubbornly refuses to open under your touch. “...stupid fucking car.”

The second you release the latch, the door swings open, welcoming you into the dark interior just in time for Draco to round the car.

“Let me explain!" he barks. "Just—listen to me, Snitch!”

Your hollow laugh escapes you, breaking apart with a sob. You pause, one hand on the car door, as you turn to face him. “There’s nothing to explain, Malfoy. You are exactly who I thought you were.”

His eyes darken. “Oh? And who am I?”

You stare up at him, breathing hard. The worst part is: you can still see him. The anger tightening the corners of his mouth. The desperation carved between his brows. The panic in his eyes as they search yours, like he’s already losing something he hasn’t figured out how to keep. 

The Draco you know is standing right here. The one who steals books for you. The one who composes music when no one is watching. The one who kisses you, fresh off the pitch, as if you’re the one thing in this world that matters to him. 

But that Draco was never yours. 

And he never will be. 

Because he’s been lying to you the entire time. 

There’s no room in your chest for heartbreak. Only anger. Only outrage. Only hate. But you force your expression into one of cold indifference. You know it well. 

After all, you’ve seen it on his face for years

You step closer, so close you can smell the parchment and ink on his skin. Close enough to taste the ghost of your kiss still lingering on his lips. 

“I’ve been saying it all along, Malfoy,” your throat tightens, forcing your voice into a whisper. “You’re a monster.”

a/n: UGHH I'm obsessed with these two. Literally can't get enough. Their dialogue is some of the easiest shit I've ever written, it just flows from them sooo well. &&& don't worry, I'm going to give them the ending they deserve!!

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