#draco fic

You attended here for first, second, and third years before transferring to Ilvermory. The school in which, somehow, made it to the Cup finals, bringing you back here to Hogwarts for the final match.

But, instead of sitting with your classmates, you’re perched in the Hogwarts section. Right next to your oldest friend, Cho Chang, who has kept in contact with you via owl for years.

The crowd goes wild as Lane sails the Quaffle through the hoop, right past the Keeper’s fingers, but something pulls your attention farther down the field, where you catch sight of Draco flying up towards the stands.

He looks over his shoulder, barking an order to his teammate that gets lost to the wind as it brushes his platinum hair from his face, revealing a strong, sharp jaw.

He twists back around on his broom, his jersey pinned to his broad shoulders and narrow waist by the force of the air. His gaze is focused, blue eyes sharp as ice, but he swoops upward suddenly, and then—then you’re looking at each other.

You barely have time to blink, your breath caught in your chest. His eyes narrow slightly, glancing at Cho, then back at you, before a faint buzzing sound reaches your ears and he takes off again down the pitch after the Snitch.

Cho shoots you a look, then tucks her dark hair behind her ear.

“Listen, it’s just the stupid jersey, okay? Trust me. They ditched the Quidditch robes, and everyone's gone crazy, but he’s just the same person he’s always been.”

You hum. “Mean, sniveling, and judgmental?”

“That’s Draco Malfoy for you.”

You turn back to the pitch, watching as he weaves between defenders like a ribbon. Effortless and weightless.

“Hell of a flier, though,” you mutter under your breath.

She sighs. “You’re supposed to be cheering for your school.”

“I am!”

“I don’t think eye-fucking the opposing seeker is exactly team spirit—”

Suddenly, a shrill voice cuts her off. “And here we are at the Quidditch Cup finals!” You glance over your shoulder to see none other than Rita Skeeter up on the platform a few feet away. “Tensions are high, and tonight only one team will—oh? What’s happening?” 

She adjusts her glasses, leaning precariously over the edge, one hand pressed to her chest in dramatic concern. Her quill hovers over her shoulder, its feathered tip angled downward as if it’s looking too. 

You follow her gaze.

Below, Draco is racing towards the ground at a breakneck speed. You rise to your feet in alarm, brows furrowing. He’s going too fast. He’s going to—

Malfoy slams into the dirt, arm outstretched, and you wince as his arm twists at un unnatural angle.

Rita gasps. “A devastating fall for Draco Malfoy! Will he live to see another match? Oh, wait. Wait! What is that in his hand? The Snitch!” She turns to the quill. “Cut that part out. The first question, yes.” The quill rushes to oblige her request, the paper snapping in the air as it scratches something out.

“Slytherin wins the Cup!” she announces, her almost voice drowned out by the roar of the crowd. 

Your heart pounds in your throat as you look down again, expecting to see healers rush out, wands at the ready to help the wounded Seeker. But instead, Malfoy’s already on his feet, striding off the pitch. Even from up here, you can see the way his arm dangles unnaturally, the skin of his shoulder rubbed raw. 

The announcer sounds the horn, officially ending the match, just as Malfoy rips off his glove with his teeth. His broad chest heaves with every breath, and as he disappears through the doors under the stands, you catch a glimpse of the back of his jersey.

His last name hangs off him, bloody and torn. 

On instinct, you move towards the stairway, but Cho catches you by the wrist.

“Where are you going?”

You gesture down to the pitch. “I’m a healer, Cho. I can help.”

Rita turns toward you, head cocked, but you keep your eyes on your friend.

Cho’s lips part in surprise. “You’re not serious. He will just go to the infirmary later. He’ll be fine!” 

“He’s in pain,” you say. “This is literally, like, my duty.”

“Yes, I’m sure that’s the only reason.”

The two of you look at each other for a long moment before, finally, she exhales in defeat and releases you. “Fine. Go. But I want the full story later with details—”

You barely hear the rest of her sentence because you’re already rounding the tent fabric flap and taking the steps two at a time.

Downstairs, underneath the pitch, it’s dark and musty. Lanterns line the corridor, with multiple doors on each side for the players’ rooms and stairwells winding up to the viewing platforms. 

The staircase happens to deposit you in the right spot at the right time, because when you whirl around the bottom step, you bump into something solid and warm.

Draco hisses, leaping back and cradling his shoulder. 

“Watch it,” he snaps, scowling down at you like you’ve injured him further. 

His jersey has completely slipped off his shoulder now, revealing bloody, scraped flesh and a joint that looks painfully out of place. 

Ignoring his attitude, you look around for the nearest room. 

 “Here—” You brush back a curtain and gesture him inside. “I’m a healer. Let me help.”

“About time this place got some of those,” Draco says, but he takes one look inside the cramped room—with its pile of crates, wooden table, and a solitary stray lantern—before brushing past you. “Take your help somewhere else.”

“Your shoulder is dislocated!” you argue, still holding the tent flap open. “It hurts, doesn’t it?”

He pauses, then looks over his shoulder. Your gazes lock, and his jaw pulses, a strand of platinum hair falling into his eyes.

You jut your chin toward the table. “Just sit down, Malfoy. You’ll be pain free in two minutes.”

He must really be in agony, because he does, finally, follow you inside and take a seat where you tell him to. The room smells like wood and rust, but it’s not unpleasant, and it’s sterile enough for a procedure like this. 

Reaching into the bag hanging across your body, you procure your wand and a small vial. 

Draco scoffs. “You carry that around with you? Just hoping to run into some injured person?”

“Oh, this?” You wiggle the glass in front of his face that’s level with yours. “This little bottle of salve that’s going to heal you right now? I sure do. Aren’t you lucky? Now, take off your shirt.”

The corner of his mouth curves into a dangerous smirk, but it falters as he starts to peel the ruined jersey over his head. Lantern lights spills over the hard lines of his stomach, cascading over his muscles flexing with the movement. Once the shirt is gone, he leans back on one lean, toned arm, and the smirk is back.

“Go on,” he murmurs. “You can look. You like what you see?”

You sniff once, trying very hard not to let your eyes wander his broad, toned frame. “You sure are cocky for a guy with a dislocated shoulder.”

He shrugs. “Why shouldn’t I be? I caught the Snitch. Won the Cup. And I didn’t even make it off the pitch before I’ve got girls pouncing on me.”

You glare at him, suddenly wishing this ointment had a bit more bite to it. “I wasn’t pouncing on you! I saw you were hurt, and I just…”

The murmur of the crowd outside fills the silence between you, but a peek up at Draco reveals he is not the least bit convinced by your statement.

“…I wanted to help,” you finish lamely.

“How noble.” His smirk grows. “Go on, then.”

You swallow hard before uncorking the salve and lathering your hands with the silky ointment. The bitter herbs bite your nose, a familiar scent after all your time in the infirmary. 

“I’m just going to put this on first to stop the bleeding on these ground burns, and then I’ll set the bone,” you say, your fingers hovering over his skin. 

“Fine,” he mutters, bracing himself. “Get on with it.”

Slowly, you bring your hands down to his warm skin. He hisses, and you jerk back, startled, but he just shakes his head and gestures for you to keep going. You bring your hands back to his shoulder, even gentler this time, fingers gliding over his bicep and shoulder, carefully skimming over his wounds.

Then, you steady his elbow with one hand, and press your wand against his shoulder joint with the other. 

“This might hurt a little, I’m sorry,” you say. 

“Why are you apologizing?”

You keep your eyes on your work, prodding his arm clinically and trying not to think about how it would feel wrapped around you. “Because it’s going to pinch. Ache. Be uncomfortable. What am I supposed to say?”

He curses under his breath, then looks away. “Merlin, you haven’t changed at all, have you?”

Your gaze darts up in surprise. Malfoy was always telling you to stop apologizing when you were kids. But he remembered that? He remembers… you?

Shaking those thoughts away, you focus on the task at hand, pressing the wand right under his joint. You whisper the spell behind your teeth, and then his shoulder socket slides back into position with a sickening click. 

“Fuck!” Draco gasps, jerking in your hold. “What in Merlin’s bloody name was that?”

“I said I was sorry!”

“Yes, but apologies don’t help! Fuck!” He pinches his eyes closed, blond lashes caressing his windswept cheeks in the lamplight. 

You step back, suddenly unsure what to do now as your hands turn cold, dropping from his warm skin.

“The joint is back in place, but you’ll need to go to the infirmary to get a proper fitted sling,” you say.

He sighs heavily, then tests his arm. His hair glints in the light as he carefully moves his shoulder back and forth. 

“Alight,” he says finally, voice firm and determined.

You squint at him in confusion. “Alright?”

He glances up at you and crooks two fingers, beckoning for you to step back into his space. 

“C’mon then.” His hand finds your waist, and before you know what’s happening, you’re tugged forward across the dirt floor until your chest brushes his. “You’ve tended to me, Healer. Now let’s get to the main event, shall we? The reason you’re really here?”

You swallow hard, mouth suddenly gone dry as your gaze drops to his lips, and you watch as they curve up slightly. 

You should be defending yourself right now. Arguing with him that you had absolutely no ulterior motives. But as his breath ghosts over your cheek, you forget how to form words. Merlin, you even forget how to breathe. 

He hovers there, his hand on your hip and his nose brushing yours, for a second. 

But it’s a second too long. 

You close the distance, lips meeting his with a hunger you hadn’t anticipated. Your hands fly to his shoulders to hold yourself steady, careful of his injury even as his tongue flicks against your lips, parting them gently. His answering moan brushes your lips, but it hits you low in your gut. Heat licks up your spine, and you drag him closer, kissing him harder. 

He tastes like salt and mint, and his hair is so soft between your fingers. You hadn’t even realized your hands had drifted there. His knees part another inch, allowing you to step even closer, and his fingers dig into your hips, gliding up to your waist in earnest. 

You’re so wrapped up in the feel of him, so strong and steady beneath your hands, that you don’t even notice the tent flap open and shut somewhere behind you. 

Then, you hear pop, followed by a bright flash behind your closed eyelids. 

You spring apart, panting. Draco’s hands drop from your waist as you whirl around to find none other than Rita Skeeter inside. 

She lowers her camera slowly, a devilish smile spreading across her face while her quill scribbles furiously over her shoulder. 

“Well,” she says, drawing out the word as her gaze flicks between the two of you. “There you are, Mr. Malfoy. We were coming to get a photo of just you, but this will do quite nicely!”

She spreads her hands through the air and looks dramatically toward the corner of the tent, as if picturing a future headline. 

“Malfoy wins the Quidditch Cup and the heart of an enthusiastic fan.”

Her expression turns dreamy, hands clasping under her chin, and then before either of you can stop her, she ducks back out, leaving only the faint trace of perfume behind. 

When you turn back to Draco, he’s glaring at you. 

“Brilliant,” he says flatly. “Look what you’ve done. Now, that’s something worth apologizing to me for.”

You gasp. “Me? I didn’t do anything—”

“My dorm. Nine o’clock.” 

Before you can form a response to that he stands, grabs his ripped jersey, and strides over to the tent flap. But he pauses, glancing back over his shoulder, one lock of hair falling over his eyes.

 “And don’t keep me waiting. I’ve waited for you long enough as it is.”

draco masterlist

draco taglist: @hauntedpeanutking , @jessm1203, @earth2marie , @inkedinevermore , @dreamybiitch,

@somegirlfromasgard, @ttendo , @yourlivewire , @lemonraaaw , @goodmendiet00

Abandoning my drink without a second thought, I cut through the smoke in the air like a knife, long strides eating into the distance between us. Flint catches my eye through the writhing bodies filling the floor. I expect him to scoff, or groan, or, at least have the decency to look abashed—his date is leaving him, after all.

But to my surprise, he takes a step back. Then another. Until he’s swallowed by the dancing crowd. 

Brows furrowing, I forge ahead until I burst out of the mass and spot her again.

Snitch doesn’t even look at me when I appear at her side on the steps. We cross the bridge together, and then she veers right. 

I follow. 

The narrow pathway surrounding the lava pit pulls us towards the rooms, the runes shifting and curling in the floor, like snakes stuck in the stone.

When she shoves the key into the lock of door thirteen and turns it with an audible click, I’m not sure what to expect. I’ve been to the Keep a few times, but I’ve never stayed here before. Of course, I know the rooms build themselves in seconds according to the wishes of the key-holder.

But as the stone door grates open, I should’ve suspected what I find inside.

There’s no bed. No lamps or rugs or anything else that might resemble a bedroom.

Rather, stretching out before us is a dueling platform. 

The raised floor looks to be made of marble or granite, lined with tall, wide pillars that stretch up into the night sky. Sheer fabric drifts between them high above, flowing in a cool breeze. And surrounding us on all sides lies a dark and watchful forest. 

I turn to look at Snitch, but she ignores me completely and strides right in like she owns the place. The second I cross the threshold, the door slams shut behind me, encapsulating us both under the starlight. 

Now, no one can see or hear us. It’s one of the more...fantastic elements the Keep uses to lure its patrons.

“Draw your wand,” Snitch orders. 

So, this is how it’s going to be.

“I don’t have it," I say calmly. 

“Oh, you have it.” She laughs, but it’s ice cold. “You’d never willingly hand it to an elf at a desk.”

Crossing my arms, I stare her down. The false moonlight is dim, providing little more than a sliver of light that runs up her exposed thigh and across the bridge of her nose.

“I’m not dueling you. You don’t even have a weapon.”

She scoffs. “When have you ever cared if your opponent is armed? Fight me, Malfoy.”

“I’m not going to—”

“Fight me!”

The echoes of her yell bounce unnaturally off walls I can’t see. 

Slowly, I withdraw my wand from my pocket. All it takes is a little memory spell whispered at the right time to walk into the Keep with your wand. I don’t know why more people don’t do it. Idiots. 

I stand there, hands loose at my sides, staring lazily at her at the opposite end of the platform. What exactly is her plan? I mean, she’s not exactly—

She moves suddenly. Too fast. All I see is a glint of silver hurling towards me and I react on instinct. With a flick of my wand, Alaric’s knife drops to the floor, skittering across the granite. 

The little snake. He’s going to be so pissed when he finds it’s gone. 

Snitch sends me a quick sidelong look, then takes off running for her weapon. 

I let her. 

She can’t do any harm to me anyway. 

I take this time to stride farther onto the platform, and peer into the darkness that lies beyond us. The forest floor is carpeted in spongey moss, but feels...fake in a way I can't explain.

Then, something moves. 

A large, shifting shadow deep in the trees sets my teeth on edge, and I take a hesitant step back. The wind picks up, whistling through the trees, and the fabric high above curls and snaps in the air. 

Like it’s…responding to something. 

Snitch’s heels click on the granite behind me, but I keep my eyes trained on the sky, preparing to remove her from the situation if it gets too—

A deep, booming sound echoes through the air as, somewhere in the forest, a beast roars. It’s distant, but familiar enough that my fingers twitch around my wand.

Then, a cold blade bites into my neck. 

Flames pour through the forest like lava, lighting up the sky and illuminating Snitch. She’s glaring up at me, holding Alaric’s knife to my throat. 

There she is. 

My dragon. 

“Where, exactly, were you hiding that?” I ask carefully, voice even and lazy even though my throat bobs against the sharp blade. 

She just smirks. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Heavy wings beat the air somewhere beyond us, and as the flames dim across her features, all I see is her face, flushed and eager in the candlelight back in my room.

She was so different with me then. Unguarded and transparent, and now…

“You’re not even trying,” Snitch says, “I could take your wand right now.”

“Then do it.”

The blade bites into my Adam’s apple. 

“Fight back!” she seethes.

 I laugh, but it comes out raspy and weak. “Or what? You won’t hurt me, Snitch.”

That makes her angry.

Good.

Her hair catches the cold wind, eyes narrowing to dark slits that sting more than anything she could press to my neck. 

“I hate you,” she says darkly. 

“No you don’t. You hate what I do to you.”

“You don’t do anything to me.”

I smirk. “Is that so?”

In the blink of an eye, I grab her wrist and pull her into me. Her eyes widen and she falters, only for a second, but it gives me the space I need to lazily slide my shoe under hers. Her heel wobbles, and she gasps, flinging her hands out for balance. The knife clatters to the floor. 

And I take her down. 

“What was your plan, Malfoy?” she grunts under my weight, clawing for purchase at my arms.“Lie to me? For weeks? And then, after everything, put Astoria in my dress?”

“You wore hers first,” I point out.

She kicks me in the knee. Hard.

I hiss and double my efforts to press her into the cold marble. 

“How was I supposed to know—!” she huffs, still fighting. Still fucking fighting. “So, what does she get, huh?”

“What are you talking about?” I grunt as she kicks me again. Merlin, that heel can stab, can’t it?  “Who?”

“Greengrass! What does she gain from breaking the bond?”

“Astoria and I—” Finally, I catch both her hands and pin them over her head. “—came to an understanding.”

Her chest rises and falls against mine, our breaths mingling in the air. I recognize this fight in her, because it matches my own. We’re two sides of a knife, she and I. Another roar echoes, and fire spreads somewhere in the forest off to my right, painting her in the dangerous glow. 

It feels so good to have her under me like this again. 

Fuck, I’ve missed her.

“Then tell me,” she says, only a little breathless. “What is this understanding the bitch lured you into?”

My lips twitch in amusement. “It’s honestly impressive how deeply you’ve misjudged her.”

“Well, if you think so highly of her, why don’t you go and marry her!”

A grunt escapes me as she knees my chest, but I force her legs back down with my elbow and restrain her hips to the floor with mine. 

“Gods, you’re a jealous thing, aren’t you? Everyone knows she and Torin have been dancing around each other for ages, She didn’t want to fucking marry me, either.”

She blinks up at me, processing this. I watch her lashes brush her cheeks, the flames casting long shadows over the bridge of her nose. The bow of her lips…

“So she gets her freedom—and probably your estate, right?—and you get…what?”

You.

The word gets caught in my throat, and I drop my gaze. 

She takes advantage of the pause, slipping her arms from my grip and twisting out from under me. 

“And what about this ceremony, huh?” She asks, arms flayed out as she steps back into the darkness. “The one everybody’s talking about!”

My lips twitch at the thought that she’s been listening, thinking of me. I rise from the ground and brush a hand down my shirt. 

“Astoria and I broke the bond weeks ago. We’d been searching for a way out for years, but once I found the spell we needed in some ancient texts hidden at the Manor, we could finally go through with it. The thing you’re speaking of was a legal de-throning. Miserable, pathetic excuse for a ceremony. ”

Something seems to click in her expression sharpens into that one I know means she’s thinking. 

“The night of the Slytherin party. That annotated textbook you gave me isn’t the reason you went home that weekend.”

I give no response, but I don't need to. 

She gasps. “And the Restricted Section! That’s why you’d been spending so much time there—you were looking for a way to break the bond! Oh, Merlin, so that means, at the mansion, it was already—that’s why your parents came home that night.”

I sigh and look off into the forest, not particularly eager to relive the fight that ensued that particular conversation. I genuinely think my father briefly contemplated putting me through a wall once he learned what I’d done. 

“When did you break the bond?” She asks. 

“The night before the Quidditch cup. After the…forbidden forest.”

We both fall silent, the memory of that night sitting heavy between us. Even here, in this room her mind created, there are similarities. The forest, the dragons…the fire.

I can tell she’s putting it all together. The way I flew up to kiss her at the Highwatch. I didn’t plan to do that. It was just…the first day of freedom I’d ever experienced, and nobody knew. Not even her. 

A dragon shrieks again and I stiffen, even as I know they are nothing but spells—projections, really—that can’t do anything to hurt us. 

“Why, Malfoy?” she whispers, voice rough. “Why would you go through with it?”

 “Oh, don’t be daft, Snitch.” I catch her gaze and hold it. “You know perfectly well why.”

The wind picks up again, ruffling my hair and pulling at my shirt. The air is downright frigid now. Cold enough to make my hair on my arms stand up.

She takes a step back. Then another. 

“You’re honestly telling me that you did all of this because you want me?” She huffs an incredulous sound. “I don’t believe you.”

Her words are so sharp, so certain, that a spark of anger spears through me and I throw my arms out wide. 

“What, precisely, would convince you?” I demand. Fire lights up the sky overhead.  “Give up my fortune? My name? The measly scraps of my family’s approval? Done.”

She stares at me, but her eyes snag on something. I watch her chest rise and fall once, twice, and then her mouth forms a word, but it’s too quiet for me to hear. 

Suddenly, she rushes at me. I jerk back instinctively, half expecting a knife in my gut, but her hands are soft and warm as they travel fervently over me. It becomes clear what she’s after when she pulls up my sleeve, exposing the other half of my forearm.

She gasps as the long, puckering wound comes fully into the light. I cut the Dark Mark in half, figuring if I had to have a scar anywhere…

“The blood bond,” she whispers. Cassian must’ve told her how it worked. Her eyes snap to mine, and there’s so much emotion swimming in them that I stop breathing. “Don’t you think you have enough scars meant for others, Malfoy?”

A smirk tugs on my mouth. “I think you still care.”

“I think you’re a fool.”

I hiss through my teeth in false sympathy. “Trying to make me angry won’t let you win. Not this time.”

She pulls my sleeve back down and steps away again. The wind pushes its way between us, like it’s responding to her wish for distance. For air. 

A shadow falls over us as a dragon flies overhead, its long wings blocking out the moon. I keep my gaze on her until it passes, until the moonlight spills over her face again, but the second her eyes hit the light once more—they’re already on mine. 

The look she's giving me is downright venomous. But truthfully, I don’t care if she looks at me like I’m her worst enemy.

At least she’s looking.

She rushes for me, exactly when I know she will, fists raised. I dodge her attack, and catch her by the waist. She shrieks and jerks in my hold, but I lean down until my lips are beside her ear. 

“For once in your life, listen to me.” I take her hands in mine and hold them to my chest, willing her to feel my heartbeat under her fingertips. “I was drowning.” 

She stills against me. 

“My last name belongs to my father. It always has. I cannot carry the weight of it.”

Her hands flex in mine and when she shoves back from me, I let her go. 

“Yes, you can!” she says, eyes ablaze. “You can do anything, Draco. I’ve seen it.”

I shake my head, a small smile curving my lips. Even now, she cares. Even now. “Not without paying the price.”

“Which is what?”

This time, I don’t hesitate. 

“You.” 

Her breath hitches. A single snowflake falls through my vision, landing in her hair. 

Then, something shifts. Like the stars suddenly align and she just…gets it. I see it in her face. The way her chin wobbles and her eyes fill with tears. 

The snow begins to fall faster, and a gust of wind whistles through the platform, swirling them around us. 

Suddenly, she shakes her head hard as if to clear it. “You don’t mean it. You don’t fucking mean it. So just—” She tears her gaze away, a sob catching in her throat. “Malfoy, when you want to hurt me, you—”

A gaping hole opens in my chest and I don’t wait for her to continue. I step forward and gently cup her face. Her cheek is cold against my hand, eyes glistening with unshed tears.

“—you twist the knife so deep I can’t breathe.”

I swallow hard and pull her into me. Her forehead is cold against mine. 

“You honestly think I didn’t search for another way?” I whisper. “I exhausted every option before this one.”

Her warm exhale ghosts across my lips. 

“Say you’re sorry,” she orders. 

“No.”

I’m not. I’d do it again and again to keep her. I’d give it all up again, I’d make bet after bet, and I’d put Astoria in that damn dress every single day because I know it only takes a little competition to get my Snitch to look my way. 

It always has. 

“Fight me,” she pleads. 

I say nothing. Just brush my thumb over the the curve of her cheek. 

Her chest heaves against mine as more tears build in her eyes. The snow falls heavy now, melting against my hand and forearm in icy pinpricks. 

“Fuck, Malfoy, I—fight me. Please.” 

Her voice cracks. Again, I shake my head. 

I want to kiss her. I want to press my mouth to hers and shut her up, breathe in her sighs and make her feel what I do.

But it won’t be enough.

“I—I don’t know how to do this,” she whimpers. “We always…”

I pull back an inch and watch silently as a tear slides down her cheek. It streaks hot down my thumb, but I don’t brush it away. 

I tried to stay away for so long, to force her into my enemy, because at the end of the day, I knew I’d end up like this. I knew it. 

Even under the crushing weight of my choices, a strong, immovable force rises up in me. Pride, my father would call it. But I like the term…certainty. 

No. I may be a fool, but at least I knew what I was doing.

“You know why I call you Snitch?”

The words slip from my mouth effortlessly, even as my heart slams against my ribs. 

She freezes in my hold. “Because I told on you that one time in Charms—”

“No.”

There’s another screaming roar, then dragon fire skewers the clouds, turning the snowflakes into shimmering glitter.

She blinks up at me, and even now, I can see the wheels turning behind her eyes. I could stay silent. Let her figure it out on her own. 

Instead, my fingers find the nape of her neck, and I guide her closer until my lips brush the cool shell of her ear. 

“Because once I caught you, I knew I would never let you go.”

All I see is fire. 

And then her lips meet mine. 

And the world disappears. All thoughts of my life, my title—everything vanishes the second her mouth parts for me. The first taste of her after so long feels like a dream you ache for when it’s gone. A reason to fall asleep at night. Her chest presses into mine but I hardly feel it, too drunk on the salty taste of her tears. 

I love her. 

I love her. I love her. I love her. 

“You’re so fucking stupid,” she murmurs against me. 

I break the kiss. But the second I shift my weight back, she grabs my shirt and yanks. Hard. I stumble into her again and our gazes lock. 

“You lost your future,” she says. 

I shake my head. “I found it.“ 

She immediately begins the protests again, but I tip her chin up with one finger, brushing my lips across hers to silence them. Her hands find purchase in my hair and I groan against her. She has no idea how much I've missed that touch. She seems to feel the same way, gasping against my throat as my hands tighten on her hips, bunching the silk in my hands. 

“What happens now?” She asks against my jaw. 

This time, it’s my turn to turn away as the reality of our situation sets in. With a shaky exhale, I pull back.

“Now…" I swallow hard. "Now, I have nothing to offer you.”

She blinks. Then, gently, hesitantly, her fingers reach down to curl around mine. They’re warm. Warmer than anything I’ve ever felt. 

“You think I care about that?” 

I blink back snowflakes as they gather in my lashes. “You’d be a fool not to.”

Especially given how she grew up. Where she came from. She deserves better than me. More than me.

“I don’t give a shit about diamonds. Or mansions. Or—look at me, Malfoy.” She steps back and I can’t help but do what she asks, eyes raking over her scandalously cut dress. She’s so godsdamn beautiful like this. “I rip luxury silk just to prove a point!

Standing in front of me on the dueling platform, with the fire lighting up the sky behind her, I’m transfixed. 

Doomed.

Hers.

The only thing I can do is keep offering her what already doesn’t belong to me. 

So, instead of running, or hiding, or fighting… I sink to the ground.

On one knee.

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I sighed. “This book is powerful. Deadly powerful. I don’t know what it is, or what’s in it, but I know it has something to do with my family. Elia Selwyn was a spell inventor, he created Protego Diabolica, the one Grindelwald used to separate his supporters from the liars.”

Draco and I were alone at the banks by the Black Lake, where no one would stumble upon us.

“So this spell. It’s a deadly ring of fire, and it kills off anyone who wants to hurt you?” he asked.

“Yes. Anyone who walks through the ring of fire around you would burn, except for your allies,” I nodded.

“So, it’s not exactly the kind of spell you can practice, then,” Draco surmised.

“No,” I agreed. “But based on what the Grey Lady said… I think it might be what I need to be able to read this book,” I held it carefully in my hands.

“Why do you need to see what’s in this book so badly?” Draco questioned. “We’re fine without it, it’s not like there aren’t a hundred ways to kill an old man.”

“Not an old man at Hogwarts,” I reminded him, “Besides, it’s Albus Dumbledore, only a fool would forget that fact. I don’t think a Fanged Frisbee will do it.”

“All we need is…” even he didn’t know. “Poison, or a cursed object, or worst case scenario, a Killing Curse. All you’re doing with this book is wasting time when we could be figuring out all that.”

“This book could give us the key to fighting all that out in a single day,” I reasoned, “Besides. Do you really think it’s going to end there? You think we’ll just cast one spell, and the Dark Lord will pat us on the back? We do this, Malfoy, and there’ll be more to do, more at stake, and a war we still have to survive. I don’t know about you, but I’m not going into this blind. If we’re going to kill the greatest wizard to ever live, we’re going to do it the right way.”

Draco let out a long huff. “I suppose it’s a bit daft to assume we won’t have to cover this up once it’s done with.”

“I’m sure the book can tell us how to free ourselves of the Trace, and all,” I thought. “Then there’s no way we’ll risk Azkaban.”

He seemed troubled, head practically buried in the sand by the lake as he stared down at his shoes.

“You’re right. We shouldn’t leave that all up to chance, that’s what got my father where he is,” he muttered, clenching his jaw.

I reached for his hand as he looked up, flinching at my touch. “Draco, we can survive this. And with this book on our side, maybe we can win,” I assured him, “I can feel it.”

He studied me with pursed lips, searching my eyes for any semblance of sanity. He couldn’t ignore the bags under my eyes.

“Have you slept at all this week?” he breathed.

“I’ve slept enough,” I assured him.

“You can’t keep doing this, Elise,” he shook his head, “It’s not proper. That damned book, it’s probably driven a thousand people mad before you.”

“But they don’t have what I have,” I insisted. “I’ve studied spells, I’ve studied Dark spells, I know magic.”

“You know how spell inventors die, Elise?” Draco reminded me, “They blow themselves up. Doing something stupid, and reckless.”

“I know what I’m doing,” I argued, “I studied that spell, for hours! I can cast it when the time comes.”

“So you’ll try it out when?” he shouted, “When the Dark Lord knocks at your door?! That seems a brilliant plan!”

“You don’t believe me?” I sprung from the ground, reaching in my boot, “Watch me! I’ll cast it right now!”

“Selwyn!” Draco yelled as I stepped back towards the lake, “Selwyn don’t be stupid—!”

I aimed my wand, “Protego Diabolica!”

He stopped suddenly as the ground began to shake for a split second. Draco stuck his arms out to steady himself, feeling something off.

“What the hell was that?!” he snapped. “What did you do?!”

His eyes widened as the ground around me sizzled, leaves burning up into ash. I gasped as blackened flames rose from beside me, enveloping me in the force field. Draco ran back, watching as the flames grew taller, maybe a few inches off the ground. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. I laughed in disbelief as the magic engulfed me, not scalding, but cold. It was a difficult sort of thing to explain. Draco looked at me, afraid to move.

“Bloody hell,” he murmured, “You actually fucking did it.”

I laughed as I looked down at the book, wand still aimed, “I did it! Oh, I fucking did it!”

“Now you’ve really lost it,” Draco muttered.

I laughed as I watched the surreal flames flickering, burning up and reaching the book. I stopped, flicking my wand as the flames went away. Instead of catching on fire, the blank pages of the book only remained splotched by black. But not ash. Ink. I leapt, grabbing the book as Draco came running.

“What happened?” he stared.

He still couldn’t read it. I cradled the book in my hands, brushing at the black ink that appeared on the page, written in English. I gasped, finally able to understand the book’s message. A long message appeared, with a very distinct heading.

“The Chamber of Secrets,” I whispered.

“That chamber Slytherin built?” Draco thought. “What about it?”

I scanned the picture page quickly, “Venom! That’s it! Basilisk venom!”

“What does Basilisk venom have to do with any of this?” he demanded impatiently.

“The Grey Lady said the venom is always in the antidote,” I answered, “I need Basilisk venom if I’m going to read this book.”

“So what’s your plan? Pop on down to the Chamber of Secrets and suck the venom out of a dead snake?!” he mocked.

“Come on,” I grabbed my book, speeding towards the castle.

Draco stopped. “Wait. You’re not actually going to do that, are you?! Selwyn! Wait!” he called, running after me. “Are you seriously going to dissect the dead snake?!”

*****

Draco had to follow me all the way to the girls’ bathroom on the second floor. He stood beside me as I read off the page, hissing in the fluid language. He jumped as stone disappeared into the floor, giving way to a hidden entrance in the ground. A giant, gaping chasm. We couldn’t see the bottom.

“What the hell was that?!” he yelled at me. “Now you’re a Parselmouth?”

“Don’t be stupid,” I muttered, “The password was on the page.”

“And did it happen to come with a pronunciation?” he asked expectantly.

I paused. It was a good question, but we didn’t have time.

“Come on.”

“‘Come on’ what?” Draco cried, “It’s just a giant hole—!”

He screamed as I reached for his hand, jumping over the edge. We both feel deep down the dark hole, until we landed somewhere in a giant sea of what could only be bone. Draco yelled, trying to jump up over the murky water.

“Selwyn, what the fuck?!” he boomed. “Next time you decide to go on a wet suicide mission, do be sure not to drag me along with you…! Oh, hell, what is this?!”

We both struggled to stand in the water, stuck in what appeared to be rock, bone, and skin. Snakeskin.

“Oh, fucking hell!” Draco realized, throwing the skin off of him. “Yuck! I’m all wet!”

I rolled my eyes as he fiddled with his wet clothes.

“Come on!” I grabbed onto him, bag slung over my shoulder. “We don’t have time for this.”

We walked knee-deep in the water. We waded through and hiked our way out. We ran towards what we saw was a giant effigy of Salazar Slytherin.

“Bloody hell,” Draco stared. “It’s… awful.”

“It’s beautiful,” I admitted, oddly enchanted by the austere architecture.

“There’s something… deeply unsettling about all this,” Draco said cautiously, “I don’t like this. Not one bit, we should leave.”

“Not without that Basilisk venom,” I charged toward the collapsed skeleton.

He looked around in disgust. “I really hate this, Elise. I’m soaking wet.”

“Shut up,” I ignored him in my search.

I looked at him startled as he anxiously clutched onto my hand.

“Draco. We’re going to be fine. The Basilisk is dead. Just make sure nothing else is in here,” I told him, crouching down by the snake.

I produced a leather glove from my bag, poking around the remains of the creature. I found the head, and the teeth that remained. Wincing, I reached for one, snatching it out with a loud snap. Draco grimaced as I held the fang in my hand.

“What the hell do I do with this?” I thought aloud.

“No idea, now can we get the hell out of here?” Draco rushed me.

I looked down at the empty book, then at the fang in my hand with unease.

“Fine,” I relented, stuffing it in my bag.

Just for safety, I plucked a few more from the Basilisk’s mouth, keeping the fangs just in case I needed them. He tugged on my arm frantically. I listened to his silent plea, as we exited the Chamber of Secrets.

*****

“I can’t believe you convinced me to do that,” Draco laughed surreally, drying his hair with a towel. “You’re a fucking lunatic.”

He tossed the towel down on my bed as he looked at me sitting up against the pillows, reading through the book. My hair was wet after my shower, and I was in my nightgown pouring through the book for answers.

“You find anything else in that hellish book of yours?” he sat down beside me.

“No,” I mumbled in frustration, “Just more of the same.”

He frowned. “And you thought, what, more words would magically appear on the page?”

He stopped, realizing the irony.

“Alright, that’s enough,” he snatched the book from my hands, “You’re just staring at the same pages, you’re not going to find anything else. It’s late, why don’t you just get some sleep for the first time in ages? I’ve been working nonstop on that cabinet, and you need it just as bad as I do.”

“I’m telling you, I can find the answer,” I argued, “I have all the pieces already, I’m sure of it.”

“Then you can put the book down for a few hours,” he stated, throwing it down, “Just get some sleep, and look through it again in the morning.”

“Right,” I murmured.

“We’ll have plenty of time to kill ourselves tomorrow,” Draco remarked bitterly.

I watched him as he left. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Elise,” he reached for the doorknob.

“Draco,” I protested.

He stopped, looking back at me exhaustedly. “What?”

“Thank you,” I said softly, looking down at the book at the foot of my bed.

He nodded softly, not saying much else. He left my room, turning off the light for me as I sat there.

-

“No—but I think it’s important for you to remember how it’s your fault we’re in this predicament in the first place!”

“I beg to differ,” Draco says, opening the door with a flick of his wand and stepping out into the night. “I’m quite good at potions.”

You rush to slip after him before the door swings shut behind you with a heavy thud.

Prick.

You’re not sure why Draco really even gives a shit about this assignment. All he cares about is winning Quidditch matches and getting the hell out of this school.

And why should he care?

It’s not like anything bad will happen to him if he gets one bad grade. You, on the other hand, have a bit more to lose. As a trainee healer, you need to score well on the NEWTs this year to secure your spot in the coveted apprentice slots. Needless to say, failing your Potions final just simply isn’t an option.

The air outside is muggy and warm—an unusually humid night for early April. The sky is clear, though, boasting a bright full moon. A perfect night for harvesting a nocturnal plant. An owl hoots somewhere in the Forbidden Forest beyond, and the tall grass tickles your ankles as you make your way to the cluster of greenhouses on the grounds.

You yank on Draco's sleeve as he walks straight past the entrance to Greenhouse Three.

He shrugs off your hand and gestures impatiently to the latticed door. “Hurry up and open it.”

“One of us should stay on the lookout,” you huff. Your fingers brush your wand in your pocket. “I’ll go and grab the sample, and you signal me if there’s any—”

“Wait.” He stops you. “Why do you get to go inside?”

You stare at him, jaw slack. “Because I’m the healer?”

“Not yet, you’re not.”

Sometimes, you take comfort in your fantasies about Draco Malfoy.

You’re up to ten different ways you might be able to knock him off his broom. Make him suffer in a way he never saw coming. And thanks to that comment, you’re now trying to come up with the eleventh.

“Why don’t you be the lookout, and I retrieve the sample?” He asks pointedly.

You sigh, irritated. “Because, Malfoy, I don’t trust you to get an accurate sample, okay? You couldn’t even keep our original sprig alive long enough for us to use it tomorrow!”

“You know, that’s a good point.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “Perhaps I don’t trust you, either. You know, we never did specify which of us was supposed to give the plant the appropriate amount of moonlight…”

You squint up at him. “Oh? We didn’t? That’s right. Maybe that’s because when we got assigned this potion, I stole the Snitch from under your nose at finals, and you didn’t speak to me for a week!”

Normally, you wouldn't complain about that. Being Quidditch rivals was one thing. Mouthing off to each other on the Pitch? That was a given. Outside of that, you didn't talk. It was a hard line.

That week just happened to be the one week you actually needed him to speak to you.

Because while he was busy trying to salvage his pride and keep his ego somewhat intact, you were actually doing all the heavy lifting for the assignment in Potions. The one Snape assigned to the both of you.

He huffs, irritated. He’s obviously annoyed you keep bringing that loss of his up, but you won’t stop anytime soon.

“We both go in, or I’m out," he says, his jaw set in determination.

You weigh your options. You could probably get the sample on your own, but you’re not willing to risk getting caught by yourself. If you get caught with him, you can do the obvious.

Blame him.

Turns out, it’s not much of a decision after all.

“Fine,” you mutter through grit teeth. “Let’s just get this over with.”

You unlock the door with a few precise spins of your wand and whisper the password low enough that Malfoy can’t hear it. The door unlatches with a hiss, and a warm, earthy smell hits you in the face. It’s familiar to you, and soothing in a way.

Malfoy shifts on his feet, eager to enter, but right before he pushes the door open, you bar his chest with your arm, wand at the ready.

You level his gaze. “Whatever you do—don’t touch anything.”

He scoffs, slipping past you and through the door with a flick of his robes. “Scared of a few plants, Nineteen?” He looks over his shoulder. “Bit concerning for a future healer and all. You might not make the cut.”

He shrugs with false sympathy before disappearing into the darkness beyond.

Nevermind. Gone are the thoughts of making his death a swift and easy one. Now, you’re envisioning something longer, slower, your hands around his neck—

You wonder if he begs half as prettily as he flies.

You’ve never really understood it.

The strange utopia that is Greenhouse Three. It’s always felt more like a portal to another dimension, rather than a plant nursery. But seeing it under the night sky is an otherworldly experience.

The tall domed ceiling stretches high above you, and dimmer disks fly from their assigned pots to line the narrow walkway upon your arrival.

There’s a silence about the place, but beneath it all, something living without breathing. As you walk among the taller plants lining the path, it feels like walking through a graveyard. But instead of the bones turning to dust under the earth—they’re watching.

The Nightbell Stalk lives all the way at the back of the greenhouse, in a secret locker called the Lumen Garden. You’ve never seen this garden, given the fact that it magically appears only when the moon is at its peak, and disappears again before the sun rises. Even despite the blatant breaking of curfew, you’ve been warned never to enter, given the dangerous nature of the plants one might encounter.

But, as they say, dangerous times call for desperate measures. Or, desperate times call for dangerous measures. Something like that.

All you know is it’s as desperate as it is dangerous, or you would never be so reckless.

Soon enough, the Lumen Garden door looms over you. It’s tall and black, and it sparkles in the light of the skimmer dimmers, like it’s made of crushed black diamond.

You turn to Malfoy. “Do you have it?”

He pulls an aged piece of parchment from his pocket. You reach for it but he snatches it back just in time.

“I didn’t risk my life in the Restricted Section, so you could show off your poor Mermish,” he says.

“‘Risking your life,’” you roll your eyes, unimpressed. “As if you don’t practically live there. Get on with it, then.”

He clears his throat. You try not to watch the way his fingers carefully unfold the paper, holding it like it’s something valuable. He’s always been like that when it comes to ancient scripts.

“Vaelith mora selune,” he whispers.

By moonlight reveal.

Your pulse leaps as the scrape of stone on stone reverberates throughout the silent room, bouncing off the glass panes above you.

As the stone door rolls back, it reveals a room so beautiful it nearly takes your breath away.

Opal stones guide you forward, leading to a circular pool in the center. The water lies perfectly still, glassy and undisturbed, yet the plants rooted beneath its surface sway gently in some unseen current.

Overhead, moonlight spills through the curved glass dome, and the panes are cloudy on purpose, filtering and diffusing the moonlight into something stronger and more even. 

You tiptoe onto the landing, barely noting the black mossy walls surrounding you before the stone rolls shut behind you. Malfoy’s polished shoes click decisively down the opal stones, not the least bit fased.

You swallow and follow after him. Mist rises up from the pond, and when you lean closer, curiosity pulling you in, you catch sight of movement. Thin, glowing threads streak by under the glassy surface. Jilly bugs. They help the plants thrive in the lowlight conditions.

“Keep up, will you?” Draco hisses, drawing your attention to him.

He’s standing over a garden bed beyond the pond, half swallowed by the shadowed wall behind him.

These nocturnal plants only bloom at night, and they die without it. Because of this, these plants have different colors than normal ones. Most of them are varying shades of black, purple, or blue, evolved to camouflage with the night or their natural habitats.

As you step closer, the vines come into view. There are tons of them, growing along a nearly imperceptible trellis that spans the full length of the back wall, their long stems twirling and looping, spilling out across the floor and crawling up the dome above.

You’re just reaching his side when something moves out of the corner of your eye. Your head whips towards the wall, eyes narrowing through the gray haze.

But there’s nothing. Just vines, their leaves sitting so still they could almost pass as wax.

“Where’s the bloody vial…?” Draco mutters to himself, patting down the pockets of his robes.

His features catch the light as he looks down. Your eyes drift over the edge of his nose, the slope of his brow, that strong jaw. You look away when his chin tips up.

Reaching into your pocket, you retrieve the small glass bottle, holding it out for him to see.

Draco frowns. “Thief.”

You shrug, glancing down at the Nightbell Stalk in front of you.

It’s a deep violet, with small, downward-facing flowers. Inside each one, the stems glow a faint gold. You can smell the nectar from where you stand--sweet, like honey, but heavier. Thicker.

When Malfoy reaches for the vial, you snap it back in the last second.

“I’m doing it,” you say.

“Like hell you are.” He scoffs. “Just because you’re a healer doesn’t give you the right to fuck this up. It’s my project too, you know.”

Anger sparks in your gut and you turn on him. “You haven’t given a shit about this potion the entire semester, and I’m supposed to believe you actually care now? Besides, you don’t have the experience required—”

“Oh, I have the experience. Stand aside.” He reaches for the sample vial. “I can handle something as simple as—”

You snatch it back again. “Oh, so you know that the bells ring when disturbed, so you only touch the stem. Did you know that Malfoy?”

“I—yes! I know more than—”

“So, obviously, you’d be cautious around the petals, since they’re so sticky they can leave a residue on your hands for a week.” Your lips set in a taunting line and narrow your eyes at him. “But you knew that, huh?”

Draco glares down at you. “I’m well aware of the difficulties with this plant. And by the way, I suggested this plan. So, I’ll do it.”

Your argument continues, words overlapping, while your voices ring eerily loud in the silence of the greenhouse.

Push, pull, counter, strike.

You fight the same way you fly on the pitch, chasing the same goal. Competitive to a fault.

The exact fault being that while the two of you are too busy arguing over who gets to hold the stem—and where the vial goes exactly—you don’t realize one vine unfurling from the wall behind you, growing curious in the moonlight.

“My hands are steadier,” Draco says from his place over your shoulder.

You bite your lip, ignoring the way his breath ghosts across your ear, focusing your energy on getting the ingredient.

You accidentally graze the edge of the downward-turned petal with the rim of the glass and the flowers on the Nightbell Stalk ring softly.

“Shit,” you mutter.

“You know it’s true,” he continues, voice low. “How many times have you lost the Snitch because of your poor grip, hmm? I haven’t. Not once.”

With one sharp movement of your fingers, you scoop up the drop of nectar from the stems inside. It slides down the glass, glowing a deep orange. Satisfaction curls warm under your ribs like your feline familiar back in your dorm room.

You grin. “Got it.”

Reveling in your win, you turn, ready to shove your success in his face, but the movement only presses your back further into his chest.

“Move, would you?” You bite, trying to slide around him, but the tight space doesn’t allow for much wiggle room.

He shifts to let you through, but the narrow corridor between the wall and the garden bed seems to get tighter with his body pressed against yours. Somewhere, your feet get tangled and he stumbles, sprawling back against the garden bed, which pushes you flat against the ivy wall, glaring up at him.

His head blocks the moonlight, his silhouette falling over you like a living shadow. His lips part like he might say something, and you find yourself leaning forward, waiting breathlessly, when something brushes your ankle.

You leap forward. Draco’s arm wraps around you out of instinct. The two of you stare at each other before he seems to remember who you are and drop his arm like you’ve burned him.

“Throwing yourself at me, are you?” He drawls, breaking the silent tension.

“No!” You look down at the ground, but there’s nothing there. Just mossy stone under your feet, the shadow of the vine wall at your heels. “Something just…grabbed me.”

Draco shakes his head and shoves past you. “It’s always drama with you, isn’t it?”

“I’m serious!” you snap. “It almost tripped me!”

“Ah, yes. Do me a favor and twist that pretty little ankle would you? Just secure me a win next match, thanks.”

His words make you pause, forgetting all about the mysterious touch. A smile steals across your face before you can stop it. “So, you admit I need to be taken out for you to have a shot at the Cup, then?”

He spins on the spot, a shadow etched between his brows as he scowls at you under the moonlight. “You’re twisting my words.”

“I am not! Merlin, Malfoy, do you ever just shut up—” Something brushes your shoulder. You freeze. “What was that?”

To your surprise, Draco actually shuts his mouth to listen. There’s nothing. No frogs, no crickets, no owl, no water dripping, no jilly bugs splashing in the pond.

It’s…silent.

Suddenly, something moves above you. Both your gazes jerk up at the same time. A leafy vine—so green it’s almost black—drops down from the wall and brushes Draco’s hair.

He flinches, and as the light catches on the small, glass-like beads growing between the leaves, your stomach drops.

You know exactly what that is.

The Veleroux Vine. Some call it Sirenlace. But it’s best known for another name.

Sex pollen.

You recognize it from your studies. The pollen pods contain a powerful aphrodisiac, said to heighten biological desire to mate in extreme ways. The more you resist, the worse the fever gets, making you wild with lust.

“Draco—don’t touch—” You throw a hand out to stop him.

But it’s too late.

Malfoy rears back and slaps the invading greenery away like he’s swatting a fly.

Shit.

“Dammit, Malfoy, what did I say about not touching anything?” You shriek, surging forward and shoving at his chest. “Get away from th—”

The first bead snaps open in a plume of dust. Fear rushes through your limbs and you try to jerk the both of you away, but you’re not quick enough.

One after another, the pollen pods pop in sequence, traveling down the vine, dusting your hair, your robes, and filling the air.

You jerk back, furiously rubbing at your skin, but it’s no use. It settles on you like a thin glitter, small enough to even to slip into your pores.

“Oh, shit. Fucking—fuck. Fuck!” you holler, but you shouldn’t have opened your mouth. Now the back of your throat feels like when you stuck your head in the sugar jar as a kid.

Draco sends you a withering look, brushing down his robes. “Calm down, will you? Bloody hell—just a little plant dust.”

“Just a plant—” You scoff, throwing your hands up in the air. “Merlin help me, you can’t just fucking listen for one second. I know what I’m talking about! Hurry! We have to get out of here before it—”

The vine slips around your shoulder at the very same moment Draco glances down to find another one winding around his ankle.

“—grabs us,” you finish weakly.

You try to scramble away, but the leaves thread around your arm in a silky vice.

Draco curses loudly at the thing, hopping on one foot, losing his robes in the process of trying to extricate himself.

“You have the wrong…pair,” you tell the inky leaves while you fumble for your wand. “We aren’t—we can’t…do what you want.”

“It wants something?” Draco casts a disbelieving look at the vine now wrapped around his dark slacks, settling around his knee. “Merlin—what?”

“It wants us to have sex,” you say, matter-of-factly.

He looks at you like you’ve grown two heads. Then his gaze darkens, snagging on the way your hard nipples strain against your shirt.

Already? This shit works fast. You finally free your wand and cross your arms over your chest.

“Sex?” he sneers.

“Yes. It’s an aphrodisiac plant, native to rare jungles. Its job is to encourage mating between compatible species.”

“Compatible.” He scoffs. “You and me? Farthest thing from it.”

“It doesn’t know that..." You gasp as your wand is whisked out of your hands by a particularly strong leaf.

“Talk to it again. Tell it!” Draco shouts. He looks down and shakes his leg violently. The vine doesn’t budge. “Shit—just get it off me!”

Whispers of leaves dragging against stone make you turn to face the corner of the room behind you. A cluster of vines has begun to twist together, the husky hush of plants twining and looping filling the air. Vines slide across the floor, retracting into the dark corner, while more gather from the ceiling, shifting the beams of moonlight through the dusty air.

You inhale sharply. “Oh no.”

Draco curses somewhere behind you. “What now?”

“It’s building its nest,” you reply, eyes on the plant.

“It’s…what?”

You turn to see Draco fighting tooth and nail. He’s got his wand out now. Streaks of light bounce across the room, flames erupt in the air but they bounce off the leaves like they’re nothing but a few stray sparks. Across the room, past the pool, some of the other plants wither and shrink away from the light.

Adrenaline surges through you as your mind scrambles for a solution. You’re already beginning to feel it, a tugging deep in your core.

That familiar tight ache that blooms in the dark, alone, in your bed. But unlike then, right now, you can’t give into it. You try not think about how the longer you resist, the worse it will get. From your brief research, sex pollen isn’t fatal, but it certainly isn’t pleasant.

Unless you give in.

Then, of course, it’s rumored to be the best sex of your entire life.

You don’t have the luxury of finding that out.

There is an antidote, of course, but it is completely and totally, one-hundred percent, without a doubt—out of the question.

Sex with Malfoy? Not happening.

There’s only one answer. You have to escape.

Your gaze swings to the stone door, framed in elegant iron bars that allow climbers to reach moonlight.

Maybe if you could get out of the vine’s reach, it wouldn’t be able to chase you.

It only takes a second to form a plan.

Tipping back, you let your weight fall backwards into the vine, hoping to catch it off guard and force it to loosen its hold. Instead, you trip over a stray pot and go tumbling to the ground.

But before you hit the stone, the Veleroux is there.

Your breath catches, heart pounding, suspended in the air. Then the vine pushes gently into your lower back, guiding you forward util your feet find solid ground again. You stare, openmouthed, as the leaves brush along your leg, almost as if checking for injury, before nudging you toward the corner of the room.

“Oh, Merlin. Yes, I see your nest,” you say weakly, watching as the vine curls in on itself to form a sort of ball—more of a fist, really—and uses it to push softly against the heels of your shoes, urging you forward. It uncurls when you take a step, leaves fluttering as if pleased. Then it spins in the air, gesturing as if to say, look, I made this for you. A cozy, safe place to mate. “Very nice. Lovely, really. But you see, we can’t—”

“Blimey! Get back!” Draco’s voice interrupts your one-sided conversation.

You look over your shoulder, wobbling a bit as the plant continues to nudge you towards the silky hammock in the corner. He’s covered in vines, now. His wand has fallen somewhere off to the side, out of both your reach. He’s still flailing, hair mussed, trying and—failing— to break free.

You look down. The vine’s not even holding onto you anymore. Is it because you’re not fighting as hard?

You take a step towards the door. Nothing happens. You take another, and the vine edges closer. On the third, it finds your ankle again. But it doesn’t squeeze you or cinch tight enough to sting. It just curls softly around your leg, firm enough to stop you from running, but gentle enough that you start to suspect it doesn’t want you damaged.

Malfoy, on the other hand, looks almost black and blue.

“Stop!” You call. “The harder you fight, the tighter it tries to hold you. Just—watch. Walk towards me.”

“You’re insane. You know that?” he spits. But his eyes catch on your vineless body anyway.

“Trust me, Malfoy.”

That’s a phrase you never imagined yourself saying to him.

“It doesn’t want to hurt us,” you whisper. “I don’t think.”

He shakes his head. “That’s not good enough for me.”

Despite his words, Draco takes one step towards you. The vine’s hold loosens. Another step and it slips from his chest entirely.

“See?” you say, encouraged. “It’s biological nature is to keep its prey alive and well. It can’t force us to mate. It just…heavily suggests it.”

“Of course it doesn’t force it,” Draco sneers. “A plant can’t make me do anything I don’t want to do.” But even as the words leave his lips, his eyes drop to the edge of your skirt. The hem suddenly feels six inches shorter, though you know it hasn’t shrunk.

Draco moves closer and the vines start to retreat, but he keeps a wary eye on them until they disappear into the Nest.

He glares at it, then at you. “What is that?”

“It’s a hammock,” you answer, eyes darting around for another escape route. “The vine thinks it will make us more comfortable. Since it’s not all over us anymore, I say we try to appease it. Just a little.”

“Appease it?” He gasps. “You want to—I can’t believe this. That—” he gestures towards the jumble of vines. “Could be a swan down comforter with silk sheets. I don’t care, I’m not going near it.”

You roll your eyes. “Merlin, you don’t listen. I’m not saying we go in the Nest. I’m saying we just…pretend. Then we can make a run for it.”

He doesn’t look convinced, so you turn to face him. “This plant spreads pollen to encourage mating, right? But how does it know when it’s worked? It’s not aware like we are.”

His eyes narrow. “Your point?”

“My point is…it’s pheromones, right? With our heightened hormones right now, we might be able to trick it into thinking we're on board, and it will let it's guard down.” Your stomach swoops with the words about to leave your tongue. “So maybe if you—if we—”

Draco’s eyes snap to yours. “If we what?”

His tongue swipes over his lower lip, leaving it glistening in the moonlight.

Stupid fucking pollen.

You swallow hard. “I think we should kiss.”

A beat of silence passes, the only sound your heartbeat kicking up, drumming in your ears.

“Fine,” he agrees.

That surprises you. You thought he’d gag at the very idea.

It must be the pollen, overriding his blatant hate for you and digging into his more urgent needs.

A shiver rolls down your spine at what those needs of his might be. You’re feeling it too, of course. The effect of being so close to him.

It’s only biological. To be drawn to a specimen of the opposite sex.

And why not Draco? He’s tall, healthy, miles of lean muscle. He smells good, and he’s not bad to look at. Especially when his eyes do that—flashing over at you thing, while his mouth quirks into a crooked smirk…

No other reason. Right?

You don’t have time to debate this, however, because Draco’s moving.

You’re vaguely aware of the vine brushing your ankle, keeping you steady as he crowds your space, and then—

Your lips meet his.

Your breath catches at the warmth you weren’t expecting. And that warmth…blooms. Your lashes fall shut as your whole body seems to sigh at the touch, like he’s the cure to the dull ache in your limbs, the antidote to the burning in your core. Just a gentle caress turns the sharp heat into a molten lava that invades your bloodstream.

He groans softly into your mouth, and the sound alone makes you gasp. Next thing you know, you’re pressed against his chest. Whether by his arms around you, or your own feet carrying you, or the stupid fucking vine playing matchmaker, all you know is he smells like green apples and teakwood. Cold luxury, but with a hint of…home.

At the first taste of his tongue, your stomach swoops dangerously. As he slants his mouth further, exploring, kissing you deeper, your heart feels like it’s beating as fast as a Snitch’s wings.

Your hands find his hair. It’s soft as silk between your fingers. A whimper escapes him and he breaks the kiss, head dropping back instinctively.

You watch through half-lidded eyes, taking in the way his wet lips gleam in the moonlight, blond lashes fluttering.

Merlin, he’s gorgeous.

His throat bobs on a swallow, and before you know it, your mouth is on his neck. He lets out a choked sound, something between a gasp and a groan, before jerking suddenly in your hold.

You stumble away, already missing the heat of his hands, lips buzzing like you’ve just downed a shot of fire-whiskey.

It’s him, you realize. He’s your drug. And when he lurches backward, breathing hard, you feel as if he’s just taken your last fix.

His eyes stay pinned on you as he retreats. The vine stops him with a gentle pressure at his back, but he doesn’t even seem to notice. He lets it guide him toward the nest, stopping just beside it, his back hitting the wall.

You scramble back until your heels knock into the stone wall opposite him. The Nest sits between you, off to the right, tucked in the dark corner of the room.

“Brilliant plan,” he grits out. “Bloody brilliant.”

And you’re back to square one.

“Ah!” Draco shouts, pointing at his wand lying on the ground between you. “You crossed the boundary.”

“I did not!” you snap at him, eyes flashing. “I was just adjusting. My foot kicked it accidentally—shit—would you just shut up? Your voice makes it worse.”

Over the last several minutes, you and Draco have tried everything under the sun to escape. The farthest you ever made it was all of ten feet. You did manage to retrieve Draco’s wand, though. Which then started the slew of fire spells, sharp object summoning charms, and so on. An earthquake hex was threatened, but that could’ve brought the whole school down, so you couldn’t risk that.

Although it was considered for one brief—and selfish—moment.

But none of it did a thing.

Turns out, this plant has some sort of magical resistance. It’s so bad that he couldn’t even make a force field or proper line divider between you, so he placed his wand there instead.

You’ve slowly slid down into a heap on the floor, attempting to make yourself smaller, as if that might ease the ache building deep in your core. It’s relentless, hot and gnawing, and you know it’s only going to get worse if you don’t come up with another plan soon.

Draco’s sitting now too, half draped in shadow. His arms crossed over his crisp white button-down, and he’s still glaring at you as if this is all your fault. The one knee strategically placed in front of his groan is the only sign you’ve gotten that the pollen is effecting him at all.

Bastard.

His tie is loose though, and his hair is tousled. Like it always is after a match. There’s no wind in here though, just the whisper of leaves and the steady drip of water.

No. Your hands are the only thing to blame for that.

Shit.

Now all you can think about is how soft his hair felt, how easily your fingers sank into it, and all the ways you could drag him closer by it, yanking his hot, wet mouth to your—

“What did I tell you about thinking those things?” Draco says. You peek up to see his head hit the wall, eyes sliding shut.

“I’m not thinking anything—”

“Stop lying, Nineteen.” His nostrils flare, and his eyes snap open. Somehow, his pupils have grown even larger. “You're so wet I can practically taste it from here.”

Merlin. Your thighs press together instinctively.

“I’m not thinking anything that has to do with you,” you snap. “Except how much I hate you. How much I despise your face, how much I want to steal that Snitch from you every damn day, and how if I had to be here, I would rather it be anyone else other than you!”

Your chest heaves as you catch your breath. But the way he looks at you makes your pulse spike all over again.

“Is that right?”

His cheeks are flushed, the same way they are when he’s hot on the Snitch’s trail. Your slick walls flutter at the sight. You’ve always thought he looked good like that. All sweaty and warm, hair stuck to his forehead, eyes bright with a fire that matches yours.

Not that you would ever tell him, of course.

“Who would you want instead?” he rasps. “Montague? Flint? I see the way you look at them on the pitch.” He looks away for a second and drags his knuckles across his lips before his gaze snaps back to yours.  “Lucky for you, you’re trapped here with someone who can show a little restraint.”

You bark out a laugh. “You think you’re the only one here with restraint? Take one step toward me, Malfoy, and I swear I’ll hex you.”

He grunts. “You don’t have a wand.”

Your head tips back with a quiet groan, your clit aching to be touched. You make another weak attempt to get away, but the vine catches you.

It doesn’t snap, claw, or hold you against your will. Rather it settles around your shoulders, brushing a waxy leaf along your cheek, tucking your hair behind your ear before retreating again, as if to say, Stop fighting. Just look at him. Don’t you want to?

And somehow, that’s worse.

Because you do.

Badly.

You find yourself looking at his hands. Your gaze drifts over the curve of his palms, the long lines of his fingers, the tension there, the veins, the control he’s barely holding onto and—you’re salivating.

Snap out of it.

“It’s so hot in here, f-fuck,” you whine, pawing at the collar of your shirt.

Draco eyes lock on you fingers. “Take that off and I swear—don’t.”

But your tie feels like it’s choking you, and your pulse booms in your ears. Your fingers keep loosening it. Draco curses.

You whimper. “That’s not fair, you took yours off!”

“Stop talking. Merlin, just—” he cuts himself off with a rough breath, his large palm grinding down into his erection beneath his slacks. “Shut up.”

You try to stay quiet. You really do.

But every shift of your body sends heat spiraling lower, making it harder to think. Every brush of your thighs squeezes your swollen clit, and has you gasping into the wall behind you.

Draco’s breathing is uneven now, too, echoing faintly off the stone. He hasn’t been able to keep his hand off his dick, still hidden under his clothes.

Not that you’ve been watching.

“I think—‘ you swallow. “I think I have a plan.”

Draco moans. “Fine. Enlighten me.”

“Remember what I said about the pheromones?” You manage. “It’s clear kissing wa—shit—wasn’t enough. Maybe…” Your eyes drop to his erection.

“No.”

“Draco, we’re going to have to touch ourselves. It’s the only way.”

You expect him to be glaring at you, but when you look up, his eyes are on your legs—that bare skin between your shoe and your skirt.

“Fine.” His throat bobs on a swallow. “You first.”

You barely have time to debate the ramifications of your actions. Your body burns, thick pressure building low and sharp.

You slip your hand under your skirt, straight under your panties. You inhale shakily, trying to steady yourself, but when your fingers meet a slickness like nothing you’ve ever felt before, the breath leaves your lungs.

The sound of of your wetness fills the silence between you and Draco makes a low, strained sound.

You glance over at him and immediately wish you hadn’t.

He’s taken his cock out, and he’s stroking it from base to tip. It’s long. Thick enough to fill up his palm, and veiny. The tip is darker than the rest, and you just know, if you were to take him in your mouth and suck—you’d feel his heartbeat against your tongue.

His jaw is tight, eyes half-lidded, like he tried to close them but his body won’t let him. When he sighs and bucks his hips into his own fist your mouth runs dry.

Whatever cavern of distance used to exist between you is crumbling now. It’s being burned away. There’s no space for it in this heat, this constant pull towards each other. Your skirt rides higher up on your thighs, and the cool air brushes your wet inner thighs.

After a minute, the relief starts to fade. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to focus. But your body won’t cooperate. Your hips jerk back from your own touch, your clit bordering on overstimulation. You frown, plunging two fingers inside yourself to rub the ache away. But they feel like cold pencils in your pulsing channel.

The heat drags through your veins like hot cotton, begging for a deep release. But every brush of your arms against the cold stone behind you makes your elbows start to itch, and your very skin start to feel like a husk.

You need water. No—not water.

You need him.

It’s almost as if your body is punishing you for doing it to yourself.

“It’s not w-working,” you whimper, helpless.

Draco groans, his frustration evident in the bulging vein in his neck. His cock looks so angry in the dim light. He bites his lip in determination, and you watch his fist grip tighter. He only gets to three more strokes before he’s hissing with discomfort.

“There’s got to be another way,” he rasps, his hand dropping away.

You huff, so needy you’re almost on the verge of tears. “I’m thinking!”

“Well, think harder.”

You glare at him, dimly aware of how on display you are right now. Legs open and spread towards him, skirt barely concealing the way your fingers move against yourself. “Maybe I could if you could just shut your mouth for one damn second!”

His voice is not helping. All low and deep, with a hint of a rasp curling around his accent, making your belly tighten.

In fact, none of this is helping. Silence fills the space between you, only broken by uneven breathing and the quiet rustle of the Nest.

When his eyes drop to your dripping cunt and you don’t even have the decency to close your legs, it’s like the pollen has overridden your higher thinking. Your knees widen instinctively, begging for him to look. To touch…

Your composure slips further. And when he licks his lips, your lips actually part in preparation to ask for him.

Merlin, if this keeps up much longer, you’re not above begging if that what it takes. And begging Draco Malfoy for anything is beyond the lowest you’d ever thought you’d go.

You work yourself harder, but your fingertips feel like sandpaper against your soft folds, even as your arousal continues to leak steadily from you, your pussy desperate to be filled.

But that feels impossible.

A tear slips from the corner of your eye, and you’re helpless to stop it. You squeeze your eyes shut and turn your face away from him, still chasing any kind of relief, begging for it to feel like something worth grabbing onto.

Somewhere, distantly, you think Draco might be saying something, but you’re not sure what. Your body’s honed in on the vibrations of his voice, the way he smells—

“Nineteen.”

Hearing your nickname snaps you back to reality.

You open your mouth to answer him, but no words come out. Little gasps punch out of your parted lips, hips twisting  and writhing, searching for friction. For heat. For him.

“Tell me,” he says firmly.

You turn your head. You can barely see him, your eyes refusing to open more than a sliver. He’s leaning forward now, one knee planted on the ground.

“W-what?” you rasp.

“Your plan—the pheromones—shit.” Then, quieter, he adds. “Tell me how to make it stop hurting you.”

Your eyes snap to his. He’s watching you with that sharp focus you’ve always admired about him. The look that says nothing is getting in the way of what he wants.

You’re not sure exactly what makes him give in.

Maybe it’s the way your breaths come in soft pants that make the rise and fall of your breasts visible beneath your loosened tie. Maybe it’s the way your eyes drop to his lips, his neck, your tongue running over your teeth like you’re imagining how he tastes. It might be the ways your hips slant forward, knees falling open, your body begging even if you don’t have the words to.

But he must see it.

Because, he just says, “Fuck.”

His shoulders catch the moonlight as he shrugs out of his shirt in one smooth motion. Lines of lean muscle come into view, and you feel as if you’ve been presented with a feast after almost starving to death.

Malfoy’s always had a very determined walk. A powerful stride, one that commands attention. You’ve seen in in the halls, backed by his loyal little following. You’ve watched him stride towards the Quidditch cup, shoulders back, chest high.

But right now—he’s not walking.

He’s crawling.

Towards you.

“Close your eyes. If it helps,” he says before his hand meets your ankle and he’s bowing in front of you.

Something deep in your mind catches on those words, but he’s yanking your panties the rest of the way down your legs, and the heat of his mouth against your core whisks your thoughts away.

The second his tongue finds your clit you can’t help but cry out. Your head tips back against the stone, the relief so immediate it’s almost staggering. Draco attacks you with warm, lascivious licks that aren’t meant to soothe, despite his words. They’re meant to claim.

Your hands dig into the mossy floor beneath you, arching your hips up for him. His strong, hot tongue parts your folds like it’s his life’s work. The view of his back muscles shifting and stretching in the moonlight as he makes out with your pussy is so seductive to you it’s nearly frightening.

In fact, it is.

Frightening.

“I hate you,” you grit out, not even entirely sure where it came from. Just a need to set things back in order, even as he’s unraveling you.

He groans against your clit, the vibration licking up your spine.

“Say it again.”

You gasp, caught between resisting and wanting more, even as your pelvis shoves forward and you grind into him like you’re in heat. His tongue dives lower and when his nose nudges your clit, you nearly scream. Your orgasm rises like something sharp. It’s so powerful of a burn, of an ache, you find yourself scrambling backwards in an attempt to get away from the promise of such delirious pleasure.

Merlin, you need it. More than you’ve ever needed anything in your entire fucking life—

It scares you how much.

But Draco just hums against the pulls on his hair and follows you anyway, scuffling forward on the stone ground, gripping your hips and spearing his tongue deep inside you.

“Malfoy, I’m gonna—oh, fuckkk—”

“That’s it,” he says, and the sound of him quietly speaking against your slick folds nearly does you in.  “Scream my name, Nineteen. N-need—fuck—wanna hear you say it like that.”

The soft rasp of his voice, and the two long fingers being pushed inside you send you straight over the edge.

The release pulls you under in waves. Dark, pulsing tidal waves that drive deep through your pelvis, erasing through your body until the pleasure nearly blinds you. You feel yourself going rigid in his hands, thighs trembling against his soft hair, but he just hauls you through it, like a lighthouse in a storm. Strong, steady, and never stopping until you’re jolting and gasping, crying out in relief.

But the second your orgasm fades, the heat rushes in again. The fever. It’s back, and with vengeance this time.

Sweat beads your forehead and your vision swims, but you look up just in time to see Malfoy scramble backwards like you burned him.

You frown. “Dra—what?”

He throws a hand out, pressing himself against the opposite wall.  “Don’t come closer.”

A whimper escapes your lips before you can stop it. The heat is different now. Instead of feeling like a thread about to snap, your body has narrowed down to one singular need.

Breed.

Your fingers fly to your shirt without you telling them to, unbuttoning your shirt with ease. You feel the way your breasts move with your harsh breaths, but your gaze is locked on him. And when you drop down to all fours and slink forward, Draco looks like he’s going to have a heart attack.

“Merlin—I can’t.” he chokes out. “I can’t even think about it.”

Your gut feels like it’s been punched. Is he so disgusted by the thought that he can’t even look at you?

Does he truly not want you? Was that some sort of…pity—

You can’t even finish that thought.

You slink backwards until you’re half in shadow. He must see the look on your face because his head falls back against the wall on a groan. You can smell his sweat in the air and it’s making you downright feral even though you can barely look at him from embarrasement.

“I can’t think about it, because if I do, then I’ll do it,” he says. “And if I do it…I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop.”

Control. That’s always been Malfoy’s vice, hasn’t it?

This situation is probably his worst nightmare.

Not for the first time, something plucks on your heart strings deep under your ribs. He’s scared of losing it? You can give it back to him.

Slowly, and with deliberate care, you cross the boundary. The wand clatters somewhere to the side. Draco watches as you crawl to him, his eyes raking over you, a mixture of pain and hunger in his eyes.

You can only imagine what you look like.

Hair mussed, left in just a lace bra and soaked panties, your skirt hanging loose on your hips.

“Then don’t,” you murmur.

Your voice is so quiet in the stillness, but it spears through him all the same. Your gazes click together like magnets.

He shakes his head, chest heaving. “You don’t mean that. It’s just the fucking plant dust—”

He stops short when your hands settle on his knees, gently forcing them apart to make room for yourself. Your breath catches when you drop your gaze to see his cock sitting heavy and hard against his lower stomach. It twitches under your watchful gaze and your mouth waters.

Carefully, you settle into his lap.

He exhales sharply, and his hands find your soft skin, undoing your bra before you can even blink. Testament to a lot of practice, you’re sure. 

You don’t have the strength to be self-conscious. You just need him. Now. Even so, somewhere through the lust-filled haze, you remember his words.

“The plant just lowers—” your breath hitches as his teeth find the soft skin of your neck. “—your inhibitions. It can’t make you fuck someone you don’t…w-want.”

“How do you know so much about this?” he groans into your hair. “Why are you so—”

“What? So smart?”

“You wish.”

The words barely brush your ear before you lean back to get a better look at him. You’ve barely straightened by the time his mouth is on your tits.

You cry out as he swirls his hot, greedy tongue around your nipples, sucking on the hard buds until you’re panting. Your clit swells and you bite your lip, threading your fingers through his hair. The first rock of your hips has you both groaning. 

You grind down on him again and you nearly black out at the feeling of his bare length sliding through your slick folds. You reach between you to tug his slacks down further. His balls are heavy in your hand, and he grunts, shoving himself up into you.

“Merlin—I can’t—” he chokes out, mouth leaving your tits as his palms fly up and dig into his eye sockets.

Without thinking, you lean forward and kiss his fingers one by one. His bare chest stutters against yours at the softness of it, and when you slip his thumb into your mouth and swirl your tongue around it eagerly, he drops his hands.

You look down to find him staring up at you with a familiar expression. You make that face. When you're seconds away from catching the Snitch.

You swear you can feel every vein in his dick, so hot and hard against you as you grind your slick cunt against him. It’s instinct to drop your head and search for his mouth with yours, but you pull back at the last second. That last thread of lucidity coming back to haunt you.

This is your rival.

For a second you just breathe each other in, mouths parted, groaning and writhing into the other, but when the blunt head of his cock catches on your entrance, your hips react on their own—circling, pelvis arching, body begging in a primal, secret language you don’t fully understand.

And he moves with you—meeting you there with the deep urges of his own.

His hips don’t snap into you, brutal and deep. Instead, they slide. Back and forth. His hands clamp onto your hips, holding you still in his lap as he eases the tip in and out, letting your slick coat him until you’re ready to take the whole thing. 

The way his body moves speaks to something primal and powerful in you. How his sweaty muscles bunch and tense, and his hands dig into your skin at your hips, your thighs, your waist— it’s better than anything you could’ve imagined.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” he growls into your ear.

You nod frantically, clenching around him.

In one long thrust, Draco fills you up. The stretch is breathtaking. Literally. He’s so long that his tip kisses your cervix with every thrust, sending you mewing and clawing at his hair, his shoulders, just to stay afloat through the pleasure.

He’s not fairing much better.

He’s growling and moaning, his cock jerking desperately in your slick walls as he pulls back just far enough to yank your hips back down to meet his.

Sounds spill out of you. They might be words, you’re not sure. But the next thing you know, cold stone meets your back, and Draco’s warm body is spread out over you. His thrusts grow heavier and deeper. You can feel the way your body tries to hold onto him, clenching and fluttering desperately, even as your arousal makes it easy for him to slide so deep.

You’ve never been this wet in your life. And now, you’re wondering, if it’s from the pollen, or if it’s just from him. Because you’ve never had sex this good, and that’s saying something.

Your bodies just…move together. Like they’re one of a kind puzzle pieces meant to fit. The give and take is so instinctual it’s almost unbearable how good it is.

“Fuck, you take me so well,” Draco pants, a lock of hair falling over his sweaty brow. “Knew you would.”

You throw your head back, your ankle finding solace in his lower back, sealing him to you and begging for more. Your body gives into the heat, the pleasure cresting and pulling you into something dangerously strong. So strong you’re worried your body might not survive it.

“So pretty on the pitch,” he groans, seemingly unable to stop from talking. “Merlin, I just—I lose the bloody Snitch every time you look at me.”

That does it.

Your orgasm rushes through your body like lightning. Your spine snaps straight, muscles clenching down with a pulse you feel everywhere. A moan leaves your chest, so loud you’ve probably woken the whole damn castle, but you’re too gone to care.

Draco makes a rough sound against the skin of your neck. “Holy—fuck, I’m gonna—where should I—”

“Inside,” you gasp. “Please. Please, Draco. I need it. P-please—”

“Ah, fuck—” His mouth seals against your throat, nose brushing the pulse point below your ear. “Need you.”

He jerks hard, once, twice, and then he’s spilling inside you. Your body seems to understand, back arching, pulling him deeper with your ankle as he stills and lets out a groan that curls low in your belly, and will certainly live on in every wet dream you have from here on out.

The fever fades like a receding tide. You blink, slowly coming back to yourself. Your clit is throbbing, and your pulse is still hammering, but strangely you feel...lighter somehow.

Like maybe the last few years of tension between you and your rival finally needed to snap.

You turn to him. He’s on his knees, breathing hard, buttoning up his pants. He looks up at you, and something in his eyes softens.

“What did you mean?” You find yourself asking. “When you told me to close my eyes earlier?”

He shrugs, reaching for his shirt.

“Well, you said you’d rather be here with anyone else. I just—” he looks away, suddenly seeming very interested in the way the Nest is unraveling like it did its job, and the stray vine that’s currently retrieving his wand for him.

You don’t let him finish.

You lurch forward and grab his face, pulling his lips to yours.

This time, he doesn’t hesitate a second before meeting your mouth. He kisses you back, long and hard, digging his fingers through your hair to pull you closer. You exhale into it, something long unsaid passing between you.  But it’s not enough. You still need to say the words.

So, you break the kiss first. He blinks down at you, eyes dark, hair mussed.

“I only think about you, Malfoy,” you whisper in the shared air between you. “On or off the pitch, it’s only you.”

He leans down and brushes his lips across yours. “I still hate you, Nineteen.”

You reward him by deepening the kiss. He answers it, slower this time, but no less intense. When he finally pulls back, you’re already smiling.

“Say it again.”

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