#jily

Pressed against the stone wall behind the library, hidden in the shadows, you felt his fingers tangle in your hair as his lips moved hungrily against yours. Your heart pounded like it always did when he touched you—half from the thrill, half from the guilt.

You broke the one rule your parents gave you. And you broke it over and over again.

You didn’t mean to fall for Draco Malfoy. You really didn’t. He was cold and smug, always armed with some sharp-tongued remark. But there was something about him that you couldn’t shake—something that got under your skin.

Maybe it was the way he looked at you when he thought no one was watching. Or the way he softened, just slightly, when you were alone. Maybe it was the fact that he saw you when so few people did.

Whatever it was, you fell. Hard.

The worst part? You didn’t regret it.

Your relationship wasn’t born from passion—it was born from quiet. From shared detentions, lingering glances, sarcastic bickering that slowly melted into warmth.

It started in fifth year, during a late-night prefect patrol, when you caught Draco staring up at the stars through one of the Astronomy Tower windows.

“I thought you didn’t care about anything that wasn’t gold or pureblood,” you had teased.

“I don’t,” he’d replied, smirking. Then, after a pause:

“Except maybe this.”

He never said what “this” meant. But he didn’t have to.

You kept it hidden. For nearly a year, you and Draco became masters of secrecy. Carefully choreographed exits, notes passed in books, fleeting touches under desks. No one suspected a thing. Not your friends. Not Harry. Not your parents.

Until the day the secret fell apart.

It started with a storm.

You and Draco had snuck off to the boathouse, hoping to escape the castle for an hour. The rain came fast, wind howling against the windows. You lit your wand and wrapped yourselves in a conjured blanket, curled together on the old wooden bench. He kissed you, slow and soft, the way he always did when he was trying not to say something out loud.

And then—click.

You both froze.

In the doorway stood Colin Creevey, camera in hand, eyes wide.

“Colin,” you said, your voice weak. “You can’t—please don’t—”

But he was already running. Already shouting your name and Draco’s down the corridor.

By the time you returned to the castle, the damage was done.

You walked into the Great Hall for dinner and the noise immediately dipped into silence. Dozens of heads turned. Murmurs passed like wildfire through the room.

“Potter’s daughter and Malfoy?”

“James Potter’s going to kill him.”

“Bloody hell, are they serious?”

You held Draco’s hand anyway.

Even though Ron gawked at you like you’d lost your mind. Even though Hermione looked at you like she was calculating seventeen different ways your life was about to fall apart.

Even Harry, sitting at the far end of the Gryffindor table, stood up and walked out the moment you sat down.

He didn't talk to you for a month.

You were dreading the Easter holidays.

The moment you stepped off the train at King’s Cross, the pit in your stomach grew heavier. Your parents were waiting by the barrier, smiling—until they saw you walking hand-in-hand with Draco Malfoy.

James’s smile vanished.

Lily blinked like she was sure she was seeing things.

“Draco,” you said carefully, “maybe I’ll see you later—”

But James was already storming forward.

“Is this a joke?” he snapped. “Please tell me this is some Slytherin dare.”

“Dad—”

“No, no, no, don’t Dad me—you promised. You promised us!”

“I didn’t plan this—”

“Damn right you didn’t!” James shouted, voice cracking. “He’s a Malfoy! Do you have any idea what that family stands for?”

Draco, to his credit, didn’t say a word. He just nodded once at James, then looked at you with something unreadable in his eyes.

“I’ll see you later,” he murmured, and disappeared into the crowd.

Back home, the air was thick with silence.

Lily sat across from you at the kitchen table, her hands wrapped around a cooling cup of tea. James paced by the fireplace like a storm cloud.

“I knew you’d rebel eventually,” James muttered. “But I didn’t think you’d break our one rule.”

“I’m not rebelling,” you said. “I’m in love with him.”

The room froze.

Lily’s eyes softened. “Sweetheart…”

“He’s not Lucius,” you said, voice shaking. “He’s not cruel. He’s not obsessed with bloodlines. He’s nothing like the stories you told us.”

“And what if you’re wrong?” James asked, quieter now. “What if he hurts you?”

“Then he hurts me,” you said. “But at least it’s my choice.”

That night, you lay in your old bed, staring up at the enchanted ceiling James had painted for you when you were little—charmed to mirror the sky above Godric’s Hollow. Stars blinked back at you as your heart twisted with everything left unsaid.

You reached under your bed and pulled out the small, rectangular piece of enchanted slate. A matching one sat in Draco’s room at the Manor. You’d created them together last year in secret—a charmed chalkboard where whatever you wrote appeared on the other’s board in real time. Just one more way to stay close without being caught.

You held the chalk in your hand for a long moment, unsure what to say. But then, your fingers moved instinctively.

Are you still there?

A few seconds passed.

Then, slowly, a response appeared, the words etching themselves across the slate in Draco’s neat, angular handwriting:

I’m still here. If you still want me.

Your breath caught.

You smiled softly, heart aching with everything you felt and everything you chose.

You pressed the chalk to the board again.

Always.

You were told to never go near a Malfoy. But you did.

And now?

You’re not going back.

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰