Draco had become a permanent fixture in her life, an inevitability she had not prepared for, a constant that neither of them had named yet somehow both of them carried. It was not a decision they had ever sat down and made, not something signed or sealed, but it was there, stitched into the days and nights until it felt as natural as breathing. She could not have said when it began, and she doubted he could either. One day there had been a line between them, the next there had not, and now there was only this quiet, undeniable truth of him.
It started in the mornings, which had always been hers. She guarded them the way some people guard their privacy, slow and unhurried, marked by the soft clink of mugs and the smell of fresh coffee. Then, somehow, they became his as well. Somewhere along the line he had decided that Moonbrew was his morning ritual, that her little shop was the only place worth beginning the day, that the first cup of tea he drank had to come from her hands. She had never asked him why, and he had never offered an explanation, but he showed up without fail.
It did not matter if his day was stacked with meetings or filled with whatever business kept him circling through the highest tiers of wizarding society. It did not matter if the weather turned foul, if the sky threatened rain or snow. He still walked in at the exact same time every morning. The door would open, the bell above it would chime, and there he would be, tall and self-assured, with that infuriatingly smug curve of his mouth and a comment ready before he even crossed to the counter. He never ordered right away, never simply asked for what he wanted. He always started with some entirely unnecessary observation about the state of the world, the Ministry's latest folly, or the quality of the Prophet's headlines.
And she? She never had to ask what he wanted. His tea was already steeping before he had even finished his first sentence. She would set the cup in front of him with the same measured precision every time, her pale eyes holding his for just a moment too long, her expression calm and unreadable except for the smallest flicker of something wry at the corner of her mouth. Her replies were never straightforward, never dull. They were whimsical, absurd, sometimes utterly nonsensical, and yet they always seemed to land in a way that made his lips twitch and his shoulders loosen, the hard lines of his posture softening as though she had quietly lifted some weight he refused to acknowledge.
It became a rhythm neither of them broke. She did not need to ask why he came, and he did not need to ask why she let him.
And then there were the evenings, the ones she had once kept to herself, the quiet hours that belonged to no one but her. Somehow, without asking, without even pretending to ask, Draco had made them his. He appeared at her doorstep as if the act required no reason, as if the mere thought of needing an invitation was absurd. Sometimes he brought a bottle of wine with a label in a language she could not read, or a small box of pastries so delicate they looked as though they might shatter under the weight of a sigh. Other times, he brought nothing at all, simply stepping inside with that infuriating certainty that she would let him, as though the threshold had never been a barrier.
In the beginning, she had asked him why. Not directly, not in a way that would force him to explain himself, but with a tilt of her head, a narrowing of her eyes, the quiet pause that spoke of curiosity. She had considered telling him to go back to whatever echoing manor he called home, to remind him that her space was hers alone. She never did. Somewhere between his first visit and the one that followed, she had already opened the door in more ways than one.
That was the problem. She had let him in without realising she was doing it, and now the thought of closing him out felt impossible. She could have set the boundaries, could have told herself that this was temporary, that this was only a convenience, that nothing between them could take root. Instead, she let the nights stretch into something unmeasured. She let their conversations wind and curl through hours she had never shared with anyone else. She let the silences between them settle into something that felt alarmingly close to comfort.
There were nights when they argued for the sake of arguing, their words tangling and clashing like sparks from flint. They debated the nature of the universe, the ethics of magical creatures, whether Thestrals were symbols of rare understanding or simply unsettling. He defended his endless collection of custom-tailored suits with cutting wit, and she told him that owning so many made him a snob. He did not deny it. She suspected that was part of the point.
Other nights, the hours slid by in an easy quiet. The glow of candlelight would dance across the room, the flames swaying in the faintest breath of air, and the steady clink of porcelain would mark the rhythm of their thoughts. They would sit without speaking, each of them occupied with their own inner worlds, yet never wandering far from the awareness of the other's presence. It was not the silence of absence. It was the silence of being in the exact place they were meant to be.
And that was when it began to feel dangerous. Because something was happening to her. Something she could not name without giving it power, something that made her heart pull in ways she had not planned for.
At first, it was nothing more than a flicker. A quick, harmless warmth curling in her chest when he smirked at her over the rim of his teacup, when his eyes caught hers with that sharp, knowing look, when he rolled his eyes at something she said but never once told her to stop. It was small enough to ignore, the kind of thing she could tuck away and explain as amusement, or even as the odd comfort of familiarity. She could almost convince herself it didn't mean anything.
But it grew. It sharpened. It started showing up in places she didn't want it. It became the breath that caught in her throat when he leaned in just a little too close, the thrum that ran through her every time his fingers brushed against hers in passing, the unbearable weight in her chest whenever his voice dipped low enough to make her skin feel too tight. And then there was the way he said her name—soft, deliberate, as if he was tasting it, as if he was certain it belonged only to him.
That was the problem.
No. No, no, no.
Absolutely not.
She could not love him.
This was Draco Malfoy. The man who had walked into her life without knocking, as if the door had always been open, who disrupted every calm moment she had built for herself, who stole her cow and then acted as though keeping her was a favour he had done her. This was the boy who had once looked at her across the Great Hall with a curl of disdain on his lips, whose family name carried centuries of wealth and arrogance, a world of locked gates she had never wanted to belong to.
This was the man who argued with her until her cheeks flushed, who kissed her like he wanted to take something from her, who pushed her to her limits and then pulled her back only to start again. This was the man who refused to let her walk away, even when she told him she would, even when she meant it, even when she tried. The man who sometimes looked at her with an expression so unguarded, so intent, that she couldn't tell if he was seeing her or seeing some truth about her she didn't even recognise yet.
That was what made it unforgivable.
Because the sensible thing would be to stop.
She should walk away before the ground beneath her disappeared entirely, before this tilted into something that would demand too much, something that would strip her bare in ways she had not allowed in years. She should stop meeting his gaze across the table, stop lingering when their shoulders brushed, stop letting his presence become a sound, a warmth, a constant she no longer knew how to do without.
She should cut it off before it could grow roots. Before his voice became the thing she listened for in the quiet. Before the way he stood too close became the air she could not breathe without. Before the idea of him not being there every morning, every evening, every in-between, started to feel like a loss she would not survive.
But she didn't.
And that was how she knew she was in trouble.
She should have cut him off, should have drawn a firm line, should have reminded herself that men like him, men who were arrogant and possessive, men who took up too much space and smelled like expensive cologne and impossible choices, never led anywhere worth going. They led to trouble. They led to chaos. They led to a kind of ruin that was beautiful while it lasted and unbearable once it ended.
She should have walked away.
She should have run.
But then, without trying, without even seeming to notice he was doing it, he would undo every ounce of her resolve. He would not do it with grand gestures or declarations. No flowers. No carefully chosen gifts. Just small, almost careless things that worked their way into her without permission, the kind of things that did not belong to a man who was only passing through her life.
It would be the way his fingers reached out and tightened the ribbon in her hair when it came loose, as if he had done it before, as if it was a reflex, as if it was his right to touch her in ways so casual and certain.
It would be the way he handed her a cup of tea without asking how she took it, sliding it across the counter like it was nothing, like he had not somehow learned the exact colour it should be in the light, the exact temperature where the steam curled just so.
It would be the way he never left the moment he could, never vanished as soon as his purpose in the room was complete. Instead, he lingered. Standing behind the counter, drying cups with slow, methodical movements, stacking them in neat rows while his presence filled every inch of the space. He would look completely at ease there, like he had always belonged in her evenings, like closing the shop together had been their habit for years.
Those were the moments that undid her.
Not the arguments, not the stolen kisses, not the nights where he pushed her until she pushed back. It was those quiet, thoughtless things. The unspoken claim they carried. The promise that he was not just passing through.
And somewhere between one ribbon adjusted and one cup of tea poured without a single word, she realised.
She was already in love with him.
And fuck.
She was completely, irreversibly doomed.
It would be the way he watched her, not with expectation or impatience, not with the kind of fleeting, surface-level interest that could be shrugged off as nothing, but with something quieter and far more dangerous. There was a steadiness in it, an unyielding patience that had no business being there, a depth that made her want to look away and yet kept her locked in place.
He watched her the way people watch things they have no intention of losing, the way they memorise the smallest, most insignificant details as though each one could be a lifeline, the way they hold on to something that has already begun to slip through their fingers but refuse to loosen their grip. There was nothing casual in it, nothing careless.
It was the kind of gaze that should not exist between two people who weren't already in love. The kind that lingered just a little too long, carried just a little too much weight, and settled in the pit of her stomach like a stone, heavy and unshakable, impossible to ignore.
And it was in those moments, when she caught him looking at her like that, that she began to wonder if she had been lying to herself this entire time. If maybe the lines she thought she had drawn so carefully had been smudged from the very beginning.
Because Draco Malfoy was so goddamn beautiful.
Unfairly, unreasonably, infuriatingly beautiful. Beautiful in a way that stole the breath from her lungs when he was too close, beautiful in a way that left her chest aching when he smirked, when he pushed his fingers through his hair, when he rolled the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows like he was about to do something sinful and knew she was watching.
And the worst part was how natural it all felt. He would lean against her counter like it belonged to him, like he had always been meant to stand there, and there was no reality, no timeline, no possible world in which he was anywhere else. He would look at her as though she was the most fascinating, most maddening, most captivating thing he had ever seen, and she could not decide if that was a comfort or a threat.
It was not just his face. It was not only the perfect angles of his jaw or the piercing, ridiculous intensity of his eyes or the sharp curve of his smirk when he was feeling particularly pleased with himself. It was worse than that. So much worse.
It was the way he carried himself, as if the world rearranged itself to accommodate him. The way he filled a room without saying a single word. The way his presence pressed in on her awareness until it was all she could feel. It was the way his magic brushed against hers when he came too close, as if it were alive, as if it were asking for permission and marking her all at once, leaving her with the sensation that he had touched her even when he hadn't laid a finger on her.
And beyond all of that, beyond the sharp edges and the impossible confidence, there was something even more dangerous.
Because Draco Malfoy wasn't just attractive.
He was nice.
Painfully, exasperatingly, infuriatingly nice. Nice in a way that felt like the most insidious trap she had ever encountered. Nice in a way that lured her closer, like a carefully baited hook disguised as something harmless. Nice in a way that made her believe, against all reason, that he could be good for her.
It was not the polished kind of charm he could wield like a weapon. It was not calculated. It was unpractised, unconscious, and that made it worse. It was sincere in a way that seemed to catch even him off guard, the kind of thoughtfulness that slipped into moments when he thought no one was looking.
It was the way he opened the door for her without making a show of it. The way he remembered the smallest things she had mentioned in passing. The way his voice softened when he said her name, like it meant something, like it had weight.
It made her want to push him away just as much as it made her want to pull him closer. It made her resent him for giving her even the smallest glimpse of what it might be like to belong to him, because how dare he? How dare he look at her like that, touch her like that, make her want him like this?
A gentleman, even when he was being an absolute bastard, even when every word out of his mouth was calculated to provoke her, even when he was leaning in far too close, closing the distance until her heartbeat felt like it might be loud enough for him to hear. He had a way of invading her space so completely that she forgot where her edges ended, of making her doubt every neat little conviction she had built about the sort of man she should want. He could spark irritation and desire in the same breath, could make her clench her fists to keep from shoving him away and curl her fingers to keep from pulling him closer.
A man who could set her on fire with nothing more than a look. Not just the obvious kind, not just the one that burned in his eyes when he was angry or hungry for a fight, but the quieter ones too, the ones that carried an unspoken promise, the ones that made her feel seen in a way she could not afford to want. Yet even with all that, he would still pull her chair out before she sat down, as if it were second nature. He would still tuck her hair back from her face with careful fingers, brushing against her skin like it was the most natural thing in the world. He would still hand her a cup of tea that was exactly how she liked it, without her ever having to ask, as if he had always known.
And that was the problem.
Because somewhere along the line, without her noticing, she had stopped thinking of him as the boy who had sneered at her in school and started thinking of him as the man who had stepped through her door and somehow never left.
And fuck, fuck, fuck—she had been gone from the moment it happened. From the first time his fingertips grazed hers, from the first time he looked at her like she was worth waiting for, from the first unspoken vow she felt curl between them without either of them saying a word. She had been gone from the second she understood, with a bone-deep certainty, that he was never going to walk away.
There was no going back now. No undoing whatever had begun to take root between them. No pretending that she had not already handed over pieces of herself she had never intended to give.
And worse still, the part that made her want to curse herself, was that she did not even want to take them back.
*
The room was warm, a cocoon of golden candlelight that licked at the edges of the dark walls, each flicker casting shadows that swayed like secrets trading places in the corners. The fire gave a low, steady hum, its glow painting everything in amber, softening sharp edges, and making the world outside feel far away. The scent of aged wine hung in the air, deep and rich, tangled with something faintly floral, a quiet perfume that reminded her of pressed petals and sunlit rooms, of comfort, of familiarity, of the slow, unspoken gravity drawing them closer.
They sat near each other, not touching, but close enough that the space between them felt loaded, as if the air itself had grown aware of them. It was not enough to suffocate, but far too little to offer relief. Neither acknowledged it aloud, neither shifted forward nor leaned back, but the tension stretched thin and fine between them, the way silk strains before it gives way, holding on by a single delicate thread.
Luna's fingers curled lightly around the stem of her wine glass. The movement looked effortless, casual, yet her pulse was uneven, betraying the calm she tried to wear. The glass tilted just slightly as she lifted it, the dark liquid catching the light before she took a slow sip.
Draco's gaze followed her, not with polite interest, not with the fleeting attention of someone passing the time, but with the kind of focus that felt deliberate, almost reverent. He was seeing her in a way that made the moment heavier, seeing her in a way that left no part of her untouched. His eyes traced the curve of her mouth against the glass, lingered on the subtle shift of her throat as she swallowed, the shadow cast along her jaw when she turned her head. The candlelight caught in the loose strands of her hair, each glint making something dangerous stir in him.
It was the sort of attention that made her feel both grounded and unmoored, as if she might dissolve beneath the weight of it. It was the kind of attention people did not give unless they were already too far gone, the kind that carried the unspoken truth of wanting to memorize something they had no intention of losing.
Her gaze lifted to meet his, just over the rim of her glass, and she knew instantly that it had been a mistake. His eyes were darker now, a shade she had no name for, molten and unyielding, holding the slow, inexorable burn of a man who was holding himself together only because the alternative was too final, too dangerous.
It was hunger, yes, but not the hurried kind. This was hunger that had learned patience, that knew the worth of waiting, that had sharpened itself into something controlled and devastating. Her breath caught before she could stop it.
The air between them thickened until it felt as if the room had shrunk to only this moment, to only this distance, to only them. Even the fire seemed quieter, as though it, too, was leaning closer, as though it had been drawn into whatever was building here.
She parted her lips, about to speak, about to turn the tension into something lighter, something safer, something she could control. A joke was already forming, something sharp enough to cut through the quiet, but before the words could take shape, he moved. His hand came forward with quiet certainty, slipping under the base of her glass, his fingers brushing hers as he took it from her. The stem slipped from her grasp as though it had never truly belonged to her, the faint scrape of glass against wood sounding louder than it should when he set it on the small table at their side.
He never looked away. Not once. His gaze stayed locked on hers, his fingers catching hers in a deliberate, lingering touch that made her stomach tighten. Then his hand shifted, sliding upward with a slow, unhurried grace until his palm cupped her cheek. His thumb grazed her skin, the heat of his touch making her aware of every nerve beneath it. He guided her face toward his, tilting just enough to erase the air between them. Inch by inch, the world contracted until it was only the space they shared, until the first brush of his lips silenced whatever she had been about to say.
And this kiss… this was nothing like the others.
It was not a clash. It was not the spillover from a fight, not a rush of heat sparked by frustration or sharp words. It was not a stolen, reckless thing that burned out too quickly. This kiss was unhurried, almost devastating in its patience. It unfolded like a secret only he could tell, his lips coaxing hers into a rhythm that felt inevitable. She tasted wine on him, rich and lingering, but beneath that there was something else, something softer, something she could not name without risking too much.
Her toes curled against the rug as she sank into him. Her body gave in before her mind could catch up, leaning into his touch, into the steady press of his palm, into the slow threading of his fingers through her hair. There was reverence in the way he touched her, in the way he deepened the kiss without breaking its pace, each movement measured, as if he was showing her something he could not say aloud.
Her breath hitched when the kiss shifted, when he pressed her gently back against the couch. His body followed, fitting against hers in a way that felt too natural to question. His lips left hers only to wander lower, brushing the line of her jaw before ghosting over the warm, delicate skin of her throat. He lingered there, his breath warm against her pulse, and then pressed his mouth to it, slow and open, the drag of his lips sending shivers down her spine.
Her head tilted back without thought, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. She held him there, her grip a wordless plea to keep him close, to keep the warmth of him exactly where she needed it.
His hands moved with an unsettling precision, as though he had spent years imagining this map and was only now tracing it for the first time. He followed the curve of her waist, slid upward to the line of her ribs, then down again, fingertips grazing the length of her thigh. Every touch was deliberate, exploratory, claiming without force. When his lips reached the hollow above her collarbone, he paused only long enough for her breath to catch. Then his tongue flicked against the bone, followed by the slow scrape of his teeth, sharp enough to make her hips shift against his. The sound that left her was soft, almost lost to the fire, but his answering inhale told her he had heard every note of it.
"Draco."
She had not planned to say it. She had not meant to let the wrecked, breathless sound of his name slip from her mouth like a plea she could not take back. Yet the moment it was spoken, the moment those two syllables filled the space between them, something inside him changed.
It was not subtle. It was not small. It was the kind of shift that pulled the air tighter, that made her pulse race, that warned her the tether he had been holding so carefully was about to snap. His hands slid lower, unhurried but purposeful, mapping the curve of her hips before curling beneath the hem of her dress. He pushed the fabric upward in slow increments, not tearing, not rushing, not claiming through force, but revealing her inch by inch to the cool air, to his gaze, to the heat of his touch.
His fingers trailed up the inside of her thigh with maddening precision, every movement coaxing a reaction, every brush of his skin against hers pulling another sharp inhale from her. He watched her closely, not with impatience but with something more deliberate, something that told her he was memorizing each tremor and the way her body seemed to yield without thought. Her thighs parted without her telling them to. Her hands fisted in his shirt, in his hair, in the muscle at his shoulder, anything she could grip to hold him closer.
His mouth curved against her skin, the smirk unmistakable even without seeing it. His breath brushed over the most sensitive part of her, warm and taunting, before he pressed a slow kiss against the inside of her thigh. "Look at you, love," he murmured, his voice low and rough in a way that made her shiver. His fingers traced an idle path higher, the touch almost too soft to bear. "Already so wet for me."
A sound escaped her, thin and shaky, caught somewhere between frustration and surrender. It rose from deep in her chest without her permission, and for a moment she thought she could drown in this, in him, in the heat building between them.
Then it vanished.
The spell of the evening, the fragile weave of heat and closeness between them, snapped. It was not a gentle unraveling. It was ripped apart, torn through by a sudden, searing flash of green that flooded the room with unnatural light. The fireplace roared to life, the flames swallowing the air with a hiss and a rush that made her flinch. The heat was wrong, cold at its edges, the kind that burned without warmth.
Before she could take a breath, before she could even name what she had just lost, the magic in the air shifted. Someone else was here. Someone who did not belong, who had no right to be part of this moment, who had no place in the quiet, private space that had existed only for the two of them.
The weight of Draco's body, the press of his chest against hers, the deep, measured rhythm of his breath at her throat—all of it vanished. It left her skin chilled, left her body hollow with the sudden absence. She could still taste him on her lips, still feel the shape of his hands on her skin, but the moment was already gone, stolen as completely as if it had never existed.
The figure that stepped from the fire was tall and striking, her presence carrying the kind of beauty that cut rather than soothed. Long hair the color of pale gold spilled over her bare shoulders in perfect, deliberate waves. A sheer scrap of silk clung to her body, not hiding but highlighting the fact that she had come here dressed for intimacy. There was nothing accidental about her appearance. She looked as though she had stepped into the room for the sole purpose of dismantling it, piece by piece, until there was nothing left standing.
The air tightened in Luna's lungs. This was not just anyone. This was a ghost from Draco's life, the kind of ghost that walked into a room with the full confidence that she was still welcome. She moved with the careless grace of someone who had never been told no, who had never once considered that she might not be wanted.
She did not stop at the sight of him leaning over another woman. She did not flinch at his lips, still flushed from Luna's kiss, or at the loosened fall of his hair. If anything, her mouth curved with faint amusement, as if she had walked in on something she expected to interrupt.
And then she spoke.
"Draco, love, you must forget tonight."
The words slid into the space like a blade wrapped in velvet. Smooth, calculated, soaked in the kind of confidence that made them sound less like a request and more like an instruction. She spoke as if his compliance was inevitable. As if Luna's presence meant nothing. As if this moment had never been theirs to begin with.
The silence that followed was so sharp it seemed to ring in her ears.
Luna's body went rigid, her breath catching in her throat like it had been caught on glass. Her fingers, which only seconds ago had been tangled in Draco's hair, anchoring him to her, holding him where she wanted him, went cold. The warmth that had been flowing through her, that slow, intoxicating pull that had been building between them all evening, vanished in an instant. What replaced it was sharper, crueler, something that stung like frostbite under her skin.
She did not have to ask for a name. The knowledge came unbidden, as certain as if it had been whispered in her ear.
Astoria.
The name struck like the point of a blade, slicing clean through the tender, unguarded place inside her she had been so careful to keep hidden. It cut through every moment they had shared, through the fragile thread she had been pretending was unbreakable, through the soft and dangerous thing she had been holding between her palms without admitting she was holding it at all.
She had never asked about Draco's past. She had never wanted to know. Not out of ignorance, not because she imagined his life before her had been clean or simple, but because she had believed—foolishly, recklessly—that whatever had come before would not touch this. That it would not reach her. That it would not matter.
And yet here it was.
Not a shadow, not a half-heard story, but a living, breathing woman standing in front of the fireplace in little more than a whisper of silk, her bare skin catching the light like it had every right to be admired. Standing there without hesitation, without shame, looking at Draco as though his presence here, in this moment, with Luna still beneath him, belonged to her.
She felt the shift in him before she saw it. The way his body stiffened above her, every muscle locked tight, as if the simple act of moving had become impossible. The air between them seemed to thicken, heavy with something that could tip either way, something volatile enough to scorch if she breathed too deeply. And still, he said nothing.
He did not rise to his feet.
He did not tell Astoria to leave.
He did not push her back into the flames she had stepped from.
He did nothing at all.
And that, for Luna, was enough. It was more than enough.
Her stomach dropped as though the floor had given way beneath her. Something cold and merciless wrapped itself around her ribs and began to squeeze. The clarity came fast, sharp as ice, settling into her bones before she could fight it.
She did not belong here.
Not in this house.
Not in this room.
Not in the life of Draco Malfoy.
She had let herself believe, just for a heartbeat, just for the length of one fragile, impossible breath, that this could be something real. That the thread between them was strong enough to hold. That she could keep him, that he might want to be kept. That what she had begun to feel for him was not one-sided, that she was not standing at the edge of something only she could see.
But this… this was reality slamming its weight against her, unyielding and merciless. This was the sound of a door closing and locking from the other side. This was proof, carved into the air in front of her, that she had been wrong.
She did not ask him to explain. She did not invite whatever half-truth or cruel mercy he might have offered. She would not let him turn this into another wound she had to nurse.
Her body moved before her mind could catch up. She pushed herself up from the couch, almost stumbling, shoving past him with a kind of clumsy determination, her hands unsteady as she yanked her dress into place. Every motion felt jerky, awkward, like she was holding herself together with fraying thread and sheer willpower. She bit down hard against the sting in her chest, forcing the tears back, swallowing the lump in her throat until it burned.
She would not cry.
She would not break in front of him.
She would not let Draco Malfoy see how completely this had gutted her.
His voice came after her, cutting through the charged silence, sharp enough to draw blood. There was something desperate in it, something frayed, but she did not stop. She did not turn her head. She did not let herself breathe deeply enough to hesitate. She knew that if she so much as glanced at him, if she gave him even a fraction of her attention, she would fold in on herself and never find her footing again.
Her steps carried her toward the doorway, toward escape, toward the cold safety of anywhere else. She was almost there when his voice broke through again.
But this time, it was not meant for her.
"You stupid bitch, why do you need to ruin everything good in my life?"
The words cracked through the room like a whip, sharp and venomous and vicious enough to leave the air shuddering in their wake. They were not aimed at her, but they still caught in her ribs, still made her heart slam painfully against her chest. His fury filled the space until it seemed to press in on her from every direction. His magic sparked and snarled, hot and dangerous, wrapping around the walls and ceiling as though it would burn straight through them if it could.
Luna froze for only the smallest fraction of a second, her lungs locked, the air thick and electric around her. She did not wait to hear Astoria's reply. She did not stay to see if he would follow through on the violence threaded into his voice. She did not risk turning to find out if he would look for her.
Because none of it mattered.
Whether he still meant to fight for her or not, whether those words were truth or temper, whether he would chase after her or let her go, the truth had already settled deep inside her.
The damage was done, and there was no taking it back.
And she did not linger for wars she had already lost. She had never been the kind to fight battles that were already decided, had never seen the point in clinging to what was slipping away, had never begged for something that was never meant to be hers. Yet this felt different. This felt like walking away from something that should have been hers all along, from something she had never wanted to need but had come to crave, from something she had never let herself believe in until she believed in him.
Her feet carried her forward, each step a sentence, each one heavier than the last, the sound of her shoes echoing in the cavernous hallways of the Malfoy estate. She passed the grand staircases with their carved banisters that gleamed like polished bone, the long walls lined with oil portraits of faces too cold to have ever known warmth, let alone love. She walked past centuries of a family that had never built a place for someone like her. Past the antique tables with their crystal vases and perfect roses, past bookshelves rising to the ceiling, crammed with first editions and relics from a life shaped by power and bloodlines and rules that had never mattered to her.
Then she saw it. The door.
It was close now, only a few steps ahead, so near she could almost feel the draft from the world beyond. Freedom waited there. The air outside promised distance and clarity, a life without him, a life where she could forget the weight of his hands and the way he had looked at her as though she was worth the fight. A life where his kiss did not live in her bones.
Her fingers curled around the handle, knuckles white with the effort of holding on, her muscles tensing as she prepared to cross that threshold. She was ready to leave it all behind.
Then she felt him.
His presence hit her like a wave breaking against stone, thick and hot and desperate. He was behind her before she could turn, before she could draw in a steady breath, before she could summon the composure to face him. His closeness seeped into her skin, warm and familiar, and if she tipped her head back just slightly, she knew she would fall into him.
But she did not move. She kept her spine straight, her hand tight around the door as if it were the only thing tethering her to herself.
"Please don't go." His voice was hoarse and frayed, the kind of sound a man makes when something inside him is already breaking.
It was not only a plea. It was not just an apology. It was the unguarded, brutal cry of someone who had finally understood what they stood to lose.
"Please, just let me—"
She shook her head before he could finish.
Already breaking. Already knowing.
She had known the moment Astoria appeared in that room. Known the moment Draco hesitated. Known the moment she allowed herself to trust him.
"Let's not see each other ever again, okay?"
Her voice came softer than she expected, steady in a way that made the words cut deeper. It sounded like a final verdict, like the last breath before the blade falls.
She did not wait. She did not give him the chance to argue, or explain, or make this hurt worse than it already did. She turned the handle, stepped through, and let the door close behind her.
Her gaze found his one last time. A single, final moment to take him in. To watch the way his face split open with something unrestrained and unguarded, to feel the violent echo of it crash through her chest before she tore herself away.
Then she was gone.
The pull of her magic surged, catching hold of her veins like a tide intent on dragging her from the house, from him, from everything they had been building in the fragile span of these last few weeks.
Draco did not follow.
He did not speak. He did not even breathe.
He stood rooted in the doorway, eyes fixed on the space where she had been, the absence of her a raw and physical ache, as though someone had reached inside and torn something vital from his body.
The silence that settled over him was not stillness. It was suffocation. It stretched in every direction, filling the corridors with a heavy void, the kind of cold that seeps into bone and stays there. It felt like the moment after a curse goes wrong, when the magic has already left your wand and you know it will hit, and there is no way to stop it, no way to take it back, only the grim knowledge that you will have to watch it ruin everything.
This was it.
The moment he lost her.
Not to the war. Not in battle. Not in any act that could be dressed up as sacrifice or heroism. This was different. This was worse. It was slow, and it was precise, and it was permanent.
She was gone.
The only thing that had ever made him feel alive. The only thing that had ever felt real. The only thing he had ever wanted to keep.
And he knew, with a certainty that left no space for hope, that there was no return from this.