Draco had become a permanent fixture in her life, an inevitability she hadn't planned for, an expectation that neither of them had spoken aloud but had settled between them like an unshakable truth. It wasn't an agreement, not officially, not something that had ever been put into words, but it was there, woven into the very fabric of their days and nights, slipping into place so seamlessly that it was impossible to pinpoint exactly when it had started.
It began with mornings—his mornings, specifically. At some point, he had decided that Moonbrew was his morning ritual, that her coffee shop was the only place worth beginning his day, that the first cup of tea he drank had to come from her hands. It didn't matter if he had a full schedule, if there were a hundred different things demanding his attention—he always showed up.
Always strode through the door at the exact same time, always with a smug little smirk, always with some unnecessary commentary about the state of the world before he even ordered his drink.
And she? She always had it ready before he could ask, always set his cup down in front of him with a slow blink and a knowing look, always gave him some ridiculous, nonsensical reply that made his lips twitch and his shoulders relax like he hadn't spent years holding himself so rigidly.
And then there were the evenings—her evenings, the ones he had seamlessly inserted himself into, the ones where he showed up at her doorstep with no invitation and no explanation, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Sometimes, he brought expensive wine or pastries from some bakery she'd never heard of, other times he arrived empty-handed, unapologetic and expectant, stepping inside without hesitation like he had every right to be there.
At first, she had questioned it, had tilted her head and studied him like he was a particularly curious puzzle, had considered telling him to go back to whatever grand, empty manor he called home. But she never did. Because she had already let him in.
And that was the problem.
She should have drawn the line. She should have made it clear that this was temporary, that this was nothing more than a convenience, that whatever strange, tangled thing between them wasn't real. But she hadn't.
Instead, she let the nights stretch into something longer, let their conversations spiral into something deeper, let the easy silence between them feel safe. Some nights, they bickered endlessly, debating over the true meaning of the universe, whether Thestrals were actually misunderstood or just vaguely horrifying, whether his obsession with custom-tailored suits made him a snob (it did).
Other nights, they fell into comfortable quiet, content with nothing but the sound of flickering candlelight and the rhythmic clink of teacups against porcelain, both of them lost in their own thoughts but somehow always staying in the same space, always existing together.
And it was dangerous.
Because something was happening to her.
At first, it was a flicker, a brief, fleeting warmth curling in her chest whenever he smirked at her from across the table, whenever he rolled his eyes at her nonsense but never actually told her to stop. It was subtle, ignorable, the kind of thing she could explain away if she really tried. But then it grew. Became something she couldn't ignore. Became the way her breath hitched whenever he leaned too close, the way her pulse betrayed her whenever his fingers skimmed against hers, the way her entire body thrummed with something unbearable whenever his voice dropped too low, whenever he said her name like it meant something.
And that? That was a problem.
No. No, no, no.
Absolutely fucking not.
She could not love him.
This was Draco Malfoy. The man who had barreled into her life uninvited, the man who had ruined her peace of mind, the man who had stolen her cow and then had the audacity to act like it was completely justified. This was the boy who had sneered at her in school, the one whose last name was synonymous with power, arrogance, and a world she had never belonged to.
This was the man who fought her, kissed her, pushed her, and refused to let her go, even when she told him to. This was the man who looked at her like she was the only thing in the world that made sense.
And that? That was unforgivable.
Because she should stop seeing him.
She should walk away while she still could, should retreat before this turned into something she couldn't control, something that would consume her, something that would leave her raw and exposed in a way she hadn't allowed herself to be in years.
She should stop meeting his gaze across the table, should stop lingering when he brushed past her, should stop letting his voice settle under her skin like a warmth she never wanted to lose.
She should stop entertaining this, stop feeding whatever this was between them, stop letting him chip away at her resolve with every moment that stretched too long, with every glance that held too much, with every breathless silence that felt like it should lead to something more.
She should have ended it before it got worse, before the idea of him being there every day, before the sound of his voice, before the way he said her name in that low, unguarded way became something she craved.
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 to anything good.
She should have walked away.
She should have run.
But then—without meaning to, without even realizing what he was doing—he would do something.
Something small, stupid, completely insignificant in the grand scheme of things, and yet those tiny, thoughtless gestures would be the things that unraveled her completely.
It would be the way his fingers reached out and fixed the ribbon in her hair when it came loose, as if he had done it a thousand times before, as if it was second nature, as if it was his place to do so.
It would be the way he handed her a cup of tea without asking how she took it, because somehow, even though she had never told him, even though she didn't know how he could possibly know, it was exactly the way she liked it.
It would be the way he never left early, never disappeared the moment he was no longer needed, the way he lingered after closing, drying cups with slow, precise movements, standing at her counter like he had every right to be there, like there was no reason for him to leave until she did.
And that? That was the moment she knew.
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, not with impatience, not with the kind of fleeting, surface-level interest that could be explained away, but with something deeper, something steadier, something more dangerous than she could ever put words to.
He watched her the way people watch things they don't plan to lose, the way people memorize the smallest details of something they know they can't keep, the way people hold onto things that have already begun slipping through their fingers but refuse to let go.
It was the kind of gaze that shouldn't exist between two people who weren't in love, the kind of gaze that lingered too long, that carried too much weight, that settled in the pit of her stomach like a stone, heavy and impossible to ignore.
It was the kind of gaze that made her wonder—for the first time, for the first real, terrifying, heart-stopping time—if maybe, just maybe, she had been fooling herself all along.
Because Draco was so goddamn beautiful. Unfairly, unreasonably, infuriatingly beautiful. Beautiful in a way that made it impossible to breathe when he was too close, beautiful in a way that made something in her chest ache when he smirked, when he pushed his fingers through his hair, when he rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, when he leaned against her counter like he belonged there, like he had always belonged there, like there was no version of this world where he wasn't standing exactly where he was, looking at her like she was the most fascinating, most maddening, most utterly captivating thing in existence.
And it wasn't just that. It wasn't just his face, wasn't just the angles of his jaw or the ridiculous, piercing intensity of his eyes or the sharp curve of his smirk when he was feeling particularly smug. It was something worse. So much worse. It was the way he carried himself, the way he filled a room, the way his presence was impossible to ignore. It was the way his magic brushed against hers whenever he got too close, like it was asking permission, seeking recognition, marking her even when he wasn't touching her at all.
And beyond that, beyond the sheer physicality of him, beyond the infuriating confidence, beyond the way his voice sent chills down her spine when it dropped too low, there was something else. Something far more dangerous. Because Draco Malfoy wasn't just attractive—he was nice.
Painfully, exasperatingly, irritatingly nice.
Nice in a way that felt like a trap, like a lure, like something meant to trick her into believing he could be good for her.
Nice in a way that felt sincere, effortless, unpracticed, as if he had no idea how utterly devastating it was for him to be like this.
Nice in a way that made her want to shove him away and pull him closer in the same breath.
Nice in a way that made her hate him for it, made her resent the way he softened when he thought no one was watching, made her want to scream at him because how dare he make her want him like this?
A gentleman, even when he was being an absolute bastard, even when he was infuriating, even when he was pressing too close, crowding into her space, making her question everything she thought she knew about what she wanted.
A man who could set her on fire with a single look, and yet still pull her chair out for her when she sat down, still tuck her hair behind her ear with slow, careful fingers, still press a cup of tea into her hands without her having to ask.
And fuck, fuck, fuck—she was already too far gone.
She had been gone from the moment he first stepped through the door, from the moment his fingertips brushed against hers, from the moment he looked at her like she was something worth waiting for. She had been gone from the second she realized he was never going to walk away.
There was no turning back now, no way to undo whatever had begun between them, no way to pretend she hadn't already given him more of herself than she had ever meant to.
And worse? She didn't even want to.
The room was warm, a cocoon of golden candlelight flickering against dark walls, the low hum of the fire casting shadows that moved like whispers between them. The scent of aged wine lingered in the air, mingling with something soft and floral, something that smelled like comfort, like intimacy, like the slow unraveling of something inevitable.
They sat close, just barely turned toward each other, the space between them small enough to be suffocating but wide enough to be unbearable. Neither of them acknowledged it, neither of them made the first move to close it, but the tension stretched between them like a thread pulled too tight, a fragile thing on the verge of snapping.
Luna's fingers curled lightly around the stem of her wine glass, an effortless movement, a posture that might have looked relaxed to anyone else, but her heartbeat told a different story, erratic and unsteady as she fought against the weight of his gaze. He wasn't just looking at her; he was seeing her, not in the casual way people often did, not in passing or with polite interest.
He was taking her in, slowly, deliberately, as if he was committing every detail to memory, as if this was something he needed to remember, something he couldn't afford to forget. His eyes followed the way her lips parted around the rim of the glass, the slow movement of her throat as she swallowed, the way the candlelight flickered over the sharp angle of her jaw, catching in the wild strands of her hair. It was the kind of attention that felt dangerous, the kind that made her feel like she was teetering on the edge of something impossible to come back from.
She turned her head slightly, her gaze meeting his over the rim of her glass, and fuck, that was her mistake. His eyes were dark, molten, burning with something slow, something entirely consuming, something that made her breath catch in her throat before she could stop it. He was looking at her like he was starving, like he had been waiting for this moment for far too long, like he wasn't sure how much longer he could hold himself back.
The air between them shifted, thickened, became something tangible, something heavy, something that made her feel like the room had shrunk to just the space between them.
She parted her lips, about to say something, about to make a joke, about to break the unbearable silence with something sharp and teasing, but before she could even take a breath, he moved. His hand reached forward, slipping beneath the glass she still held, prying it from her fingers with an ease that sent a shiver up her spine. He placed it on the small table beside them without looking away, his fingers brushing against hers in a lingering moment that left her dizzy. Then he reached for her instead, fingers warm against her cheek, tilting her face toward his, closing the space between them inch by inch until there was nothing left to separate them, until his lips finally met hers.
And fuck. This wasn't like the other kisses.
This wasn't rushed, wasn't desperate, wasn't fueled by anger or frustration or the lingering embers of a fight that neither of them could ever seem to win. This was slow, deliberate, the kind of kiss that unfolded like a secret, that made her toes curl against the rug, that tasted like wine and something sweeter, something deeper, something she was terrified to name. His lips were soft, coaxing, moving over hers in a way that felt like surrender, like a promise, like something neither of them would be able to take back.
She melted against him, let her body relax, let herself sink into the feeling of him, into the warmth of his hands, into the way his fingers slipped into her hair, threading through the strands with an aching kind of reverence. He kissed her deeper, softer, slower, as if he was trying to make her understand something, as if he was trying to tell her what words never could.
Then, just as her breath hitched, just as the warmth pooling low in her stomach became something hotter, something desperate, he moved.
His weight shifted, pressing her back against the couch, covering her body with his in a way that felt so natural, so inevitable, that she didn't even think to question it. His lips trailed lower, brushing against the curve of her jaw, ghosting over the delicate skin of her throat before pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss against the fluttering pulse there.
Her head tipped back of its own accord, her body arching into him, her fingers gripping at the fabric of his shirt, holding him there, keeping him close.
His hands were everywhere and nowhere all at once, sliding over the curve of her waist, up the side of her ribs, down to her thighs, teasing, exploring, mapping her out with careful precision, as if he was learning her, as if he was discovering something rare and precious and utterly his to claim. His lips found the hollow of her collarbone, his breath warm against her skin, his tongue flicking out just slightly before his teeth scraped over the sensitive bone, and oh, oh, that sent something sharp and electric straight through her.
"Draco—"
She didn't mean to say it, didn't mean to let the wrecked, wanting sound of his name slip past her lips like a plea, but the second she did, the second the syllables hit the air between them, she felt the shift.
Something in him snapped, something broke, something gave way to the urgency he had been holding back, and his hands moved lower, sliding down her body, slow, teasing, fingers curling beneath the hem of her dress, pushing it up, up, up, revealing more of her to the cool air, to his touch, to the inevitable descent of what they had both been pretending they weren't heading toward.
He didn't rush, didn't tear it away in a fit of impatience, didn't grab her like something to be conquered. No, he took his time, dragged his fingers up the inside of her thigh with excruciating slowness, watching her, watching every tiny reaction, every small tremor, every sharp inhale, memorizing the way she came undone beneath him. Her thighs parted instinctively, her breath coming faster, her fingers tightening in his hair, in his shoulders, in the fabric of his shirt, holding him closer, pulling him down, needing him, needing this, needing him so much she could barely think.
And Draco—Draco just smirked against her skin, his breath a ghost of a touch over the most sensitive part of her, his voice low, wrecked, entirely too smug. "Look at you, love," he murmured, pressing a single, slow kiss against the inside of her thigh, his fingers tracing a lazy path higher. "Already so wet for me."
Luna let out a shaky breath, a whimper, a sound that was somewhere between frustration and absolute surrender.
The warmth that had curled in Luna's stomach, the slow, intoxicating fire that had licked up her spine, the molten heat that had seeped into her bones under Draco's touch—all of it disappeared in an instant. The world tilted, a sudden and violent shift, the kind that left her dizzy, weightless, utterly untethered.
The spell of the evening—of them—was ripped apart, shredded at the seams, torn down by the intrusive, blinding flash of green flames that erupted in the fireplace, by the sharp shift in the air, by the unmistakable, unforgivable presence of someone who did not belong in this moment, someone who had no right to step into this space that was meant only for them.
The weight of Draco's body, the delicious press of his chest against hers, the heavy warmth of his breath against her skin, the slow, burning unraveling of everything between them—it was gone, yanked from her grasp like something stolen. Before she could even process the loss, before she could cling to what had been seconds away from consuming her, a figure emerged from the flames, tall, striking, ethereal in the most unwelcome, most destructive way possible.
Draco's past.
A woman, her long, blond hair cascading in soft, deliberate waves over her bare shoulders, her frame barely obscured by the sheer, flimsy silk wrapped around her body, as if she had stepped into this room with the sole intention of destroying everything in it. She was beautiful in a way that was meant to be cruel, in a way that demanded attention, in a way that reminded Luna of every reason she should have never let herself get close to Draco Malfoy.
The intruder did not hesitate, did not falter, did not flinch at the sight of him half-draped over another woman, his lips still red, still swollen from the kisses Luna had pressed against them only moments ago. If anything, she looked amused.
And then she spoke.
"Draco, love, you must forget tonight..."
The words dripped from her mouth like honey-laced poison, smooth and calculated, spoken in a way that suggested she was not making a request, but issuing a command. As if she expected him to comply. As if she thought he would turn away from the woman beneath him, from the one thing in his life that had ever truly made sense. As if she believed she still had a claim to him.
The moment was deafening in its silence.
Luna's body went rigid, her breath catching, her fingers—which had just been buried in Draco's hair, clutching at him, holding him against her—went cold. Her skin burned, not with the heat of his touch, not with the slow, dizzying pleasure she had felt only moments before, but with something sharp, something humiliating, something dangerously close to devastation.
She didn't need to ask for a name. She already knew.
Astoria.
The name hit like a blade, cutting through the warmth in her chest, slicing clean through the fragile, vulnerable part of her she had been so careful to protect. She had never asked about Draco's past, had never wanted to know. Not because she was naïve, not because she was unaware of the kind of life he had lived before her, but because she had always assumed—foolishly, stupidly, that it wouldn't matter.
But now?
Now it was staring her in the face.
Now it was standing in front of the fireplace, half-naked, completely at ease, looking at Draco like she had every right to be there.
Luna felt Draco tense above her, felt the way his entire body locked up, went unnaturally still. Felt the way the air between them thickened, grew suffocating, electric, volatile. But he didn't speak. He didn't move. He didn't push Astoria away. He didn't shove her out.
He didn't immediately set the record straight.
And that was enough.
That was all it took for Luna's stomach to plummet, for something cold to wrap around her ribs and squeeze, for the sharp, brutal clarity to set in like a death sentence.
She didn't belong here.
Not in this house.
Not in this moment.
Not in Malfoy's life.
She had allowed herself to believe—for just a second, for one fleeting, impossible moment—that this could be something real. That this could be hers. That he could be hers. That he wanted her in the same way she was beginning to realize she wanted him.
But this?
This was reality slamming the door in her face.
This was the brutal, undeniable evidence that she had been wrong.
She didn't wait for him to explain.
She didn't give him the chance to turn this into something even more excruciating.
With frantic, jerky movements, she pushed herself up from the couch, shoving past him, her limbs stiff, her fingers trembling as she straightened her dress, as she tried—desperately, hopelessly—to hold herself together.
She would not cry. She would not break in front of him.
She would not let Draco Malfoy see just how deeply this moment had shattered something inside her.
His voice chased after her, sharp, desperate, a knife-edge against the silence. But she didn't turn, didn't stop, didn't let herself hesitate for even a second.
Because if she did—if she so much as looked at him—she knew she would crumble.
And then—before she could step through the doorway, before she could escape, before she could disappear from this nightmare altogether—Draco spoke again.
But this time, it wasn't for her.
"You stupid bitch, why do you need to ruin everything good in my life?"
The words exploded from him like a curse, venomous, unchecked, fueled by something so raw, so untamed, so entirely unhinged that the very walls trembled under the weight of his fury.
Luna stopped breathing.
His rage was suffocating. His magic crackled, the air around them thick with the kind of dangerous, uncontrollable energy that could destroy everything in its path.
But she didn't stay to witness the aftermath.
She didn't stay to hear Astoria's response.
She didn't stay to see what Draco would do next.
Because it didn't matter.
Because whether he was still fighting for her or not, whether he had meant those words or not, whether he would chase after her or not—
The damage was already done.
And she didn't stick around for wars she had already lost. She had never been the kind to fight losing battles, had never seen the point in clinging to things that were already slipping through her fingers, had never allowed herself to beg for something that wasn't meant to be hers. And yet, this—this felt different. This felt like she was walking away from something that should have been hers, from something she had never wanted to need but had somehow come to crave, from something she had never allowed herself to believe in, but had believed in him anyway.
Her feet carried her forward, each step heavy, final, echoing in the cavernous hallways of the Malfoy estate. She passed the grand staircases lined with intricately carved banisters, the long stretches of walls adorned with oil-painted portraits of people who had never known warmth, who had never known love, who had spent generations building a dynasty that had never included a place for someone like her. She moved past antique tables topped with vases of fresh-cut roses, past towering bookshelves filled with first editions and relics of a life that had once been dictated by power and bloodlines and things that had never mattered to her.
And then she saw it—the door.
So close, just a few steps away, just within reach.
Freedom.
The world beyond it promised distance, clarity, escape. It promised her a life without him, a life where she could forget the weight of his hands on her skin, the way he had looked at her like she was something worth holding onto, the way he had kissed her like he was trying to brand himself into her very bones.
She reached for it, fingers curling around the handle, muscles tensing as she prepared to step through, as she prepared to leave behind everything.
And then she felt it.
Him.
His presence crashed over her like a wave, thick, overwhelming, desperate, ruined. He was behind her before she could even turn, before she could steady herself, before she could gather what little composure she had left. He was so close, close enough that she could feel the warmth of him at her back, close enough that if she tilted her head, if she just leaned in, she could let herself fall back into him.
But she didn't.
She stood there, spine straight, fingers gripping the door like a lifeline, like if she let go, she would lose herself completely.
"Please don't go," his voice was hoarse, shattered, wrecked.
It wasn't just a plea, wasn't just an apology, wasn't just a desperate grasp at something that was already slipping through his hands. It was so much worse. It was raw. It was real. It was the kind of brokenness that could only come from someone who had just realized—too late—that they had finally found something worth saving.
"Please just let me—"
But she was already shaking her head.
Already breaking apart.
Already knowing.
She had known it from the moment Astoria stepped into the room. Had known it from the moment Draco hesitated.
Had known it from the moment she had let herself believe in him.
"Let's not see each other ever again, okay?"
The words came out softer than she had intended, steadier, quieter, like the final stroke of a death sentence. Like the last breath before an execution.
She didn't wait.
Didn't give him the chance to fight.
Didn't give him the chance to make this hurt more than it already did.
Her gaze lifted to his, one final time, one last moment to memorize him, to take in the way his face cracked open with something wild and uncontained, to feel the devastation of it settle in her chest before she ripped herself away.
Then—she was gone.
The pull of her magic surged through her veins, dragging her away from the house, away from him, away from everything they had built in the past few weeks.
And Draco didn't move.
Didn't speak. Didn't breathe.
He just stood there, frozen in the doorway, watching the empty space where she had been, feeling the loss of her like something had been physically ripped from his body.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Suffocating.
Stretching out around him like an unbearable void, like the slow, creeping cold of a wound that would never heal, like the moment right after a spell misfires—when you know it's too late, when you know you can't stop it, when you know you have to watch it destroy everything in front of you.
This was it.
This was the moment he lost everything.
Not in the war. Not in a duel. Not in an act of heroism or sacrifice.
No, this was worse.
This was slow, painful, excruciating. This was something he would never recover from.
He had lost her.
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 burned straight through his soul—that there was no coming back from this.