"See you tomorrow?"
Three little words, spoken like she was commenting on the weather, and yet here they were, marching in circles through his skull as if determined to set up permanent residence. It was not just repetition, it was a siege. A curse. A promise. A spell so casually woven that he hadn't even noticed it being cast until it was far too late to defend himself. The echo of it clung to him like smoke, stubborn and unshakable, following him as he stalked the dim corridors of the manor with the restless energy of a man who would have hexed his own thoughts if he could.
She had said it with that infuriating softness of hers, the sort that sounded effortless and uncalculated but was, in his opinion, deeply suspicious. That breezy, unbothered tone had a way of slipping past his usual defences and leaving him off-balance, as though she had not just been standing on the very edge of something dangerous with him. As though she had not reached into his chest and cracked open some private, carefully locked place with nothing more than a glance and a touch that had absolutely no business lingering in his memory.
She had said it like it was nothing at all. Like it was a friendly suggestion. Like it was not the verbal equivalent of setting fire to his composure.
And perhaps it should not have mattered. Perhaps, in a sane and orderly world, it would have been meaningless. But it did matter. Oh, it mattered far too much.
He was losing his mind.
This was ridiculous. He was ridiculous. Merlin above, what was wrong with him?
Draco Malfoy was not some stammering adolescent battling the delightful agony of his first crush. He was not some sheltered innocent who had never tasted the thrill of a woman's touch, nor was he a wistful poet clinging to the memory of a fleeting encounter. He had lived more life than most. He had sinned with precision and with style. He had known seduction in all its forms, mastered it, bent it to his will, and taken pleasure as easily as breathing. Desire was no stranger to him.
But this was different.
Now he stood alone in the vast, echoing silence of his own estate, the weight of his fortune pressing down on him with all the warmth of a block of ice. The shadows stretched like black silk over the marble floors, the chandeliers glimmered overhead with all the lonely glory of constellations no one ever looked at anymore, and none of it mattered in the slightest.
The only thing he could feel was the phantom press of her lips against his cheek. The faintest brush, barely there, and yet somehow it seared into him with the heat of an open flame.
It had been nothing. It had been everything.
And Merlin help him, it was going to destroy him.
He needed a distraction. Anything would do. He could rearrange the library by colour, take up duelling again, or perhaps exile himself to the south of France until the madness wore off. Or, more likely, he would end up doing the most foolish thing possible—walking straight back into her tea shop tomorrow, pretending he had come for the tea, and hoping she would say those same three words again.
His hands flexed restlessly at his sides, fingers curling and uncurling as though they might find something to hold onto, something to anchor him. His jaw tightened until it ached, and he let out a sharp breath through his nose, rolling his shoulders in a poor imitation of someone who believed tension could be shrugged off by force.
It sat inside him like a coiled serpent, stubborn and ready to strike, and every attempt to move it only seemed to make it settle deeper. The marble floors beneath him felt cold, the air heavy, and none of it was helping. His skin still carried the ghost of her touch, the faintest tingle that refused to fade. His chest was tight enough to be uncomfortable, and his heart was pounding so loudly it might as well have been announcing his humiliation to the entire manor.
He should have gone upstairs. Straight to bed, lights out, door locked, dignity rescued.
He should have buried himself beneath the suffocating weight of sleep, pulled the covers over his head like a man barricading himself from disaster, and willed himself to forget.
Forget that Luna Lovegood, with her wild hair and her dangerous serenity, had dismantled him entirely with a kiss that had not even touched his mouth.
A kiss that by every logical measure should have been harmless. Forgettable. Something he could file away under "incidental human contact" and never think of again.
But forgetting was out of the question. The very idea of it was laughable. The warmth of her lips lingered as if the air itself still held the imprint, curling around him in a way that was not heat so much as possession. It was the kind of thing that felt as though it had slipped beneath his skin, settled into his bloodstream, and made a home there without asking permission.
And it was not just the kiss. It was the entire chain of events that had conspired to lead him to this point. The tea that somehow tasted exactly as he needed it to.
The conversation that should have been idle but had lodged itself in his mind.
The smile that had made his stomach twist in a way he refused to examine.
The way her gaze had landed on him as if she could see something worth salvaging from the ruin he considered himself to be.
It was everything.
It was intolerable.
Something had to be done. He needed to burn it out of him, to scour it clean before it sank any deeper. He needed to break the hold she had on his thoughts before it grew roots.
He did not waste time weighing his options. He moved without thinking, his limbs acting as if they had been given instructions long before his brain could catch up. Summoning a scrap of parchment with a flick of his wand, he wrote quickly, the strokes sharp and economical, each letter pressed too hard into the paper. When the message was finished, he folded it with a precision that felt like control and sent it spinning into the air. The enchanted note darted into the darkness, its path unerring.
Straight to Astoria.
Because if there was anyone capable of drowning out this kind of madness it was her.
Draco could feel the frustration crawling beneath his skin, an insistent, unyielding thing that seemed determined to work its way into every inch of him. It pressed against his ribs with the suffocating weight of something that would not be ignored, hot and relentless, a constant reminder of its own existence. It was a sensation he could not name, nor tame, a restless heat winding through his veins like fire that refused to be quenched. There was no logic to it, no justification he could present to himself that might make it acceptable, and yet there it was, taking root. One moment — one fleeting sliver of time, one infuriatingly soft press of her lips against his cheek, one quiet and almost careless "see you tomorrow" — had somehow managed to unravel the careful, disciplined man he had spent years becoming.
He had been certain he was beyond this sort of weakness. Stronger than this. He had sharpened his self-control into something as precise and lethal as a blade, treating detachment like a creed, a discipline, a way of survival. For years, he had compartmentalized every urge and every emotion until nothing and no one could reach him, until even the idea of being undone by another person had seemed laughable.
And yet here he was. Restless. Disordered. Pacing beneath the vaulted ceilings of a house that felt too large, too cold, too lifeless, every step swallowed by the emptiness.
The very air seemed to hold her memory, as though the walls themselves had kept the echo of her voice. The stillness felt unnatural, the silence deafening, and no matter how firmly he closed his eyes, he could not stop seeing her.
He could not stop feeling the ghost of her touch against his cheek, could not stop hearing the low, easy softness of her voice, could not stop remembering the exact way her eyes had caught on his for that extra, treacherous second, as though she knew she had disarmed him and was quietly deciding whether to finish the job.
He needed release. An outlet. Something, anything, that could sever the invisible thread tightening around his chest, a thread he could almost imagine pulling until it cut him in two. His hands flexed without purpose, restless and uncertain, as if they too were waiting for something they could not quite name.
A sharp breath hissed through his teeth, but it did nothing to ease the weight of her presence in his mind.
She clung there like smoke, curling and elusive, intoxicating, and entirely unwelcome, yet impossible to resist.
There was no room for hesitation. No pause, no retreat, no giving the more reasonable part of his mind the chance to remind him that this would not fix anything.
His decision was quick, mechanical, the sort of action one takes simply to silence the noise inside their own head.
The message was written and sent before he could stop himself.
Astoria arrived as if she had been waiting for the summons, her apparition smooth and unhurried. She stepped into the manor with the quiet confidence of someone entering a place she had known for years, her heels clicking a steady rhythm against the polished marble.
Her face was unreadable, her bearing immaculate, and she carried herself with the sort of composure that made it impossible to tell whether she was here out of convenience, curiosity, or calculation.
She always came when he called. There were no questions. No emotions. No messy strings tying them together. She understood the unspoken rules of their arrangement, efficiency over intimacy, control over chaos. It was why it worked. Why it had always worked. Why she was the only person who could cross the threshold into his private world without making it feel like an invasion.
There had never been room for anything more. Never a reason to want anything beyond the convenience they had cultivated, the clinical consistency of their encounters. Until now.
And now, everything felt wrong.
Because no matter how practiced her touch, no matter how familiar the shape of her body beneath his hands, no matter how carefully she moved to match his rhythm, all he could see was Luna.
And that terrified him more than he was willing to admit.
The moment she stepped through the doorway, he reached for her without preamble, without hesitation, without thought. He didn't let her speak, didn't let her ask why he had summoned her with such urgency, didn't give her the chance to question what had shifted between them.
His fingers curled around her wrist as he pulled her into the dining room, barely registering the startled sound she made before he flipped her onto the table, positioning her exactly where he needed her.
Face down. Because looking at her would be a mistake, because looking at her meant acknowledging that this wasn't what he wanted, because looking at her meant admitting that the image already seared into his mind had nothing to do with the woman in front of him.
His grip on her hips was firm, rougher than usual, his patience fraying, his restraint slipping faster than he could reel it back in. She responded in kind, pressing back against him, murmuring something low and familiar, but her voice barely registered, the words dissolving into nothingness before they could reach him.
His mind had already drifted somewhere else, locked onto something softer, something completely out of reach. The memory of Luna's lips ghosted over his cheek like a brand he couldn't scrub away, like a mark he hadn't realized he would never be able to erase. He could still hear her voice, that quiet amusement laced beneath the surface, the way she had spoken to him like she already knew, like she had already seen exactly how he would unravel.
His fingers moved with practiced ease, his body falling into a rhythm that should have felt familiar, should have brought him back into the moment, should have grounded him in something real. But it wasn't enough.
It wasn't scratching the itch under his skin, wasn't filling the space she had left behind, wasn't easing the weight pressing down on him.
His body moved with purpose, each motion sharp and deliberate, but his mind was lost in a world that wasn't his to claim.
His breath came heavier, his rhythm faltering as his grip tightened, frustration bleeding into every movement because this wasn't supposed to be difficult, wasn't supposed to feel like a fucking failure, wasn't supposed to feel like he was losing himself completely.
Astoria arched beneath him, urging him on, her body pliant and eager in a way that should have satisfied him, in a way that should have brought the kind of mindless pleasure he had been chasing.
But no matter how hard he tried to focus, no matter how desperately he attempted to force himself into the moment, it was still her that filled his mind, her that he imagined beneath his hands, her that he was chasing with every thrust, every breath, every touch.
Luna, who had never been in his bed.
Luna, who had never given him permission to think of her this way.
Luna, who had ruined him completely with nothing but a whisper and a kiss.
His body betrayed him, the sharp coil of tension unraveling far sooner than he had expected, pleasure hitting him like a blow rather than a release, nothing more than a cruel reminder of everything he had spent the last hour trying to avoid.
He pulled away abruptly, his chest heaving, the weight of his own frustration crashing down on him with unrelenting force.
He barely registered the way Astoria sighed in satisfaction, stretching lazily against the table, content and unbothered, her body a stark contrast to the absolute fucking wreck he had become.
He had lost control. Completely.
This was dangerous.
And as he stood there, his mind still spinning, his stomach still twisted, his hands still shaking, there was only one thought that kept circling in his head, unrelenting, merciless, impossible to ignore.
He was going to see her tomorrow.
And for the first time in years, he was genuinely, viscerally afraid.
*
Draco's morning began far too soon, the pale golden sunlight spilling through the enormous windows of his bedroom, painting soft, dappled patterns across the pristine white sheets that lay in tangled disarray around his legs, a mocking contrast to the turmoil coiling in his chest. Sleep had come to him eventually, but it had been shallow and fragmented, riddled with restless turns and sighs, haunted not by nightmares, but by memory. His body might have surrendered to exhaustion, but his mind had remained adrift, gnawed at by the ghosts of the night before—not just by the things he had done in the dark, but worse, by the things he had thought in the quiet moments in between.
He was a man who thrived on control, on rituals that carved order out of chaos. His routines were more than preference; they were survival. And usually, after a night spent chasing forgetfulness between the sheets, after the rush of skin and heat and friction, he woke with his equilibrium restored, his emotions buried again beneath layers of practiced detachment. He would rise, dress, and pretend he hadn't been driven to desperation. That was how it always worked.
But not today.
Today, there was no return to composure. No clean reset. No reclaiming the carefully constructed mask he had spent years perfecting.
This morning, he didn't feel like himself at all.
The familiar cloak of self-loathing that typically draped itself over him like a second skin after a night like this was strangely absent. In its place was something quieter, far more disorienting—an ache that didn't come from guilt, but from yearning. And that, more than anything, unsettled him. Because when his eyes had first opened, when his body had stretched against the cool sheets and his senses had begun to stir, it wasn't Astoria who entered his mind. Not the woman still asleep down the hall. Not the one whose name was always spoken in polite society when they whispered about matches and lineage.
No.
It was Luna.
Her lips, soft and maddening. Her skin, pale and glowing with that impossible, unbothered radiance. Her voice, light and teasing, curling through his thoughts like a siren's call—effortlessly amused, completely calm, as she asked whether she'd see him tomorrow, as if she hadn't just dismantled every last fragile wall he had so carefully, so painstakingly constructed over the years. She had done it without fanfare, without drama, without even knowing the power she held just a brush of her lips against his cheek, and he was undone.
He let out a low, miserable groan, rolling onto his stomach with all the grace of a dying man, burying his face into the pillow, gripping the fabric like it might anchor him, like he could somehow smother the thoughts threatening to consume him whole. He was a terrible person. Objectively. Undeniably. Completely fucking awful.
Because it wasn't even her smile that had flashed through his mind first—not the soft curve of her lips, not the impossible warmth it stirred in him.
It wasn't her eyes either—those eyes that had always been far too bright, far too sharp, far too knowing, like she could see through every lie he told himself.
No.
It was her body.
And oh, fuck, what kind of man did that make him?
For years he had tried so damn hard to be better. To grow. To unlearn. To scrape off the spoiled, arrogant shell of the boy he used to be.
He had fought, tooth and nail, to shed the entitlement, to burn away the ugliness, to make himself into someone he could live with.
He had spent the better part of his adult life trying to ensure he would never, ever become the man his father had expected him to be—the man he had once seemed destined to become. Cold. Cruel. Blind to anything that did not benefit him.
And yet, the second Luna Lovegood had so much as looked at him the right way, his mind had betrayed him. Had turned to filth. Had conjured images so vivid, so inappropriate, so desperate, he couldn't even pretend to claim the moral high ground anymore.
He was no better than the worst of them.
No better than the smug bastards back at Hogwarts who had spent their nights bragging about conquests, laughing about victories that left other people broken.
He remembered them, their crude jokes, their vulgar stories, the way they spoke of girls like they were nothing but sport.
He had hated those men. Had sat through those conversations in a fog of quiet rage, ashamed to be lumped in with them. He had wanted so badly to be different. Had clung to that want like a shield.
He had never wanted to be like them.
And now he wasn't sure he wasn't becoming exactly that.
And yet here he was, sitting in the middle of his grand, sunlit bedroom, tangled in the remnants of last night, waking up with his entire mind on fire, running circles around the memory of how Luna's dress had clung to her body when she moved—light and flowing, not provocative by design, but maddening in execution, the kind of effortless allure that didn't announce itself but lingered, that drifted across his vision long after she was gone.
He couldn't stop thinking about the way her fingers had brushed absently over the rim of her teacup, slow and aimless, a thoughtless little pattern that shouldn't have meant anything, that should have gone unnoticed, but instead had drawn his gaze like a magnet.
And gods, it wasn't even intentional—just the idle, unconscious movement of someone completely unaware of the devastation they were leaving in their wake.
It was maddening. Torturous. Because in that moment, something inside him had coiled too tightly to ignore, something deep in his stomach had clenched and refused to let go.
And then her mouth—that subtle, infuriating curve of her lips, that spark of amusement flickering behind her eyes like she already knew, like she had been watching him unravel and was too polite to say it out loud. He could still see it. Still feel it.
He had spent his entire adult life surrounded by women who knew how to be desirable, women trained from birth to captivate, to manipulate attention like a weapon, women who moved like they were being watched because they always were. Draco had grown up around elegance, performative elegance.
Poised smiles, graceful posture, laughter that echoed like bells in ballrooms. They had all been perfect, in that polished, polished way that had always left him hollow. He knew how to respond to that kind of seduction. Knew how to play that game. He'd danced that waltz more times than he could count.
But Luna Lovegood? She didn't play. She didn't posture. She didn't have a single practiced movement in her body. And that was the part that was driving him completely, irreparably insane.
She wasn't trying to seduce him. She wasn't toying with him or fishing for attention or laying traps in the way he'd learned to expect. She was just existing—calm and strange and blindingly real. And somehow, that was so much worse.
Because it meant she wasn't doing it for him. It meant none of it was meant to be seen. And yet he'd seen all of it and now he couldn't unsee it.
He groaned low in his throat, dragging a hand over his face like he could claw the thoughts out of his skull, force them back into whatever pit they'd escaped from.
This was getting out of hand. This was dangerous.
This was becoming something it couldn't be. He needed to do something before he lost what little control he still had left.
Because if he let himself keep spiraling like this, he was going to do something stupid. Something he couldn't come back from.
Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, he moved through the motions of his morning ritual on autopilot, his hands moving with practiced ease, but the entire time, his mind was elsewhere, lost in a battle he knew he was already losing.
Reaching for his wardrobe, Draco pulled out his second-favorite suit, the charcoal grey one that had been perfectly tailored to his frame, the sharp, structured lines precise enough to make him feel in control, to remind him of exactly who he was supposed to be.
He ran his fingers along the fabric, grounding himself in the familiar sensation of order and predictability, in the assurance that when he put it on, he would look the part, he would feel like himself again, composed, detached, untouchable.
His gaze flickered to his favorite suit, the deep navy with silver accents, the one he had had custom-made in Paris, the one that was reserved for occasions that demanded something beyond mere elegance, something that held significance. That one was special. That one was—
His hand froze mid-motion.
That one would be good for their wedding.
Draco stilled, the thought landing with such unbearable force that he physically recoiled, his entire body jerking back as if startled by the sheer insanity of his own mind.
What the fuck?
Wedding?
He actually took a full step away from his wardrobe, running both hands through his hair, pacing across the room in quick, agitated strides, his heart hammering against his ribs, his lungs suddenly struggling for breath. What the hell was he thinking? He wasn't planning a wedding. He wasn't planning anything.
This was about sex. That was all.
He wanted her. That was it. That was the only thing that made sense, the only thing that mattered.
He wanted to taste her.
He wanted to spread her out across that wooden counter in her tea shop, push aside the delicate china and scatter parchment to the floor, slide her dress up past her hips, press his mouth against every inch of bare skin he could reach.
He wanted her gasping beneath him, legs wrapped around his waist, nails digging into his back, arching into his touch, moaning his name like a fucking prayer.
That was what this was about. That was all this was about.
Not marriage. Not romance. Not forever.
And yet, that single, traitorous thought refused to die quietly, refused to slip away like an intrusive whisper in the night, refused to let him pretend this was just another pursuit, just another fleeting desire that would pass once he had taken what he wanted.
Because if this was just lust, then why did the simple act of seeing her name scrawled on parchment send an involuntary curl of warmth through his chest?
Why had he sat in her shop for hours, not even realizing how much time had passed, not even caring?
Why had he written her a damn letter, poured himself out in ink and parchment, let his guilt unravel in rambling, endless pages with no real apology in sight, just confessions and regrets and an aching, unspoken need to explain himself?
Why did she make him smile when she teased him, when she poked fun at him in that soft, weightless way of hers, as if he weren't some ruined, tarnished thing with too much baggage, as if he weren't a man who had spent years clawing his way out of the wreckage of his own past?
His pulse thundered, erratic and relentless, his chest tight with something unfamiliar, something heavier than simple longing, something deeper than the sharp, unfulfilled hunger that had burned through him since the moment she had waltzed back into his life.
This wasn't just lust. This wasn't just anything.
And that was the most terrifying realization of all.
His hands clenched into fists at his sides, his fingers pressing hard into the wood of his dresser as he stared at his reflection in the mirror, the cold truth reflected back at him in silver and shadow.
He wanted her, and not just for a night, not just for the pleasure of stripping her bare and mapping every inch of her skin with his lips, not just for the satisfaction of knowing what she looked like beneath him, what she sounded like when she came undone in his arms.
He wanted all of her, her body, her mind, her maddening honesty, her unwavering ability to look at him without fear, without judgment, without expectation.
He wanted her laughter.
He wanted her fire.
He wanted the way she made him feel like something more than just the worst parts of himself.
His jaw locked, his breath escaping in a slow, controlled exhale, but it wasn't enough to calm the storm inside him, wasn't enough to quiet the revelation that had just shattered the carefully constructed delusion he had built for himself.
He had never been more fucked in his entire life.
*
Draco Malfoy was a brave man. Or, at the very least, that was what he had spent the better part of his adult life convincing himself to be.
He had walked through fire—literal and metaphorical.
He had endured war, betrayal, loss.
He had looked death in the eye more times than he cared to count.
He had stood trial before the Wizengamot while the entire world watched, judging whether or not he was capable of redemption, whether or not he deserved to walk free.
He had carried the weight of a name soaked in blood and scandal, had buried both his parents in different ways, had lived beneath the crushing pressure of legacy and expectation for so long that sometimes he forgot what breathing felt like.
He had survived all of that.
And yet, somehow, this—walking toward a whimsical little tea shop in the heart of Diagon Alley, with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his second-favorite coat and his heart beating an uneven, traitorous rhythm against his ribs felt more terrifying than any battlefield ever had.
Moonbrew was just a shop. A charming, quiet little place scented with flowers and herbs and far too many types of tea. But she was inside. And that was the real danger.
She had asked him to come. Just a simple, casual invitation delivered with a smile and those eyes that seemed to see far too much. There was no pressure. No expectations. No reason, really, for his stomach to be doing backflips or for his pulse to thunder in his ears like a second heartbeat. And yet, it did.
He arrived outside at precisely three o'clock. Not a minute early, not a second late—because apparently, somewhere between last night and this moment, punctuality had become a matter of mortal consequence. He stood there, staring at the wooden sign that hung over the door, letting the seconds tick by like a countdown to something he couldn't name.
Thirty seconds.
That was how long he lingered before his pride caught up with his nerves and shoved him forward. Because he was not a schoolboy. He was not thirteen and awkward and unsure. He was Draco fucking Malfoy, and he would not stand outside a door as if he were preparing for execution.
He pushed the door open.
And immediately forgot how to breathe.
Because there she was.
Alone. Behind the counter. Bathed in sunlight. And looking like some celestial being who had decided to descend from whatever dreamscape she usually existed in just to ruin his day.
Fucking hell.
She wasn't even doing anything extraordinary. She was just there, brushing a few stray curls from her face, her lips curved in the faintest smile, eyes flicking up to meet his as if she'd been expecting him, as if he was right on time for something that had always been inevitable.
Why?
Why did she have to do this to him? Why did she have to exist like this—effortlessly ethereal, impossibly grounded, wearing a dress that looked soft enough to sleep in and dangerous enough to wreck his entire week?
Why did she have to look like she belonged to some other realm, like she was carved not from marble, but from starlight and secrets?
And more importantly, why did it feel like coming home?
The flowy white dress she wore wasn't special in any ostentatious or extravagant way, it didn't glitter, didn't cling, didn't try to seduce. It was simple, soft, light as air and loose around her frame, made from a fabric so delicate it seemed to catch the sunlight like water, fluttering with every subtle movement of her body.
It was the kind of dress that should've blended into the background, understated and forgettable. But for her it became something else entirely.
It floated around her like a living thing, caressing her curves not by design but by sheer accident, the way a breeze might brush a statue in reverence. It wasn't made to be alluring. And somehow, that made it worse. Far, far worse.
Because there was no intention behind it. No calculated attempt at attention.
No awareness of the way it made her look like she'd just stepped out of some painter's fever dream, barefoot and luminous, wrapped in something innocent and devastating.
The fact that she didn't know what she looked like, that she wasn't trying, wasn't aiming to disarm him, only made the damage more lethal.
Draco gritted his teeth, the pressure of his molars grounding him, anchoring him in the rising tide of his own frustration.
Wasn't just the sight of her enough?
Did she have to ruin him every single time she turned around?
Did she have to undo every inch of his composure the moment she entered his field of vision?
His hand lingered on the doorknob for a fraction too long, his knuckles whitening before he finally forced himself to move, stepping inside like a man entering sacred ground—hesitant, reverent, already anticipating the blow. Because that's what it was, wasn't it? Dangerous.
Every moment near her felt like standing too close to a spell mid-cast, something volatile and humming with power, something that could change him if he wasn't careful.
The bell above the door chimed softly, and Luna turned. The motion was fluid, effortless, the gentle sway of her dress adding to the surreal quality of her presence.
She smiled when she saw him, that small, quiet smile curling at the corners of her lips like a secret only she was in on. She looked exactly the same and completely different all at once, less like a girl, more like a vision someone dreamed up after too many hours staring into candlelight.
"Oh, you actually came," she said lightly, as if she hadn't completely shattered his peace last night, as if this were just any afternoon and not a slow-motion catastrophe unfolding beneath warm lights and enchanted teas.
Draco blinked, caught off guard by how casually she said it.
"Of course," he replied automatically, the words slipping past his lips before his brain had time to censor the raw edges. He tried to sound casual, unconcerned, like he wasn't currently fighting off the full-body sensation of her voice. "Why wouldn't I? You asked me to."
Luna tilted her head, a few strands of that moonlight hair falling over one shoulder, the movement so serene it might've been choreographed by the gods. Her eyes twinkled with something unreadable—mischief, maybe. Or worse, understanding.
"So you'll do anything I ask you to do?" she asked, her tone deceptively innocent, but her gaze unwavering, like she was testing him and already knew the answer.
Draco hesitated only a heartbeat, just long enough to register the weight of her question, before his mouth curved into that familiar smirk—a mask he had worn for so many years it came without thinking.
"Most likely," he murmured, tone low, just flirtatious enough to deflect. "Depending on your demand."
It was meant to sound cool, meant to maintain some illusion of control, meant to disguise how wrecked he already was.
But it was all bullshit.
Because the truth was far more damning than his smile suggested.
He would do anything for her.
Anything.
No questions, no hesitation, no limits.
And that was the fucking problem.
Luna took a slow, deliberate step toward him, her fingers trailing idly along the edge of a glass jar on the counter, the pads of her fingertips brushing against the smooth surface like she wasn't doing anything significant—like she wasn't dismantling the last of his composure with a single, calculated move.
Her expression was unreadable, not in the usual dreamy way he had come to expect, but in a way that was sharp and deliberate and dangerous.
There was something behind her eyes now, something darkly amused, like a cat that had just spotted a mouse foolish enough to come out of hiding. She knew exactly what she was doing. And he had walked right into it.
"I like that you're obedient," she said, voice light, deceptively casual, like she was commenting on the weather or her favorite tea blend rather than delivering a sentence designed to ruin his entire existence.
"Such a good boy."
Draco choked.
Not metaphorically. Not in the cute, surprised way where someone laughs too hard.
No.
He actually, physically choked on his own fucking saliva, his body jerking in sheer panic, a violent cough ripping through his chest as he doubled over, hand bracing on the table like that might somehow steady the world that had just tilted violently off its axis.
Good boy?
GOOD BOY?
Oh, Merlin have mercy. No. No no no no no—
A white-hot bolt of something he refused to name shot straight down his spine, so sudden and intense it stole his breath, made his knees threaten to give out, made the muscles in his back seize with tension.
It was instant. Primal. A reaction so visceral he felt it in the marrow of his bones, in the clench of his jaw, in the way his fingertips twitched like they were trying to hold onto something that wasn't there.
He had a praise kink.
He had a praise kink and Luna had just discovered it before he had even admitted it to himself. Before he had even dared to entertain the idea. She had spoken two little words, in that soft, maddening voice of hers, and now his nervous system was short-circuiting like she had cast a goddamn spell.
And the worst part was that she knew.
He could see it in the way her eyes sparkled, in the twitch of her lips, in the unbearably slow way she tilted her head as she watched him try and fail to recover.
She was cataloging every flicker of his reaction, filing it away with terrifying efficiency. She knew. She absolutely, unequivocally knew exactly what she had just done to him.
His body couldn't take it.
He moved crossing the room without another word, without even sparing her a glance, too afraid that if he looked at her, he'd combust into flames right there on the floor.
He stumbled into his usual chair and all but collapsed into it. His legs felt like jelly, his chest was tight, his thoughts were nothing but static.
He sat so hard and so fast that the chair scraped loudly against the floor, nearly tipping backward in his rush to appear casual, like he hadn't just been obliterated by two syllables.
He buried his hands in his hair, gripping the strands hard, trying to hold himself together.
Luna stood across the room, still utterly serene, as if nothing of consequence had just occurred, as if she hadn't just eviscerated him with a single sentence. Her smile twitched wider, but he caught it. Oh, he caught it. She was enjoying this. Reveling in it. Savouring every second of his unravelling like it was her favorite dessert.
Draco, for his part, had to physically restrain himself from slamming his forehead onto the table.
This wasn't a crush anymore.
This was a fucking curse.
She joined him again.
Gracefully, without hesitation, like she belonged there, like there was nothing unusual about sitting across from him while his brain tried to claw its way out of his skull and his body betrayed him in a dozen humiliating ways.
Draco didn't dare move. He didn't breathe too hard. He didn't shift in his seat. Because he was painfully, acutely, devastatingly hard and the slightest movement might give him away.
His face was already flushed crimson, his pulse an erratic mess pounding in his throat, and the heat that had started at the base of his spine had only spread, searing its way across his chest, his arms, down to his fingertips.
He was mortified. He was humiliated. He was clinging to the last shreds of dignity with trembling fingers, and she looked as calm as ever.
She smiled as she set down a tray between them, moving with the same effortless poise that had been driving him mad since the moment he walked through the door. "I brought you the teas you had yesterday," she said, her voice warm, lilting, soft in that maddening way that made it sound like she was speaking a lullaby and a seduction all at once.
Draco swallowed hard, his tongue thick in his mouth. "Thank you," he managed, praying to every god in existence that his voice wouldn't crack. "That's… really kind of you."
She settled into her chair with that same gentle ease, folding her hands in her lap as she tilted her head ever so slightly, studying him. "How was your evening?"
He blinked. The question was innocent. Simple. Painless.
And yet it lodged in his chest like a blade.
He smiled, tight and practiced, and leaned back just enough to create the illusion of ease, even though every cell in his body was coiled like a spring. "Nothing particular," he said smoothly, fingers curling around the warm porcelain of his teacup as a distraction. "Just letting the steam off."
It was a lie.
Well. Half a lie.
The truth was that he had spent the night fucking another woman while picturing Luna Lovegood's face beneath him. While hearing her voice in his head. While imagining her sighs, her gasps, the way her lips would part when he finally let himself have her.
He had touched another woman's body but seen only Luna. Had whispered someone else's name but tasted her. And now, in the harsh light of morning, with her sitting across from him looking like the personification of serenity, it felt less like a release and more like a betrayal. Not of Astoria. Not even of Luna.
But of himself.
Because what kind of man did that?
What kind of man used someone else to escape a fixation he was too cowardly to face?
A broken one.
A pathetic one.
He sipped his tea and forced himself not to flinch. "Had to get some things out of my system," he added lightly, praying she wouldn't see through it, praying she wouldn't ask the kind of questions she was so good at asking—the kind that peeled back skin and bone and left only the truth behind.
But Luna, damn her, only smiled again.
It wasn't smug. It wasn't knowing.
It was worse.
It was understanding.
"I hope it helped," she said, her voice still light, but with something softer underneath. A hint of something he didn't dare name. "You seemed… tightly wound yesterday."
Draco let out a sharp breath, half a laugh, half a wheeze. Tightly wound. That was one way of putting it. He felt like a man standing on a minefield—one wrong step away from detonating entirely.
She lifted her own cup and took a sip, her eyes never leaving his. "You look a little better today."
He nearly dropped the fucking cup.
Better? He looked better?
He wanted to scream. He wanted to confess everything. He wanted to fall to his knees and tell her what she had done to him, how she had embedded herself in his skin, how she had become the only thought worth having.
He wanted to apologize for everything, the war, the boy he had been, the man he was still trying to become. He wanted to beg her to stop looking at him like she saw something worth salvaging, because the truth was, he wasn't sure he could survive it if she kept doing that.
Instead, he nodded.
And took another sip of tea.
And told himself it was enough. For now.
But he knew the truth.
This wasn't letting off steam.
This wasn't harmless infatuation.
This was a storm, gathering slowly, darkly, in the corners of his life.
And Luna was the eye of it.