Summary:
Dandelion the cow would like to wish everyone a Happy international Womens Day.
⋆.˚🦋༘⋆
The next day, the moment Draco turned the corner onto the narrow lane where Moonbrew sat, something was wrong. It was not a slow realization, not the kind of unease that crept in with time. It struck hard and sudden, a blow straight to the chest before his boots had even fully met the worn cobblestone.
The air felt off. The usual chatter of the alley was muted, its familiar rhythm dulled as though someone had drawn a heavy curtain across the day. The scent that always drifted toward him from her doorway was gone. In its place was nothing but the flat, empty chill of early morning. And there, standing at the center of it all, was the worst sight of all. The shop's door was closed.
Luna's shop was never closed at this hour.
A slow frown carved its way across his face, the kind that settled deep into his bones. Something low and dark stirred in his stomach, curling there like smoke. It was not welcome, and it was not harmless. It was the kind of feeling that could turn dangerous without warning. Panic threatened to edge in, quiet at first, then sharper.
He knew her hours without thinking about it. He had learned them without trying. Not because he had sat down one day and decided to track her movements like a ledger, but because it had happened on its own. Her routine had become part of his. His mornings did not begin properly until he had stood in her doorway, until he had watched her smile at him like she knew exactly how far under his skin she had lodged herself, until she had said something sharp or soft or utterly disarming before he had even finished the first swallow of tea.
And now there was nothing.
The shop stood dark and still. No candlelight flickering behind the windows. No faint clink of glass jars on wood. No movement inside at all.
His jaw locked tight. His pulse was in his ears now, pounding with a weight that seemed far too loud for the quiet street. The unease in his chest twisted, sharp as a blade turned deliberately slow. This was wrong. This was not how today was supposed to go. She was supposed to be here, like she always was, waiting for him without admitting she was waiting, ready to tilt his day off its axis with a single glance or one maddening remark.
If she was not here, then what did that mean? That she had decided she was finished with him? That she had grown bored of whatever it was they had been circling? That she had walked away while he was still tangled in this maddening need for her, leaving him caught in it alone, hollow and ridiculous for thinking he had mattered in any way that counted?
No. He refused to believe that.
His hand rose and rapped against the wood, the sound sharp and certain in the silence. Once. Twice. Three times. Firm, insistent, enough to demand attention. The noise carried down the empty stretch of the alley, echoing off the brick walls. He waited, every muscle held tense, listening for the shuffle of footsteps, for the turn of a lock, for the moment the door opened and she appeared as if this had all been nothing.
The seconds stretched.
Nothing happened.
His fingers curled tighter against the wood. Something in him, already wound too tight, gave way. The thin line of patience he had been holding onto snapped clean through.
His knocks turned into harsh, echoing bangs, each one louder than the last, his open palm slamming flat against the wood with a force that rattled the glass panes in their frames. The sound carried sharply through the still alley, sharp enough to startle a few birds from the rooftop across the way. His pulse spiked, pounding hard enough that he could hear it in his ears, his breath breaking into short, clipped bursts. Every muscle in his body coiled tight, wound with frustration, with a rising unease that clawed its way up his spine, with the unbearable, unrelenting need to see her. To know where the hell she was. To hear her voice — even if it was only to deliver some maddening, infuriating remark that would keep him from sliding any further into the spiral she had somehow dragged him into without him ever noticing.
"Luna, if you're in there playing another one of your fucking games—"
He never finished.
Just as his temper was tipping past the point of no return, just as his shoulder tensed with the thought of shoving the door open and stepping inside whether she wanted him to or not, something small fluttered down in his peripheral vision. It drifted lazily through the air before landing at his boots.
A single piece of parchment.
It was folded with care, delicate in a way that looked almost deliberate, like it had been waiting for him.
His reaction was immediate. Instinct overrode thought. Desperation overrode restraint. He did not hesitate, did not weigh the choice, did not allow even a breath to pass before he bent and snatched it up. His fingers curled around it so tightly the paper gave a faint, warning crack, nearly crumpling under the force of his grip. His breathing was uneven, sharp at the edges, his chest tight as he unfolded it and let his eyes fall on the ink.
Her handwriting.
The same soft, deliberate script he had seen in his dreams more than once.
Miss me, darling? Come and find me.
For a long moment, he went perfectly still.
There was no thought. No sound. No movement in him at all, save for the single, molten pulse of heat that cut through him so violently it made his knees lock. His fingers tightened around the parchment until the edges bit into his skin. His vision seemed to narrow, darkening at the edges until there was nothing but the words. Those infuriatingly casual words that she had known this would get under his skin like this.
She was doing it on purpose.
She had to be.
She knew exactly what this would do to him. She knew exactly what state she had left him in. She knew that he was already wound so tightly around her little finger that even a scrap of parchment, even a few inked words, could undo him more efficiently than a spell ever could.
She knew she could leave him standing outside her locked shop, gripping the note like it was a lifeline, while his pulse drove low and hot and humiliating.
He was Draco Malfoy.
He did not lose control. He did not chase. He did not want.
And yet he was standing here, his breathing uneven, his shoulders tight, his body thrumming with a restless need that had nowhere to go but after her. The thought alone was maddening. The fact that he could not stop himself from entertaining it was worse.
Fucking hell.
He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, one hand rising to pinch the bridge of his nose as though that small motion might help him wrestle back the composure she had stolen from him. He told himself to calm down. To think. To plan.
But there was no thinking. Not anymore.
There was only her.
The memory of her mouth, the whisper of her breath against his skin, the maddening press of her lips, followed by the feel of her slipping away, leaving him hungry in a way that nothing else could touch. She had left him standing there like a man on the edge of a cliff with no way down and no way back.
And now she wanted him to find her.
She wanted him to chase.
Merlin help him, he would. He would burn the city to the ground if that was what it took.
Because if she thought for even a second that he wouldn't burn the entire world down to get to her, to have her, to take whatever the hell it was she was offering, then she had vastly underestimated just how far gone he already was.
Draco Malfoy was in too deep.
He had been in too deep the moment she had said see you tomorrow.
And now?
Now, she had just given him permission to hunt.
*
Draco needed answers, and he needed them yesterday. There was only one person in the world he could still stomach trusting with something like this, the only person capable of giving him the information he wanted without asking prying, sentimental questions or forcing him to actually say out loud what was going through his head. That person, for better or worse, was Blaise Zabini.
So he did not waste time. He did not send a message ahead or consider what Blaise might be doing. He did not even attempt to approach the situation like a rational human being. Instead, he stepped into his fireplace, tossed in the Floo powder, and stalked through the green flames like a man possessed.
The moment his boots hit the gleaming marble floor of Blaise's front hall, he shook the soot from his coat with a sharp flick of his hand and moved forward with the confidence of someone who had decided that boundaries were for other people.
He was already running through the list of things he was going to demand when he strode through the doorway into the sitting room and came to an abrupt halt.
The sight before him did not make sense.
Blaise was not alone.
Across from him, sitting quite comfortably with glasses of wine in hand, were not one but two women. And not just any women. This was not some casual social visit with faceless strangers. This was Ginevra Weasley, hair blazing under the candlelight, and Granger — no, Hermione , because the sound of her surname in his head still carried too much weight from the war — seated together as though they belonged here.
The air was calm. Too calm. No one was shouting. No one had a wand drawn. There was no hint of tension in the set of their shoulders or the curl of their lips.
They were simply… talking. Laughing, even. And Blaise, the smug bastard, was leaned back in his chair with one arm resting across the back, swirling his wine as if hosting two of the most famously judgmental women Draco had ever met was an ordinary part of his Thursday night.
Draco blinked. Once. Twice. His mind scrambled to file what he was seeing into some category that would make it less absurd. It failed.
Blaise finally glanced over, expression infuriatingly unreadable except for the faintest twitch of amusement at the corner of his mouth. "Malfoy." His tone was smooth, the kind that could charm a confession out of anyone else in the room. "It is always a pleasure when you appear in my home without so much as a word beforehand."
Draco lifted a hand in something between a wave and a dismissal, because there was no way he was stopping to unpack whatever the hell this was. His focus was supposed to be on finding Luna. He did not have time for what looked suspiciously like a relaxed evening among friends, nor for the fact that said friends were two women who had spent years perfecting their ability to make him feel like an idiot with a single raised eyebrow.
"You," Draco said, pointing at Blaise with all the subtlety of a man whose patience was already wearing thin. "We are going to talk. Now."
Blaise's smirk deepened, the kind of lazy, knowing curve that said he already knew he had the upper hand, and Draco had the unpleasant certainty that whatever answers he had come here for were going to cost him far more than he was willing to pay.
"Yeah, yeah," Draco muttered, already bracing himself, before turning on the two witches with a grin so perfectly insincere it belonged in a museum. "Hello, gorgeous ladies. Pleasure seeing you both."
Ginny narrowed her eyes without hesitation, leaning back in her chair, arms crossing in the universal Weasley gesture that announced judgment before she even opened her mouth. "Ferret."
Hermione, ever the picture of control, did not bother with theatrics. She only sighed, tilting her head slightly, looking at him the way one might regard an overgrown dog that had just tracked mud through the house. "Draco."
He ignored them entirely. There were bigger things to deal with, and he wasn't about to lose another second to their mutual talent for verbal evisceration. "I need to steal Blaise for a moment."
That was all the warning he gave before reaching down, grabbing his oldest friend by the collar, and physically hauling him out of his chair. Blaise barely had time to set down his wine before he was being dragged down the hall like a particularly well-dressed hostage. Draco did not care if he had been mid-sentence, mid-thought, or mid-illegal-business-transaction.
"What the fuck is your problem?" Blaise snapped, jerking his sleeve out of Draco's grip the moment they were clear of the room. He took a moment to straighten his jacket with a precision that suggested personal insult. "I was in the middle of a negotiation."
Draco snorted, scrubbing a hand down his face, his patience already on its last legs. "You having a threesome is none of my business."
Blaise's expression went flat. "It was not—"
"I need Lovegood's address. Now."
That shut him up.
For the smallest fraction of a second, Blaise's eyes sharpened, his gaze sweeping Draco's face like he was reading the fine print of a contract Draco hadn't signed. It was infuriating. Mind your own business, Blaise.
Then the look shifted, settling into something smug, something that made Draco want to hex him into next week. "Your offer?" Blaise asked, voice as smooth as the silk lining of his jacket.
Draco was already unclasping his watch. "My Patek Philippe Grandmaster."
Blaise glanced down at the heavy, gleaming timepiece now resting in Draco's palm. He studied it for all of three leisurely seconds before giving a small nod. "Fine. Glen Etive."
Draco went still. Then, very slowly, he repeated, "She's my neighbor?"
The smirk that followed was nothing short of criminal.
"Whatever," Draco muttered through clenched teeth. He tossed the watch toward Blaise with all the grace of someone throwing rubbish into a bin. Blaise caught it effortlessly, turning it over in his hands like a man savoring victory.
Still seething, still far too desperate to waste another moment, Draco strode back toward the sitting room. Unfortunately, both witches were still there, their gazes bright with far too much amusement for his liking.
Another grin, as false as it was polished. "Goodbye, gorgeous ladies. Good luck. Prepare yourselves."
He stepped toward the fireplace, rolling his shoulders, stretching his neck, preparing to disapparate before the need to see Luna again made him combust on the spot. And then, because Draco Malfoy had never possessed an ounce of self-control in his entire life, he tossed in one last parting shot over his shoulder.
"He has a huge cock."
The last thing he heard before the familiar pull of apparition closed over him was the unmistakable sound of Ginny and Hermione laughing.
And fuck, Draco Malfoy was already too far gone.
*
Draco needed a moment to breathe, to steady himself, to wrap his mind around what the hell he was about to do. He could have gone straight to her. He could have apparated directly to Glen Etive the instant Blaise had spoken those words, could have crossed whatever wards she had around her home and walked into whatever little sanctuary she had built for herself, demanding that she put an end to this unbearable, maddening, torturous game she had been playing with him from the very start.
But something in him, something sharp and animal and old as instinct, held him still. It whispered for him to wait, to measure the next step carefully, to stand there in that moment and let the weight of what was coming sink into his bones before he moved.
Because this was not like the other times. This was not another afternoon in her tea shop where she smiled at him in that infuriating way that made his blood heat under his skin, where he bit back the sound that threatened to escape whenever she stood too close, where she pushed him to the brink of losing himself entirely and then slipped away as if she had not just set him on fire.
This was different. The air around it felt heavier. The pull in his chest felt stronger. There was a finality to the thought of going to her now, a sense that once he crossed that line there would be no turning back, no undoing whatever would happen next.
This time, he would not walk away with his jaw tight and his hands empty.
This time, there would be no distance to cool his temper, no hours to distract himself, no careful retreat disguised as control.
This time, he would not let her disappear into the shadows she liked to keep between them. This time, he would follow. This time, he would take.
So, he went home first. Not because he wanted to. Not because it was the sensible choice. It was simply because, despite how entirely unhinged she had managed to make him feel, despite the fact that every step he took was driven by sheer, unrelenting desperation, he still lived in Scotland, still had a house to return to, still had some faint, fragile shred of self-preservation clinging to him.
He needed to move through something that resembled a routine, to hold onto at least one action that made him feel like he still had control over himself. And for whatever reason, that meant showering like a man who had not been completely dismantled.
The second he stepped through the front door of his manor, the pretense of patience vanished. He tore his shirt over his head without breaking stride, letting it fall where it landed, his fingers already working at the buckle of his belt as his boots clicked sharply against the floor.
Every movement was clipped, efficient, driven by the same restless current that had been riding him since he read her note. His skin felt too tight, like it could barely contain the heat rising beneath it, and every inch of him buzzed with the weight of something he could not quite name.
By the time he reached his bathroom, there was no pause. He twisted the tap as far as it would go, stepping under the water before it had even fully settled into its scalding temperature. The heat hit him instantly, burning along his shoulders, his chest, his back, pulling a sharp hiss from his teeth. He let it sear into him, let it sting until it became almost unbearable, let it punish him into the present moment.
He pressed both palms to the cool marble wall, leaning forward until his head bowed, eyes shutting tightly against the steam. The water poured over him in steady sheets, sliding down the line of his spine, pooling at his feet before swirling away, carrying with it nothing tangible, yet somehow everything at once. It did not matter that the knots in his chest remained, that his body still thrummed with the same raw, reckless edge that had been building for weeks.
He stayed like that anyway, breathing through it, pulling the heat into his lungs, letting the steam soften the sharp edges of his thoughts until he could stand upright again.
He did not know how long he remained there. Time had no shape in the heat, only the slow, steady rhythm of breath after breath. But when his hand finally reached for the tap, when the spray stilled and the sound of rushing water faded, he knew.
This was happening. There was no stopping it now. There was no undoing the way she had unraveled him thread by thread, no pretending that whatever this was between them could be dismissed as anything less than real.
He moved without hesitation, pulling a towel from the rail and drying himself briskly, his mind already fixed on the next step. The wardrobe opened, and his hands reached blindly for the first set of clothes within grasp, not caring whether the choice made sense. Every action was stripped down to its function. There was no room for deliberation, no space to imagine the scene he was about to walk into, no pause to consider the exact words he would use when he found her.
He had no plan. No strategy. No carefully crafted speech to tip the balance in his favor. All that existed was the singular, consuming need to see her face, to find her, to finish whatever dangerous thing she had started the moment that folded scrap of parchment touched his hands.
That was all. That was everything. And with that truth burning through him, he shrugged into his coat, stepped out into the sharp air, and crossed the village without a single moment of doubt, heading directly for Glen Etive.
The moment Draco arrived, he drew in a deep, steady breath before letting it out slowly, watching as the pale curl of his exhale drifted and dissolved into the cool Highland air. The wind carried the scent of damp grass and distant pine, brushing against his cheeks with a sharpness that made every nerve in his body feel alive.
Before him, the valley unfurled in a sweep of untouched beauty, rolling out in every direction like a living painting.
Endless green hills stretched toward the horizon, their slopes so vivid they seemed almost unreal beneath the vast expanse of sky. A silver thread of river wound its way lazily through the land, catching the sunlight until it glittered as though strewn with stardust.
It was the sort of place that should not have belonged to reality, the sort of place that felt immune to the ugliness of the world, protected from war and the slow, quiet ruin of human hands. It was timeless, pure in a way that defied reason, and yet as he stood there taking it all in, a subtle wrongness tugged at him, a faint discord in the otherwise perfect stillness.
The sensation prickled at his skin. His magic, attuned to the smallest shifts in the air, hummed just beneath the surface, a low, restless current gathering in his fingertips. He flexed his hands once, forcing the tension to still, reminding himself that this was not the moment to lose his composure.
He was here now. He had found her. There was no need to tear across the land like a man possessed, no need to crash into her life in a storm of impatience. All he had to do was breathe, to wait, to move with intention.
The truth was, finding her had been almost insultingly simple. A few careful spells woven together, a tracking charm cast without hesitation, and her trail had unfolded before him as if she had left it there deliberately, like a breadcrumb path she wanted him to follow.
It led him here, to a place hidden as if it existed in its own pocket of the world, tucked away among trees that seemed to lean inward protectively. It was exactly the sort of refuge he would have imagined for Luna Lovegood, a place that could never have belonged to someone bound by the narrow expectations and rigid structures of the world he came from.
Her cottage looked less like it had been built and more like it had been coaxed into being by the land itself. The walls were made of warm, weathered stone that carried the softness of age, as though the earth had shaped them to fit her.
A thatched roof sloped gently under a layer of moss so lush it seemed to breathe with the wind. The wild had been allowed to flourish around it; bursts of untamed flowers claimed the edges of the garden, lavender nodding beside stalks of foxglove, their colors vivid against the green. The narrow wooden gate sagged slightly on its hinges, its path nearly hidden beneath the spill of wild growth.
And of course, because this was Luna Lovegood, the place was alive with creatures. A cluster of puffskeins huddled near the steps as though they had been keeping watch for her return.
A pair of Kneazles stretched lazily in a patch of sunlight, flicking their tails without concern for the stranger who now stood at the edge of their world. Somewhere behind the cottage, he could hear the soft, slow snuffling of something larger—no doubt one of her more peculiar pets. It was chaotic, unpolished, a little wild, and yet every inch of it felt deliberate. It was hers.
Draco barely had a moment to take in the details of the place before one of her miniature Highland cattle wandered directly into his path. Its thick, shaggy coat swayed with each deliberate step, every tuft catching the light as if it had been brushed to perfection.
Enormous brown eyes, glossy and unblinking, lifted to meet his with an expression that could only be described as deeply, uncomfortably judgmental, like this small creature had already weighed his worth and found him lacking.
He stopped where he stood.
It stopped as well.
For a long, drawn-out moment, they simply stared at one another. The stillness stretched, and he could almost hear the faint rustle of the grass between them, the quiet shift of the wind curling around their unmoving standoff. Five entire seconds ticked by in complete silence, each one pressing down heavier than it had any right to.
And then, because there was no universe in which he was going to lose a staring contest with a cow, Draco did the only thing that felt appropriate. He reached out and petted the animal. Hard. With absolute intention.
Because to hell with this cow for being so ridiculously endearing. To hell with it for standing there like some impossibly perfect creature from a children's book, for making his chest feel strange and traitorous, for coaxing something out of him that had no business surfacing right now.
His palms sank deep into the impossibly soft tangle of its coat, fingers curling in, rubbing with a kind of focus he usually reserved for the most delicate magical work. It was the touch of a man pretending this was entirely his choice, pretending this was not in any way a reaction to being charmed by livestock.
The absurdity of the moment threatened to pull him entirely off-course. Almost. But not quite. He reminded himself, with no small amount of irritation, that he was a Malfoy, and Malfoys did not allow themselves to be delayed by farm animals.
With a sharp exhale, he straightened, brushing a stray bit of hair back into place, rolling his shoulders until they set in their usual posture of control. He adjusted his coat as though nothing unusual had occurred, even if his hands still carried the faint ghost of that softness. Then, dragging his attention firmly away from the cow, he fixed his gaze on the cottage once again.
One final breath. One final moment to lock his composure in place. And then, fuelled entirely by stubborn resolve and the inescapable certainty that she was going to undo him piece by piece, he strode to the front door and knocked.
He waited.
And he kept waiting.
Each second that passed stretched unbearably thin, every heartbeat pulling his patience tighter until it frayed at the edges. His jaw clenched, his hands flexed once at his sides, and anticipation coiled inside his chest with such intensity that it bordered on violent.
At last, he heard it—movement on the other side, the quiet shift of footsteps across wooden floors. The hinges groaned in protest as the door eased open, just enough for a narrow slice of golden candlelight to spill into the night.
The scent reached him first, a drifting curl of air laced with herbs, with magic, with something so singularly, inescapably her that it caught him off guard. It wrapped around him like a spell, stealing the edges of his restraint, making his head swim before he had even laid eyes on her. And then, there she was.
The door opened just enough to reveal her, framed in the glow of candlelight, her hair slightly tangled as if she had been running her fingers through it without even noticing. Loose strands caught the warm light, making her look both untamed and impossibly soft. Her lips parted in a small, unspoken sound, her expression caught somewhere between surprise and something he could not quite name, her gaze locking onto him like she was still trying to understand how he had ended up here. He looked at her and felt as though the entire night had been orchestrated by something beyond either of their control, some pull neither of them could fight.
"Dra—"
She never finished.
The moment his name left her lips, the moment their eyes truly met, the fragile pause shattered. He crossed the distance between them in a heartbeat, hands closing around the fabric of her dress with a bruising grip that brooked no hesitation. He dragged her against him, the movement swift and consuming, so forceful that she barely had the chance to take a single breath before his mouth was on hers.
There was nothing polite about it. Nothing gentle. This was not the ghost of a kiss, not one of her infuriatingly delicate, almost-there touches meant to drive him to madness. This was a collision, a claim, the culmination of every glance, every sly remark, every moment she had left him simmering on the edge of something dangerous. He was done pretending.
Her breath caught, sharp and startled, and then her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, holding on to him as though she had no intention of letting go. Her body fit against his like it had been made to, moving with his, yielding to him without thought, as if every moment of their lives had been leading here. The air between them seemed to narrow and tighten until there was nothing left but the two of them and the frantic pulse in their veins.
When he finally tore his mouth from hers, it was not to step back, but to look at her. To see her. To make her feel the full weight of what she had just ignited. One hand stayed at her waist, still fisted in the folds of her dress, keeping her exactly where he wanted her. The other came up to her jaw, fingers firm and unyielding, tilting her face toward him, holding her still, forcing her to meet his gaze and face the ruin she had made of him.
Her lips were swollen, parted, her breathing ragged, her body trembling in the faintest, most telling ways. She was pliant in his grip, but she was his, even if only for these few, suspended seconds.
Then it shifted.
The change was instant, so sharp he could feel it. Something in her eyes went distant. Her spine straightened. Her breath slowed, pulling away from the rhythm they had just shared. He saw the walls slide back into place, brick by deliberate brick, until the softness was gone.
"I'm not alone."
The words landed like a curse.
Draco stilled completely, the kind of stillness that was more dangerous than movement. It was as if something heavy had dropped into his chest and locked every muscle in place. His grip on her tightened instinctively, the air around him seeming to thin.
"Please go."
It hit harder than a blow. His lungs felt tight, his jaw clenched so hard it ached, his vision narrowing until all he could see was her face and the thought of someone else in her house.
"Who are you with, then?" His voice was low, dangerous in its calm, each word wrapped around a sharp edge.
She did not answer.
The silence was the final crack in what was left of his restraint.
Before he could think better of it, before reason had a chance to take hold, his hand slid to her throat. He did not squeeze, did not hurt her, but he held her there, a quiet, immovable reminder of the line she had just crossed.
"Who gets your tights hole tonight, Lovegood?" The words were raw, stripped bare of anything except possession and fury.
Her response came like lightning. She struck him across the face, the sharp crack of skin on skin ringing in his ears.
The air between them detonated. Magic tore from her with the force of a storm, a burst so sudden and violent that it threw him off his feet, sending him crashing into the ground outside. The door slammed shut in his face, the echo reverberating through the bones of the house and through him just as deeply.
Then came the quiet. Too quiet.
A muffling charm.
She had cut him off from the sound of the inside. Which meant only one thing. Someone was there.
And Draco? Draco saw red.
His hands curled into fists, nails biting into his palms, his magic sparking hot and uncontrolled in the cold air. His jaw locked, his thoughts narrowed to a single, blinding point of rage.
And then, before he could do something that would ruin them both, he turned, spotted the miniature Highland cow grazing peacefully near the porch, and without a shred of hesitation, grabbed it.
A sharp pull of magic, the sensation of the world twisting, and he was gone.
Back home.
With the cow.
Because fuck her.
Because fuck whoever she was hiding.
Because if he had stayed, there would have been no coming back from what he was about to do.