It began with the faintest movement, a slow and deliberate brush of her lips over the tender skin just beneath his jaw, a whisper of heat that sank into him before his mind could even catch up to what was happening. The contact was light, almost delicate, yet it landed like a strike aimed straight at the center of him. His eyes closed with force, shutting out everything but her, the breath leaving him in an uneven rush as his hands gripped more tightly at her sides, holding her as if keeping her close was the only thing anchoring him in place.
His chest rose and fell in quick, unsteady patterns, each inhale dragging rougher than the last while she continued her slow path, her mouth trailing along the line of his neck with open-mouthed kisses that felt less like affection and more like quiet, undeniable possession.
She kissed him as though she knew the precise points that would unravel him, as though she understood the exact kind of ruin she was capable of creating.
"Luna," he managed, though the sound came out more as a gasp than a word, frayed at the edges and stripped of every layer of control he usually kept so carefully in place. The syllables caught in his throat, scraping on their way out.
"Shh," she breathed, her lips skimming over the steady thrum of his pulse. Her fingers slid up into his hair, curling gently before her nails grazed over his scalp with the faintest pressure, enough to send a sharp, involuntary shiver rushing through him. It sank deep, an electric jolt threading into his bones until it dragged a sound from his chest that he would never have let anyone else hear.
"Fuck," he groaned, his head tipping back without thought, the shift offering her more of him, a silent surrender. He would have given her anything in that moment. Everything, if she had only asked. She was the one person in the world who could strip him down to this, who could dismantle every defense he had ever built with nothing more than a touch, a kiss, or the brush of her breath against his skin.
Her hands began to move again, slow and certain, tracing from his hair down across the broad lines of his shoulders, then over his chest with a touch so unhurried it made his stomach twist with want. She touched him like she already knew the truth, like she had long ago claimed him and was now simply letting him feel it for himself, like she was certain that every part of him already belonged to her.
Draco drew in a breath that was steady only in appearance, tightening his hold at her waist until there was not a sliver of space left between them.
He could feel the length of her pressed against him, the subtle shifts of her weight, the heat of her body sinking through his clothes until it felt as if she had been made to fit there, molded to rest exactly in the curve of his arms.
"You drive me insane," he said, the words rough and unpolished, carrying something fierce and close to breaking.
Her smirk rose slowly, sly and deliberate, a spark catching on dry kindling, and it sent a rush of heat burning through his veins so fast it left him unsteady. It was the expression of a woman who knew exactly how deep her influence ran, who understood the shape of her power and wielded it with perfect precision, who could take apart the man in front of her without lifting more than a finger. The gentle press of her lips against his jaw was slow, every movement intentional, each kiss a calculated sting softened by her warmth, teasing in a way that felt like cruelty wrapped in silk.
She was pulling him apart in careful, patient strokes, and he could not look away.
"Good," she murmured against his skin, her voice low and dangerous, each letter sliding into him like it had been meant to live there.
Whatever was left of his reasoning crumbled in that instant. There was no space in his mind for anything but her, no pull in his body except the need to close the last traces of distance between them, no truth in his chest other than the certainty that she had been carved to fit there all along. His grip on her waist tightened again, deliberate enough to draw a soft, startled sound from her lips, the kind of sound that told her how undone he was, how much he needed her close, how far he was willing to go to remind her she was his.
Then the shift came.
The world blurred, folding in on itself with the charged pull of Apparition, the air rushing over their skin like static breaking apart. In the next heartbeat, they landed against the deep, plush give of his bed, the dark green sheets catching the flicker of candlelight. The air between them was weighted with something that neither of them had any intention of stopping.
"Draco," she gasped, her voice caught somewhere between shock and surrender, her body arching instinctively toward him as though she had been waiting for this exact moment without even realising it.
He held her there, his body caging hers with deliberate pressure, his mouth tracing a slow, heated path along the curve of her throat. The faint scrape of his teeth made her shiver, and when his tongue smoothed over the spot, the shiver deepened into something heavier, something that rooted itself in her chest. "The things I am going to do to you," he murmured, the words low and steady, every syllable a deliberate promise. His gaze caught hers, silver gleaming in the candlelight, sharp and unyielding. "Those things are not for our pet to witness."
Her breath stuttered at the words, an involuntary shiver running through her before she could stop it. She wanted to tell him that this was not how she had planned her morning, that he had not even given her the chance to agree, but the protest dissolved the moment his fingers found the inside of her thigh. The touch was impossibly light, maddening in its restraint, and her body responded before her mind could form the refusal. Her legs parted, a quiet surrender that pulled the faintest, most dangerous smile from his mouth.
"That's my girl," he murmured, the words curling hot against her ear. The sound of his voice carried an edge, dark with hunger, the kind that could burn them both if left unchecked. His hands mapped her slowly, following the curve of her waist and the slope of her hip, committing each inch to memory as if she was a rare thing he had been given and would never allow anyone else to touch. His mouth claimed hers in a kiss that was deep and fierce, threaded with possession, the kind that sank deeper than skin, the kind that left its mark in the places no one could see.
One hand slid lower, his touch slow and purposeful until he reached her. The first brush of his fingers over her clit stole her breath so completely she gasped, her back arching against him, her nails digging into the muscle of his shoulders as though she could steady herself there. He gave her no such chance to recover. His movements were measured, cruel in their precision, circling her in a rhythm that pushed and teased, dragging soft, involuntary sounds from her lips that only seemed to feed him. Each pass of his fingers stripped away thought until there was nothing but the growing heat pooling low in her belly and the sure, deliberate path he was taking her down.
"You are already so wet for me, love," he said against her skin, his lips brushing over her collarbone as though the words were something meant only for that small stretch of space. His fingers slipped lower, catching at her entrance, testing her, making her breath falter into a broken sound. It was a reminder without needing to be spoken aloud, an unshakable truth that she was entirely his.
Her head tipped back, a tremor moving through her thighs, her body answering him even when her mind told her not to give him that satisfaction. "Draco…"
The groan that left him was rough and entirely unrestrained, as though the sound of his name on her lips cut straight through whatever control he had left. "That's right," he breathed, his voice dragging over her like velvet drawn tight around steel. His fingers pressed inside her in one slow, deliberate push, curling until she gasped, until he felt the way she gripped around him. "Say my name when you come apart for me."
And she would, because he was already pulling her toward it with every movement, every touch, every unyielding inch of him.
He dragged it out until the tension in her body was a living thing, wound tight enough to snap. Every stroke of his fingers was calculated, deliberate, a slow torment that hovered just below the threshold of relief. He circled her clit with maddening precision, never pressing hard enough to push her over, keeping her suspended in that unbearable space where pleasure burned without release. It was cruel, but it was the kind of cruelty that made her dizzy, the kind that turned every shallow breath into a plea, every twitch of her hips into an act of surrender.
Her body was restless against the sheets, shifting and arching in an instinctive search for more, but his hands were unyielding. They closed over her hips with steady strength, holding her exactly where he wanted her, forcing her to take everything at his pace. She could feel the heat of his gaze, the way he drank in her every movement, the way his satisfaction only deepened with her helplessness.
Her fingers dug into his shoulders, nails catching against muscle, her grip tight enough to bruise, but he only gave a low, dark chuckle. It rumbled through him, a sound steeped in dominance and satisfaction, as though her desperation was the reward he had been chasing from the start.
"Say please," he murmured, and it was not a request. His voice was deep, velvet over steel, threaded with something sharp and possessive. The command hung between them like a taut wire, pulling her even tighter toward the edge.
She was already trembling, breath broken and uneven, her lips parted as though the word was lodged somewhere between her lungs and her pride. Her body gave her away before her voice did, every shiver and arch a silent plea for mercy. Finally, with a sound that was closer to a sob than a breath, she gave in.
"Please," she gasped, the word cracking under the weight of her need. Her eyes squeezed shut as though saying it cost her something she could never take back. "Please, Draco."
And that was all it took for him to break her.
His fingers sank deeper with each slow thrust, drawing out the kind of pleasure that left her trembling, the kind that stripped away every thought until there was nothing but the rhythm of his hand and the sound of his voice.
He watched her with the sharp focus of a man who had no intention of letting her hide from what she was feeling, silver eyes tracking every twitch of her hips, every flutter around his fingers, every breathless sound she made.
When he pushed a second finger inside her, the tight stretch made her gasp, a raw, unguarded sound that seemed to light something in him. Her back arched off the bed, her hands scrabbling for the sheets before abandoning them entirely to clutch at his shoulders. He moved with devastating precision, curling his fingers into the spot that made her cry out, his touch unhurried but unrelenting.
"That's it," he murmured, the words spilling from him like a vow, low and edged with something possessive that made her shiver. "I want to hear you, love. Let me hear how good it is."
Her thighs trembled against his sides, her breath coming in shallow, uneven bursts. And then his thumb found her clit.
The first stroke was gentle, a teasing sweep that made her hips jerk, but the next was firmer, perfectly timed with the curl of his fingers inside her. It sent a shockwave through her, white-hot and immediate, the kind of pleasure that left no room for restraint.
Her release hit hard, a violent rush that stole her breath and left her clinging to him, nails digging into his skin as the tremors rolled through her. He held her through it, fingers never faltering until she was shaking beneath him, her body too sensitive to take another touch.
But even as her pulse slowed and her chest heaved with the effort of catching her breath, something greedy still lingered in her veins. She blinked up at him, her body heavy with the haze of satisfaction but far from sated.
He was still there above her, solid and warm, his jaw tight, his chest rising and falling, his arousal a hard, insistent press against her thigh.
It wasn't enough. It would never be enough while he was still untouched, while he was still holding himself back for her. And with that thought, the haze cleared just enough for her to move, still trembling but determined, still thrumming from the pleasure he had given her and ready to return it.
Before he could stop her, before the thought of control could take root, she was already moving with quiet determination. Her lips marked a path down his body, each kiss unhurried, each brush of her mouth deliberate.
She traced his jaw and the steady line of his throat, lingered at the sharp cut of his collarbone, and pressed slow, open-mouthed kisses across the ridges of muscle that tightened under her touch. Every inch she covered seemed to rob him of air, his breath deepening, his body coiling tighter as if bracing for something he could not stop.
His hands found her hips as though on instinct, fingers flexing against her, torn between pulling her back and letting her continue.
But she slid lower before he could decide, dipping to the waistband of his trunks to leave a lingering kiss just above it. Her teeth grazed the tender skin at his hip, a small scrape that made him groan, his head tipping back against the pillows. His grip tightened, but he did not move her away.
Her voice came soft, teasing against his skin, her mouth brushing over him with the kind of wicked satisfaction that told him she knew exactly what she was doing. "Slow down, love. No rush."
And still she lowered herself, fingers hooking into the waistband, easing the fabric down in a slow, torturous drag. Her mouth wandered further, her tongue slipping briefly over the point of his hipbone before she let her breath fan warm against him, purposefully avoiding where he ached for her most. It was a deliberate cruelty, and it was undoing him piece by piece.
"Luna," he rasped, the word breaking in his throat, heavy with wrecked want.
She looked up at him through her lashes, her lips parting in something that balanced on the edge between innocence and sin. "Yes?"
Her fingertips smoothed over the tense muscles of his thighs as she knelt between them, her presence alone enough to conjure every fantasy he had ever had of her.
His jaw locked as his fists curled into the sheets. "I never… it's not… lady-like," he managed, the words jagged and uneven. "You don't have to."
The smile that curved her mouth then was slow, knowing, almost indulgent. Her fingers drifted to trace the hard, straining outline beneath the last piece of fabric he wore, following every ridge, mapping his size with infuriating patience.
She could feel how badly he needed her, how tightly he was holding himself in check, and she loved the struggle in him. He was still trying to be careful, still trying to protect her from the weight of his own hunger, as if she were not aching for him just as much.
"Draco," she murmured, her lips pressing into the inside of his thigh. Her tongue traced the heat of his skin there, her teeth grazing lightly over the sharp cut of muscle, enough to make his hips jolt. "I don't care about what's lady-like."
Before he could answer, before his next breath had even fully formed, she stripped away the last barrier. His cock sprang free, flushed and heavy, the kind of sight that rooted her in place for a moment. The sheer size of him stole the air from her lungs, made her mouth water, and the look in her eyes turned darker still.
Draco cursed under his breath, the word rough and low, his breathing already unsteady, his eyes locked on her with a wild, fevered edge. His hands trembled where they hovered, torn between dragging her up to him and surrendering entirely to whatever she intended to do.
"Oh, darling," she murmured, her voice laced with mock sympathy, the faintest curl of a smile on her lips. She leaned in, letting her mouth brush over the swollen head of his cock, watching the way his stomach tensed, the way his breath caught sharply, the way his composure cracked without her even beginning. "You poor thing."
Her tongue followed the words, slow and deliberate, a single unbroken stroke from the thick base of him to the sensitive tip. She savored the weight of him on her tongue, the heat radiating through him, the way he twitched under the attention.
The sound that tore from his throat was raw, almost startled, his entire body tightening as she parted her lips and let the slick heat of her mouth close around the head. Her tongue swirled against him, teasing, tasting, drawing him in before she gave the smallest, most devastating pull of suction.
It nearly undid him. He could feel himself splintering apart, the sharp rush of pleasure flooding through his nerves like fire, and for a single dazed second he was certain this was the end of him. If there was an afterlife, it could not possibly be better than this.
And then she did it again.
Another slow, languid lick from root to tip, another calculated pass of her tongue over the ridged veins along his shaft. Her breath warmed his skin, unrelenting, until she finally took more of him into her mouth. The stretch of her lips around him, the velvet heat of her tongue pressed to the underside, the slow slide deeper until the back of her throat fluttered against him—he felt something in him snap.
His hips moved before he could stop them, a sharp, instinctive thrust that pushed him further into the wet heat of her mouth. The sound she made in response was low and wrecked, a moan that vibrated straight through him and lit every nerve in his body on fire.
He gripped the sheets in both fists, knuckles white, because if he touched her now, if he so much as threaded his fingers into her hair, he knew he would lose whatever fragile restraint he had left.
She was dismantling him with every slow drag of her mouth, every deliberate swirl of her tongue, every brush of her lips that left him more undone than the last.
It was ruin, pure and methodical, each movement stripping away the last of his restraint until there was nothing left but raw, aching want.
He couldn't think, couldn't speak, couldn't do anything but let her consume him. And Merlin help him, he didn't want her to stop. He would have let her burn him to the ground if it meant this moment never ended.
His hands, unsteady and shaking with need, found her hair, sliding through the silken strands with a care that was almost reverent. He gathered it away from her face, needing a clear view. He had to see her, had to brand this sight into his memory so deeply that nothing could take it from him.
She was on her knees, her lips wrapped around him, her small hands struggling to span his length as she stroked and teased in perfect rhythm with her mouth. She looked like sin and salvation all at once, like she had been made for this, for him, for the sole purpose of wrecking him beyond repair.
And then it happened.
Her gaze lifted to his. Her eyes were wide, knowing, and unbearably certain as they held his. It wasn't just lust in them—it was something heavier, something that dragged him under and refused to let him surface. She kept staring as she sank lower, her lips stretching around him, her throat working to take more of him in, her tongue never faltering.
His teeth closed hard on his lower lip, the coppery tang of blood flooding his mouth as he fought for control he no longer had.
"Fucking hell, baby," he groaned, the words rough, unsteady, his fingers tightening in her hair, not to push her away but to ground himself before the pleasure dragged him under completely.
She kept her gaze on him, unwavering, watching every twitch of his muscles, every sharp breath, every flicker of his expression. She was studying him like she was learning a language only the two of them spoke, memorizing exactly what shattered him the fastest.
And by the way his body was already straining toward her, desperate for more, Draco knew she had already mastered it.
She hollowed her cheeks, taking him deeper, letting the heavy weight of him slide further into her mouth until the tip pressed against the back of her throat, and fuck, it was almost too much.
His hips gave a sharp, involuntary twitch, his stomach tightening with the kind of pleasure that felt like a wire pulled taut through his spine, crackling with heat, making every muscle in his body strain against the sensation as if he was seconds away from coming undone.
His breathing turned rough and uneven, ragged pulls of air that never seemed enough, his muscles trembling under the strain, every line of his body taut with the effort of keeping himself in check, his control fraying until it was nothing but the thinnest, most fragile thread.
"Baby girl," he gasped, the words tumbling from him in a voice that was wrecked and hoarse, so thick with pleading it was almost unrecognizable, laced with something dangerously close to surrender. "Please… stop… shit, baby."
She should have stopped then, should have pulled away and given him the reprieve he clearly thought he needed. But of course, she didn't. She never did when she had him like this, when she could feel the way he was shaking for her, when she could taste the strain in every breath he took.
Because she knew better.
Because she knew exactly what she was doing to him.
Because she wanted him on the knife's edge, wanted him wrecked and helpless, wanted him to feel every deliberate stroke of her tongue and every slow, devastating pull of her mouth until there was no doubt in his mind who had the power to ruin him. She wanted to make sure he would never forget this, would never forget her, would never so much as look at another woman without remembering how fucking perfect she was for him, how no one else could ever touch him the same way.
She slowed then, torturously so, dragging her tongue along his length as she pulled back, letting her lips linger on the flushed, sensitive head of his cock.
Her breath was hot against his skin, ghosting over him in a way that made him tense even harder, her hands gripping his thighs as she stared up at him, her expression one of quiet, devastating control.
She was drinking in the way he shook for her, the way he seemed to unravel further with every passing second.
Draco Malfoy, who had spent years perfecting an ironclad hold over his emotions, who had learned to lock himself away behind a wall no one could breach, who had never allowed another soul to see him vulnerable, was coming apart right in front of her.
And wasn't she just so utterly proud of herself for it?
She radiated a confidence that was almost tangible, satisfaction gleaming bright in her eyes as her lips curled into a slow, knowing smirk while she hovered over him. She knew precisely what she was doing to him. She knew exactly how undone he was beneath her touch, how close he was to breaking entirely.
He wanted to warn her, to tell her she was playing a dangerous game, that she could not possibly understand the kind of fire she was provoking, but the words never came. He was already too far gone to form them.
She shifted then, the movement slow and deliberate, guiding him to where she needed him most. Her delicate fingers curled around him, stroking, teasing, testing, torturing, until his grip on her hips tightened, his fingers pressing into the soft flesh with enough force to anchor himself, as if grounding against her was the only thing keeping him from losing control completely.
And then she sank down onto him.
Slow. Painfully, exquisitely slow. Torturous in the best possible way.
His breath tore out of him in a low, guttural groan, wrecked and raw, his head tipping back into the pillows as if gravity had claimed him entirely. His jaw was tight, every muscle in his body pulled taut as she took him in slowly, inch by inch, until he could feel every maddening moment of it sink deep into his bones.
His hands gripped her hips hard enough to leave shadows of his touch, his control hanging by the thinnest, most fragile thread as she settled into place, as she shifted just enough to make him see stars, as she let out a soft, breathless moan that shattered what little restraint he had left.
"Luna," he rasped, her name spilling from his lips like a confession, his voice rough and uneven, nothing about it measured or composed, nothing about it human in the way he usually prided himself on.
Her nails drifted in a slow, deliberate path down the planes of his chest, each scrape a teasing promise that left a faint burn in its wake. She leaned in, her lips brushing the sensitive skin just beneath his throat, the soft curve of her mouth pressing there in a way that made his pulse falter. Her smile lingered against him, smug and infuriating, the kind of expression that told him she knew exactly how far she had pulled him under and that she intended to enjoy every second of it.
"I know," she whispered, her voice warm and silken, wrapping itself around the edges of what little control he still held.
Smug little thing. A spoiled, shameless brat through and through, and Merlin help him, he loved it far more than he should have. But what she did not yet seem to understand was that she was playing with something far more dangerous than she thought. She was about to learn it in the most direct way possible.
Draco Malfoy was not a patient man. He was not gentle when pushed past reason, not when his temper was wound so tightly it felt ready to snap, not when his self-control had been reduced to a single fragile thread that she had been tugging at again and again. She had driven him past the point of measured restraint, past the point of calculated indulgence, into a place where there was nothing left but the heat and the hunger and the promise of what he would do to her. She had tempted a fire that would consume her completely.
And when he moved, it was without the faintest pretense of warning.
There was no pause to catch her breath, no moment to prepare herself, no heartbeat spared for hesitation. One instant she was above him, smiling that self-satisfied smile, her body pressed close with all the languid ease of someone who believed herself in control, and in the very next she was flat on her back, the mattress giving beneath her as his weight settled over her in a way that left no room for escape.
His hands slid firmly up her thighs, the press of his palms steady and unyielding as he eased them apart, holding her exactly where he wanted her. His breath came hot against her lips, quick and deliberate, and the shadow of him fell over her with the certainty of something inevitable. Every inch of his body radiated intent, a coiled, dangerous energy that wrapped around her until she could feel it in her bones. It was overwhelming in its force, a consuming presence that made her chest rise and fall too quickly, as though her body already knew it was about to be undone.
Her breath caught sharply, her pupils blown wide in sudden awareness. Her fingers reached for him instinctively, tangling in the soft strands of his hair, gripping as though she already knew she was in trouble.
Draco's lips curved into a slow, dangerous smirk, and that was the only warning she was going to get.
"Oh, baby," he murmured, his voice low and rich, his lips brushing the delicate column of her throat as he dragged his mouth along it in slow, claiming strokes. He nipped lightly at her skin, just enough to make her gasp, then soothed the spot with the warmth of his tongue, a tease and a promise wrapped into one. "You should know better than to challenge me."
She barely had time to draw breath, to think of a reply, before he was moving. His hips rocked into hers with a force and precision that stole the air from her lungs, a rhythm that was unyielding, punishing, deliberate in every thrust.
It was the kind of pace that left no room for thought, no room for anything but the raw sensation of him, and it undid her almost instantly.
Her body arched into him, bowing under the intensity, her hands clawing at the hard muscle of his back as if she could anchor herself there. Her lips parted around a sharp gasp that trembled dangerously close to his name, but still he didn't stop. He didn't give her the mercy of slowing, didn't let her float back from the brink. Every movement was designed to keep her there, balanced on the edge, every nerve stretched taut.
She whimpered against him, breathless and overwhelmed, her nails digging into his skin in a desperate attempt to ground herself, but she never once told him to stop. She didn't push him away. She only held on tighter and let him have her, let him ruin her in the exact way she had so recklessly dared him to.
"Please," she gasped, her voice raw and frayed, her desperation spilling through every syllable. "Touch me."
And of course, he would. How could he not?
His hand slid down between them, his fingers finding her with unerring precision, circling and teasing before settling into a rhythm that matched the relentless drive of his hips.
Every stroke was exact, merciless, building her higher and higher until she was shaking from it, until her breathing fractured into short, helpless bursts. He didn't let her rest, didn't let her catch her breath, didn't let her escape the climb.
And then, she broke.
It was sudden, inevitable, all-consuming. Her body clenched around him, her head falling back as the sound that left her throat was something between a sob and a cry of relief. The world narrowed to the violent, exquisite shatter of sensation, and Draco felt every single wave of it crash through her.
He had never seen anything so fucking beautiful.
Leaning in, he pressed his forehead to hers, catching her lips in a kiss that was slow despite the wreckage of their bodies, deep despite the chaos of their breathing. She trembled against him, her soft, broken whimpers swallowed into his mouth as he held her there, keeping her in that perfect ruin until the only thing left in her world was him.
And only when she was nothing more than a wrecked, shaking mess beneath him, only when he was absolutely sure she belonged to him and only him—did he finally let himself fall, let himself lose control, let himself give in completely to the woman who had already ruined him in every possible way.
And fuck, wasn't he just so damn glad for it?
*
The first few weeks, he had been patient, or at least as patient as a man like him could ever hope to be. He had kept his temper on a leash, refrained from pushing her, swallowed the urge to demand, and even managed not to argue when she persisted in calling that little cottage of hers "home," despite the glaringly obvious fact that she was already spending every single night tangled up in his bed.
He had given her the illusion of space, let her pretend that she was still independent, still entirely her own, still in control of the pace and shape of what was happening between them. Yet every morning when he woke to find her limbs draped over him, her slow, even breaths warming his skin, her scent woven so deeply into his sheets that he could catch it even in the quiet hours before dawn, he knew. He fucking knew.
And still, she resisted.
It drove him insane in a way nothing else could. That ridiculous, tiny, lopsided cottage sat at the very edge of his vast estate, a structure that could barely be considered more than a glorified garden shed when compared to the sheer scale and beauty of the mansion, and yet she clung to it with both hands. She held onto it like it was her last tether to some old life, a lifeline to a past she wasn't ready to release, a symbol of something she could not yet name out loud. It was baffling.
She was already here in every way that mattered. Her books filled the empty spaces on his shelves, her favorite tea leaves sat in neat little jars in his kitchen, her potions ingredients spilled across his counters as if they had been there forever, and her clothes had begun to mysteriously appear in his drawers, mixed in with his own. And then there was the final, undeniable proof of her presence. Her stupid, ridiculous, utterly useless cow had taken up permanent residence on his land, grazing in his fields as if it had been born there.
No, not her cow. Their cow.
And perhaps that was the worst part of all. Because if he could bring himself to accept that Dandelion was now a shared responsibility, a living, breathing part of their lives together, then why the hell could she not do the same? Why could she not admit that she had already moved in, that this was no longer just his home but theirs, that what they had was not temporary or fragile but something that had already taken root, something whole and undeniable?
It should be simple. Logical. Painfully obvious to anyone with even half a functioning brain.
But no. Not with Luna bloody Lovegood.
Draco buried his face in the pillow with a low, muffled groan, frustration simmering under his skin as he turned his head just enough to watch her sleep. She lay beside him in perfect, maddening serenity, breathing slow and even, her expression soft and peaceful, entirely unaware of the absolute hell she was putting him through. He had half a mind to shake her awake right then and there, to demand answers while she was still warm from sleep and too drowsy to launch into one of her nonsensical lectures.
He could already hear it, though. That infuriatingly calm tone, the maddeningly serene tilt of her mouth, the way her eyes would go bright and faraway as she delivered some cryptic, whimsical response that made no sense whatsoever and yet somehow managed to disarm him completely. She would probably follow it up with an observation about the migratory habits of some obscure magical creature and then act as if the conversation was settled.
His jaw tightened. He should just burn her house down.
The thought landed with such abrupt clarity that it jolted him. Wait. What?
His eyes snapped open, his mind stalling out entirely as he replayed the words in his head. No, absolutely not, that was going too far. Even for him. He wasn't that unhinged. At least… probably not. Maybe.
Alright, fine, he would not actually burn it down. That would be excessive, even by his standards. And besides, she would almost certainly murder him in some slow, bizarre, entirely untraceable way that involved potions and the phases of the moon.
But still.
How was it possible that he, Draco Malfoy—pureblood, Slytherin, former Death Eater, heir to one of the most powerful and obscenely wealthy wizarding families in Britain—could not convince one tiny, stubborn, slightly unhinged woman to simply acknowledge what was already happening right in front of her?
It wasn't as though he was asking for something outrageous. She already lived here in every meaningful sense of the word. Her so-called cottage had become little more than a storage shed, a place she visited only when she needed to retrieve some obscure object, and even then those trips were rare enough that he sometimes had to remind her it still existed. And yet she clung to it, guarding it as if it were some precious lifeline, some symbol of independence she was determined not to surrender.
Draco exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through his hair, his gaze fixed on the ceiling as he tried to make sense of it. This was going nowhere. He needed a strategy. Not just any half-formed idea, but a proper plan. Something meticulous, foolproof, impossible for her to resist. Because there was no universe in which Draco Malfoy was going to lose to a building.
He could be patient. Subtle. He could make the manor so perfectly suited to her that it would feel absurd to imagine herself anywhere else. He would fold himself into every corner of her routine, into every comfort she associated with home, until the very idea of sleeping anywhere other than in his bed felt foreign to her.
Yes. That was it.
His mouth curved into a slow, deliberate smirk as his mind began mapping it out. He could start small. Perhaps a few of her things would conveniently go missing each time she visited her cottage, only to reappear in the manor, drawing her back to him without her even realizing it.
Dandelion could be mysteriously found grazing near the manor more often than not, encouraging her to spend more time on his land. He could weave her into the very fabric of this place—enchanted lights that reflected the constellations, vases of freshly picked wildflowers in the kitchen, a reading nook overflowing with her favorite books and blankets soft enough to tempt her for hours. She would wake one morning and realize that her life here had already taken root, and by then, it would be too late for her to pull away.
He let his eyes drift back to her. She lay curled beside him, her hair spilling across his pillow, her breathing slow and steady, her fingers twitching lightly against his chest even in sleep as if she were unconsciously reaching for him.
Yes. She was already his.
All he needed now was for her to understand it.
*
Having an actual, adult conversation instead of quietly manipulating her into moving in. That was the master plan, the one he had settled on after weeks of weighing his options and discarding every underhanded tactic that came to mind.
He prepared for it with care, because Luna was not a woman who could be strong-armed into anything. She thrived on freedom, on the sense that every choice she made was her own, and if she so much as suspected she was being cornered, she would slip through his fingers with that infuriating, dreamlike ease she had perfected.
What she needed was choice. What she needed was the feeling that she was walking toward him of her own accord, even if he already knew the decision had been made somewhere deep in her heart.
So instead of demands, instead of ultimatums, he would shape the conversation into something else entirely. He would present the practicalities, the little ways it made sense, without making her feel like she was giving up a fight. He would let her see it as a step she wanted to take, not one she was being coaxed into.
Draco had always been strategic. He knew the art of timing, the difference between pushing and waiting, the delicate balance between offering temptation and letting it linger until it was irresistible.
But this was not a chessboard. This was her. And with Luna, force was a blunt instrument that would never work. She could not be driven. She had to be invited.
So he waited. He waited for the right kind of evening—not one tinged with frustration, not one where she was quietly digging in her heels just to prove she could, not one where she was looking for reasons to be contrary.
He waited for one of those nights when the rest of the world faded to nothing, when the air seemed softer, the firelight warmer, when she curled into him with such unconscious ease that it felt inevitable. The kind of night where she had to feel what he felt, the truth neither of them had dared speak out loud yet.
She was already here. She had been here for a long time. All he needed to do now was help her see it.
She lay against him, her head tucked neatly beneath his chin, her fingertips drawing lazy, absent-minded shapes over his chest as if she were sketching constellations only she could see.
She was simply here. With him. Exactly where she belonged.
That was when he knew the timing was perfect.
"Love," he said quietly, his voice low and deliberate, "let's talk."
Her fingers stilled on his chest, her head tilting just enough to show she had heard him, a subtle shift that wasn't quite defensive but was unmistakably cautious.
"That sounds ominous," she murmured, and there was a faint note of suspicion beneath the lightness of her tone.
"Only if you decide to make it difficult," he replied, letting the words fall without challenge, steady and calm.
He felt the quiet pause in her breathing, the moment she weighed her options. He could almost hear the thought in her head, the instinct to deflect, to turn the moment into something whimsical or nonsensical until it slipped through his hands. But he wasn't going to let that happen. Not this time. Not when he had waited for the exact moment she would be least inclined to run.
Instead, he let his fingers slide into her hair, slow and careful, the motion soothing and unhurried, each pass of his hand meant to draw her closer rather than push her away.
His voice stayed low, carrying that particular warmth he knew she would feel before she even thought to resist, his touch feather-light, offering her no escape except deeper into him.
He understood her rhythms by now. Luna did not bend for demands. She leaned toward logic, toward patience, toward truths so steady and unshakable they could not be argued with.
"You already live here in every way that matters," he said, watching her eyes as he spoke. "You sleep here. You eat here. Your books are here. Your cow is here."
Her gaze sharpened just enough to reveal the first spark of amusement, the corners of her lips twitching despite her attempts at restraint.
"Dandelion can live wherever she pleases."
"And where does she always choose to be?" he countered without missing a beat.
She didn't answer.
Because he was right, and they both knew it.
She had spent more nights tangled in his sheets than her own, more mornings waking in his arms than alone in her cottage. She had fallen asleep to the sound of his breathing, woken to the steady warmth of him beside her, lived inside the quiet constancy of his presence without realizing how deeply she had come to crave it.
And she had left herself everywhere. Her oversized sweaters draped over the backs of his chairs as if they had been claimed by her long ago.
Her books piled unevenly on his nightstand because she never stopped reading until sleep took her.
Her favorite mug resting in his cabinets as if it had always belonged there.
Her scent clinging to his sheets.
Her laughter carrying down his halls like it had been woven into the very walls.
She was already here. Already his. Already home.
But still, she paused.
Because moving in meant something. Saying the words aloud meant something. Admitting it meant she wasn't just lingering. She wasn't just staying out of convenience or habit. She would be choosing it. Choosing him.
And Luna did not make choices like that without weighing the cost.
Draco's gaze stayed fixed on her, reading every flicker of hesitation in her expression, every small tell she probably didn't even realize she was giving him. The faint twitch of her fingers against his chest, the soft bite to her lower lip, the barely-there hitch in her breath — they gave her away more than words ever could. She was weighing it, turning the idea over in her mind.
And Merlin help him, he was willing to wait. He had never been good at patience, not with most things, but with her it was different. She was the only thing he had ever considered worth being patient for.
Still, he could see the resistance lingering at the edges. Moving in wasn't just about a place to sleep. It meant admitting something she had not yet spoken aloud, something she might not even be ready to name. He knew if he came at it like a demand, if he so much as made it sound like an order, she would plant her feet just to spite him.
The truth was, she had already moved in. Not with clothes. Not with books. Not even with Dandelion. No, the very first thing she brought into his home was her plants. That should have been his warning, the first clear signal that living with Luna Lovegood was not going to be anything resembling a normal domestic arrangement.
And they were not just a few decorative pots for a windowsill. It was a living, breathing wilderness. A tangled sprawl of vines that climbed whatever they could find, bursts of flowers that spilled their scent into every room, herbs in neat rows beside magical flora that seemed to hum faintly in the night.
There were even a few specimens he was fairly certain would have required a Ministry permit if anyone had bothered to check.
"How many plants do you actually have, Luna?" he had asked at last, his voice caught somewhere between disbelief and resignation, eyes widening as yet another floating tray of potted greenery drifted gracefully through the front doors.
The entrance hall was already thick with the mingled scents of crushed leaves and blooming flowers, the earthy weight of damp soil clinging to the air, and, Merlin help him, a plant that appeared to be snapping irritably at the air as it passed, as though it had personal grievances to settle.
She had turned to him with a perfectly innocent expression, wide-eyed and serene, as if she weren't in the process of smuggling the entire Forbidden Forest into his ancestral home.
"Not that many," she replied, her tone completely unbothered, even as more floating pots continued to drift inside in a slow but relentless parade, filling the space around them with a riot of colors, textures, and far too much life for his taste.
"Not that many?" he repeated slowly, his gaze tracking one particular plant that seemed to be glowing faintly, its petals opening and closing with unsettling rhythm, as if it was breathing.
"Yes," she said, as though it were the most reasonable thing in the world, "only the necessities."
Draco stared at her for a long moment, then looked around at the growing sea of greenery that was now spilling onto tables, claiming corners, settling on every available surface as if it had already staked a permanent claim on the manor.
The magical vines were the worst of it, creeping up the walls in real time, their tendrils stretching toward the lofty ceilings with unsettling determination.
Necessities.
Right.
He wasn't sure what exactly had possessed him in that moment, but he had exhaled slowly, pinched the bridge of his nose, and surrendered to his fate. Because Luna Lovegood was moving in, and that meant her chaos was coming with her in full force. That chaos included what could only be described as an entire greenhouse's worth of plant life.
But Draco was nothing if not a problem solver.
That night, while she was asleep, he had quietly arranged for one of the manor's unused rooms to be transformed into a dedicated conservatory, a winter garden designed to house every last one of her precious plants in proper style. The space would have enchanted glass ceilings to provide perfect light in every season, intricate self-watering charms woven through the floor, and a temperature regulation system precise enough to keep even her most temperamental magical flora alive and thriving.
If his house was going to be overtaken by a botanical invasion, then it was going to be done properly, with elegance and order, even if he had to build the space from the ground up to contain it.
By the end of the week, every plant had been given its own carefully chosen spot, arranged with the same meticulous precision he might have applied to a rare collection of artifacts. Her carnivorous flowers, the ones with snapping mouths and far too much personality, were safely contained behind protective barriers that even she had to admit were a good idea. Her sprawling vines were provided with a tall, enchanted lattice to climb, ensuring they would keep their ambitious tendrils away from his furniture and curtains.
It was, Draco thought as he stood back to inspect the work, the only way to keep both his sanity and his house intact.
And then came the books.
He had always known she owned a great many of them. He had seen the overflowing shelves in her little cottage, had tripped over precarious stacks left on the floor as if they were part of the décor, had watched her produce volumes seemingly out of thin air whenever she needed to look up something obscure. But knowing it in theory was not the same as experiencing the full reality of her collection invading his home.
It began innocently enough. A modest stack appeared on his desk one morning, titles ranging from rare herbology guides to works on magical folklore, the sort of selection that might have been mistaken for temporary research material. Then a few more found their way onto his shelves, mingling discreetly with his own. A week later, an entire cart of them appeared seemingly overnight, the wheels squeaking faintly as it rolled into the library under the influence of some quiet charm.
From there, it was a steady, unstoppable tide. The books crept in like they were claiming territory, first filling the empty spaces between his neatly ordered rows, then taking over whole shelves, then settling into corners in stacks that could have doubled as furniture.
Eventually, the distinction between his collection and hers became meaningless. The categories blurred, the volumes mingled, and somewhere along the way, his library had become their library.
And wasn't that the entire point of all of this? Wasn't that the reason he had wanted her to move in, to stay, to let their lives fuse together until there was no clear beginning or end?
Because she was here now, not just in body, not just in passing, but in permanence. Her belongings had become part of the manor, her routines shaping the rhythm of his days, her magic threaded through every room as if it had always been there. Her voice carried down his halls, her scent lingered in his sheets, and her presence filled the spaces in a way that felt inevitable, like the house had simply been waiting for her to arrive.
And perhaps it had. Even if she had not yet realised it herself.
When she woke up the next morning, the very first thing she became aware of, before her eyes had even opened or her muscles had the chance to stretch, was the strange, charged hum in the room.
It was not the lazy stillness of a quiet morning, nor the gentle warmth of sunlight coaxing her into wakefulness. No, this was an energy that crackled faintly against her skin, a restless shifting that told her someone else was already far too awake for this hour.
Draco was up. Not just awake, but alive with a sort of barely contained anticipation that made the air itself feel impatient. She could hear the faint sound of movement beside the bed, the creak of the floorboards as his weight shifted, the almost inaudible sigh of someone who had been waiting longer than they cared to admit.
When she finally blinked her eyes open, the first thing she saw was him hovering at the edge of the bed, his expression alight with something between triumph and mischief. Her voice came out soft and rough from sleep, a slow, drowsy murmur. "Good morning."
"Good morning, love," he replied instantly, the words tumbling out with such speed and eagerness that they made her pause.
There was an edge of delight in his tone, so full of energy that she wondered if he had been standing there for hours. He looked almost boyish in his excitement, like a child who knew a secret and was barely holding himself back from blurting it out. "I have something very, very important to show you."
She frowned slightly, still not entirely sure she was even fully conscious yet, and pushed her hair back from her face. The world felt hazy around the edges, her thoughts sluggish as she rubbed at her eyes. "Let me just freshen up a bit, yeah?"
"Sorry, love," Draco said quickly, his grin widening until it took over his entire face. He caught her wrist before she could even lower her hand, the pressure warm and insistent. "Can't do."
"Draco—" she began, but the protest was half-hearted, already fraying at the edges as he tugged her out from beneath the blankets.
Whatever this was, he had no intention of letting her delay it. She found herself swept into his pace before she could think to resist, his hand steady and unyielding in hers as he guided her toward the hallway.
He was practically dragging her, but not with frustration, not with urgency born of anything serious—this was pure, impatient excitement, the kind that made her wonder if she was about to walk into something incredible or absolutely ridiculous.
Either way, with Draco grinning like that, she knew there was no point in fighting it.
Luna stumbled once or twice as she tried to match his stride, still barefoot, still half-asleep, her hair mussed from the pillow and her eyes half-shut against the brightness spilling in from the tall windows.
The morning light in the manor was different from anywhere else, soft but insistent, gilding the marble floors and catching on the gold of the picture frames, and it only made her blink harder as Draco all but pulled her along.
His hand around her wrist was firm but never rough, the warmth of his skin steady against hers, and even through her sleepy haze she could feel the electricity in him, the way his entire body seemed to hum with restrained energy.
By the time they reached the tall glass doors that opened to the back of the manor, she found that she was no longer irritated at being dragged out of bed, only curious, because whatever had him like this could not be ordinary.
He pushed open the door with a sharp, purposeful movement, and the sight that unfolded on the other side stole the breath straight from her lungs.
It was a greenhouse.
Not a rented, cluttered, makeshift one, but something so extraordinary, so perfectly hers, that for a moment she could only stand there, rooted to the spot, her mind struggling to catch up with what she was seeing.
The structure rose up like it had grown from the ground itself, attached seamlessly to the manor as if it had always been meant to live there.
Sunlight glanced off enchanted panes of glass that shimmered faintly with the kind of magic that whispered permanence, the metal framing carved with delicate patterns and curling lines that could only have come from meticulous, expensive craftsmanship.
Every beam, every pane, every join sang of intention, of care, of something made not just to exist, but to belong.
Through the glass she could see the rows and layers of greenery inside, lush and vibrant and impossibly alive. Her plants. Every single one of them. The sprawling vines she had coaxed into shape, the shy blossoms that only opened at certain hours, the stubborn herbs that needed specific humidity, even the rare magical blooms that had to be kept under careful protection—they were all there, thriving as though they had been waiting for this place all along.
Her breath caught sharply, chest tightening with an ache she had not expected, a warmth flooding her veins that felt almost too much to hold.
"Oh gods," she whispered, the words barely finding their way out, trembling as they passed her lips.
Her hands rose without thought, fingertips pressing against her mouth as her eyes stung with an emotion that was dangerously close to spilling over.
She was not sure she could name it without her voice breaking, but it was there, heavy and bright and impossible to ignore.
Draco was not looking at the greenhouse. He was looking at her, his pale eyes locked on her face as though he could commit every flicker of her expression to memory. He stood like a man waiting for judgment, every muscle in his body ready for her to love it, because it mattered to him more than he would ever admit out loud.
"It is beautiful," she breathed, her voice unsteady, her gaze still fixed on the shimmering glass and the lushness within it. It was more than beautiful. It was a home for the things she loved most, built with his hands and his will, and she could feel the truth of that pressing into her bones.
She did not give him the chance to say anything before she turned and closed the distance between them, throwing her arms around his neck with such sudden force that he staggered back a step. Her body hit his solidly, her bare feet barely touching the ground, her entire weight pressing into him in a way that spoke of trust as much as gratitude.
He caught her without hesitation, hands sliding to her waist and holding her there like it was the most natural thing in the world. She tucked her face against his shoulder, her voice muffled but full of something that almost hurt to hear. "Thank you, so, so much."
Draco exhaled slowly, his breath warm against her hair, and tightened his hold as though anchoring her to him. His lips found her temple, brushing against it with a lingering, deliberate tenderness that said more than any grand declaration ever could.
"Anything for you, love," he murmured, his voice lower now, rougher around the edges, the words curling into something unguarded before he could stop them. "Anything."
*
Draco Malfoy being the perfect boyfriend was such an understatement that the words barely even began to cover it, and if anyone had told her years ago that this would be her life, that Draco of all people would be the one showering her with affection and attention and a kind of romance she had never experienced before, she would have laughed outright at the absurdity of it. Yet here she was, rooted to the middle of a room so completely overtaken by flowers that it looked as though an entire greenhouse had burst open inside the manor, sending a tidal wave of bouquets over every available surface. The blooms spilled from vases and baskets, tumbling across tables and windowsills, their petals scattering in soft drifts across the floor until every step she took released another faint sigh of fragrance into the air. The scent was heady and impossible to escape, a mixture of roses and lilies and wild blossoms, sweet and dizzying, overwhelming in the most beautiful way, so like him in how it demanded her attention and left no room for anything else.
Because of course he was too much.
Of course he never did anything in half measures, never settled for the simple or the understated.
Of course he had decided that a single bouquet was not enough, that he needed to drown her in flowers until the sheer abundance made her breath catch, that he needed to turn an entire room into a declaration she could not ignore. It was not only about giving her something beautiful to look at. It was about ensuring that every time she stepped into the space, she would be reminded that she belonged to him, that he adored her without reservation, that he worshipped her with a devotion so unapologetic it bordered on obsessive.
And yet, despite it all, despite the fact that he was everything she had not even dared to imagine she might want, despite how carefully and effortlessly he shaped himself into the man who seemed to know her better than she knew herself, there was still a small, unyielding part of her that waited for the moment when it would all collapse.
It sat deep in her chest like a shadow that no amount of light could erase, whispering that perfection was only ever temporary, that something this good could not possibly last forever.
She was still distant, still careful, still bracing herself for the inevitable moment when something would go wrong, when the dream would end, when the perfection would shatter into something she wasn't sure she would be able to survive.
Because Draco was perfect.
Except for the one glaring truth she could never entirely set aside, no matter how hard she tried to focus on everything else. His mind was not a simple or safe place, and his possessiveness was not an occasional quirk that appeared only when provoked. It was something far older and deeper, woven into him like a second nature, threaded through every touch, every glance, every kiss they shared.
It was in the way his eyes followed her with quiet calculation, in the way his jaw would tighten almost imperceptibly whenever someone dared to look at her for a moment too long, in the way his arms would secure themselves more firmly around her waist when they were out together, his silent warning radiating as clearly as if he had spoken it aloud.
And maybe, if she had been someone else, some part of her would have recoiled from it. She might have been frightened by the sheer force of it, wary of what it meant to be loved by a man who did not know how to let go, concerned that his intensity might one day become something too sharp to bear. But she was not frightened, not in the way reason might have dictated she should be.
Because she knew him. She knew that Draco Malfoy's love had never been the kind of love that played it safe, that it was not tame or neat or gentle enough to be folded into something ordinary. His love was wild and relentless, untamed in its hunger and ruthless in its loyalty, a force that burned hotter and lasted longer than anything she had ever known. It consumed without apology and protected without hesitation, and once it chose you, it did not falter.
And Merlin, she knew, with the kind of certainty that lived in the marrow of her bones, that if she let herself match him in that recklessness, if she let herself love him with the same fearless abandon, there would be no way to undo it. There would be no return to the life she had known before him, no chance of stepping away without shattering something vital inside her. Because once Draco Malfoy had you, truly had you, there was no undoing it. There was no escape. He would hold on with everything he was, and he would never, ever let go.