She truly lost her mind when she wandered into the dining room that morning, still rubbing the sleep from her eyes, wanting nothing more than a quiet breakfast and a strong cup of tea, only to be met with the utterly ridiculous sight of Draco Malfoy, heir to one of the most influential pureblood families in Britain, sitting at the head of the breakfast table with a miniature cow settled comfortably in his lap.
It was not just that he was holding her, which would have been strange enough on its own.
He was stroking her soft cream-and-brown fur with slow, absent-minded movements, pressing small, unhurried kisses to the top of her head, and murmuring to her in a voice so gentle and so fond that Luna stopped in the doorway and wondered for a brief, surreal moment if she should turn around and go back to bed to check whether she was still asleep.
Dandelion, for her part, looked like she had reached the very peak of contentment, her tiny hooves tucked neatly under her body, her big, unblinking, slightly vacant eyes half-closed as if she had been waiting her whole life for this exact morning.
And Draco.
Draco Malfoy, the man who once sneered at anything that fell short of perfection, who once treated dust as though it were a personal insult, who had likely hexed an entire laundry room because someone left a faint smudge on his cuff, was now sitting at the breakfast table with a farm animal pressed to his bare chest. A real, living, breathing, slightly muddy farm animal. He looked utterly unbothered by the fact that she smelled faintly of hay and damp earth, that her coat still carried the scent of the outdoors, and that she was in no way part of the carefully curated, Malfoy-approved version of luxury he usually surrounded himself with.
Luna stopped in the doorway and just stared, her mind going perfectly blank for several long seconds. Her brain refused to process the image in front of her. This was not the sort of thing one could ease into understanding.
"Draco," she said at last, her voice slow and deliberate, as if she might startle him out of the strange domestic scene if she spoke too quickly.
He barely glanced up, his attention still fixed on the tiny cow nestled in his lap. His hand moved lazily over her fur, stroking in slow, even passes, and he pressed another small kiss to the top of her head as if this were the most natural thing in the world. "Good morning, love," he murmured.
Luna blinked. Then blinked again. Then looked down at her empty tea cup in her hand as if it might somehow offer an explanation for what she was witnessing. When it didn't, she lifted her eyes back to him.
"Are you…" She made a vague motion toward the entire baffling scene. "Are you cuddling the cow?"
Only then did Draco lift his gaze properly, the faintest crease forming between his brows, as though he was trying to figure out why she had even asked. He looked at her like she was the one acting strangely.
"She was cold," he said, his tone light and matter-of-fact, as though that explained everything perfectly.
Luna's eye twitched. "She lives outside, Draco."
"Not anymore," he replied without missing a beat, already turning his attention back to Dandelion and scratching gently under her chin in a way that made the little cow hum in satisfaction. "She likes it better in the house."
"Oh, does she?" Luna folded her arms and studied him, her expression halfway between disbelief and resignation. "And she told you that?"
"In her own way," Draco said, clearly pleased with himself. "She follows me everywhere. She's practically a lap animal."
Luna opened her mouth, then closed it again. She ran a slow hand down her face, torn between laughing and admitting defeat. There was no winning this battle. Draco Malfoy, once the very picture of a pristine pureblood heir, was now the sort of man who kissed cows in the morning, and she could only hope she was still asleep and would wake up before he started ordering monogrammed feed buckets.
Somewhere, in whatever afterlife awaited them, Luna was certain Lucius Malfoy was losing his entire fucking mind.
Good.
Let him roll in his grave. Let him claw at the coffin lid in outrage. Let him do a full backflip in it if he felt so inclined.
Because the Malfoy name? That pure, carefully polished, obsessively guarded lineage that had been curated for centuries like a priceless artifact? It was never going to recover. Not with a Lovegood in the Manor. Not with a half-feral miniature cow roaming the halls like she paid the mortgage. Not with Draco walking around bare-chested at breakfast, kissing said cow as if she were the crown jewel of the family.
And certainly not when Luna had already decided that she was going to give Draco an heir. And a spare. Maybe even a small army of Malfoy-Lovegoods, each one wilder and less aristocratically acceptable than the last, purely to spite every single long-dead ancestor currently shrieking in horror from the beyond.
She imagined portraits falling off the walls in protest. She hoped it would happen during dinner.
Draco must have finally noticed the strange, unwavering look on her face because he glanced up again, one pale brow lifting as he rubbed slow, lazy circles into Dandelion's back.
"What?" he asked, suspicion curling into his voice. "Why are you looking at me like that?"
Luna just smiled, serene as moonlight.
Nothing. Nothing at all.
Just quietly plotting the complete undoing of your family's generational reputation, darling.
"I love you."
The words had barely left her mouth before Draco absolutely lost his mind. Not in the way a normal person might, with a soft smile or a stunned pause, not even with the awkward fumble of someone caught off guard by emotion.
No, Draco Malfoy reacted in the most Draco Malfoy way possible—like someone had just handed him a priceless artifact and told him it was his to keep, but also set it on fire in the same breath.
One moment, Draco was seated at the head of the table like a king on his throne, stroking Dandelion with the kind of gentle reverence normally reserved for priceless family heirlooms or rare magical artifacts, his every movement slow and smug. It was the smugness of a man who believed he had just won a long, silent, and deeply important battle to keep a miniature cow in his lap despite all laws of reason and hygiene.
The next moment, everything about him shattered. His expression crumpled into something that could only be described as utter devastation. His mouth fell open like she had slapped him across the face with a live trout. His shoulders went stiff, his spine locked, and he looked at her as if she had personally arrived to serve him divorce papers and repossess the Manor.
"Are you going to leave me?" he blurted out, voice already trembling, eyes wide with the fragile horror of a man staring down the apocalypse. "Oh, fuck, my life. I knew it. I bloody knew it."
The descent into chaos was instant.
He shot up from his chair with the explosive energy of a man reacting to an assassination attempt, nearly dropping his emotional support cow in the process. Nearly. Because at the very last possible second, pure instinct overrode hysteria, and he placed Dandelion gently, reverently, on the chair as though she were a priceless relic that must be kept safe from the tidal wave of heartbreak about to hit him. He even gave her a reassuring pat, muttering something about her not listening to "the lies," before whirling away.
And then the pacing began.
Merlin help anyone who happened to be in the Manor that morning. He launched into it with all the wild, erratic energy of a man both composing his own obituary and preparing to dig the grave. Back and forth across the dining room he went, his bare feet slapping the floor in sharp, impatient beats. His hands dragged through his hair as if trying to physically pull the despair from his skull, his breath coming fast, his spine bent with the weight of imagined tragedy.
And he talked. Oh, did he talk.
Not to her, not exactly. Not to anyone, really. Just to the room at large, as though he were performing a one-man tragedy in the grand theatre of his own making. His voice rose and fell dramatically, his words tumbling faster with each circuit, as though sheer volume might protect him from the doom he had decided was inevitable.
"I knew it!" he announced, flinging his arms out as he spun on his heel. "Of course. Of course this was too perfect, too beautiful, too unbearably pure to last. I, Draco Lucius Malfoy, have flown too close to the sun, and here it is—my wings melting in real time, my beloved ready to abandon me, to cast me aside like… like…" He faltered, clearly searching for something appropriately tragic. "Like the Department of Mysteries cast out their most brilliant young recruit for being too clever."
"That is not a real thing," Luna said mildly from her chair.
He either didn't hear her or chose not to acknowledge her, because the soliloquy was far from over. He clasped his hands dramatically over his chest, as if holding in a mortal wound. "I will be alone, reduced to a hollow shell, a wretched man haunting the halls of this Manor, kept alive only by the occasional kindness of my cow—" He threw an arm toward Dandelion, who blinked at him with bovine indifference. "—the only living soul who will never betray me."
Luna sipped her tea, watching with the detached patience of a woman who had not only witnessed this brand of Malfoy meltdown before but had learned it was best to let him run the full course.
He pressed on as though the mere sound of his own suffering was keeping him alive. "I should have known. I should have seen this coming. I should have prepared myself for this inevitable doom. But no! No, I was a fool. A fool who dared to believe he could have happiness, who dared to think he might hold on to the one person in this wretched, thankless world who makes his pathetic existence bearable."
Luna pinched the bridge of her nose. She inhaled slowly, deeply, then exhaled through her teeth in a long, measured hiss.
"Oh, but I deserve it," Draco said, now clutching his chest like he was attempting to rip his heart out with sheer dramatics alone. "I deserve every ounce of agony, every shred of heartbreak, every horrific, merciless second of this—"
"Draco."
"—miserable, soul-crushing—"
"Draco."
"—gut-wrenching—"
"DRACO!"
He froze mid-pose, one hand still pressed to his chest, the other lifted like he had been seconds from cursing the heavens. His eyes were wide, hair completely ruined from the repeated dragging of his fingers through it, his breathing shallow and uneven like a man braced for the final blow.
Luna folded her arms, her expression flat, her voice sharp with exhaustion. "I literally just said I love you."
Draco's mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again, but no sound came out. His gaze darted from her to Dandelion, still perched on her chair like a tiny, unbothered queen presiding over this particular breakfast tragedy.
"You…" He swallowed. "You love me."
"Yes."
"You're not leaving me?" His voice cracked halfway through, the question pitched somewhere between suspicion and prayer.
Luna exhaled slowly, eyes closing for a fraction of a second as though mentally gathering the strength to deal with him. "No, Draco, I'm not leaving you."
There was a long pause. The kind of pause where she could practically hear the cogs turning in his head, each one grinding against the other like a badly enchanted clock.
And then, as if every muscle in his body had given up at once, Draco Malfoy—heir to an ancient house, former Death Eater, a man feared by more than half the wizarding world—collapsed into his chair like a tragic Victorian widow. He clutched his chest with one hand, threw the other limply over the armrest, and let out a moan that belonged on a West End stage. "Oh, thank Merlin."
Luna pressed her fingers into her temples. This, she reminded herself, was the man she loved. This was the man she had chosen to tether her life to, willingly, with eyes wide open. This absolute mess of a human being who was now gazing at her like she had just granted him a pardon from Azkaban and might, at any second, revoke it.
Of course, he couldn't just leave it there.
His eyes narrowed, his lips parted slightly, and his face shifted into the kind of wounded uncertainty that would have been irritating if it wasn't so nakedly, pathetically real. "But…" He leaned forward, voice low, hoarse, wrecked. "You only said it once. Which means it's a mirage. A cosmic trick. A cruel little hallucination sent to finish me off."
Luna didn't even blink. Her arms stayed crossed. Her voice was perfectly calm, perfectly steady. "No. I just love you."
A beat of silence stretched between them.
And then Draco shot to his feet so suddenly that Dandelion gave a startled little snort. Without another word, he bolted from the dining room at full speed.
Luna stared after him, let out a long sigh, and picked up her tea again. "Of course," she muttered to herself, taking a slow sip. "Of course he did."
She stayed exactly where she was, unmoving, her gaze fixed on the spot where he had vanished as if she could still see the ghost of his retreating form. He had not just walked away from the breakfast table, he had practically launched himself from it, bolting down the corridor with the speed and urgency of a man who had just been informed he had mere seconds left to live. Somewhere deep within the manor there came a loud, echoing thud, followed by the sharp slam of what sounded very much like a wardrobe door, then a string of muffled curses that carried just far enough for her to catch the general tone if not the exact words. Another crash followed, something that could have been a chair being knocked over or perhaps an entire suit of armor being shoved aside.
She did not move. She did not chase him.
This was Draco. Her Draco. And she understood him with the kind of weary familiarity that could only be earned through surviving several years of his dramatics without either hexing him or walking out. So she simply took another sip of her tea, let the steam curl into her face, and exhaled slowly. She could wait.
Because he would come back.
And when he did, he did not just walk back into the room like a sane man might.
Draco Malfoy, heir to one of the most polished and painstakingly curated bloodlines in wizarding history, reappeared in the doorway with all the composure of a man being chased by fate itself. His hair was almost in place, but she could see the telltale unevenness that meant he had dragged his hands through it over and over. His tie hung at the wrong angle, his shirt collar slightly rumpled, his breathing still too quick, each inhale deeper than the last as though he was trying to pull himself together and failing spectacularly. There was a restless energy radiating from him, something taut and urgent, something that made him look like every nerve in his body was firing at once.
He was wearing his best suit. The one he always reserved for moments he deemed important, though he would never admit to anyone that he thought about such things.
In his hands, clutched so tightly his knuckles had turned pale, was a small velvet box.
Luna barely had time to register it before he dropped to his knees in front of her, the movement sharp and unhesitating, the kind of motion that seemed driven more by instinct than conscious decision. It was so sudden, so absolute, that for a heartbeat she forgot to breathe.
His fingers trembled as he opened the box, and inside lay a ring. It was beautiful, but not in the cold, ostentatious way some Malfoy treasures were. This was delicate, intricate in its design, as though every detail had been considered, as though it had been crafted with her in mind alone. It looked like something that had been waiting in the dark for years, biding its time until this exact moment.
But it was not the ring that rooted her to her chair.
It was his face.
The way his eyes held hers with a heat that was fierce and unflinching, the way they burned with a kind of honesty that stripped him of every shield he had ever carried. The way his lips parted like he was on the verge of speaking but the words were too heavy to pass easily. She saw the small swallow in his throat, the effort it took for him to steady himself, and the near-imperceptible shake in his hands as though the weight of the moment was almost too much for him to hold.
And then his voice came, wrecked and quiet, carrying so much reverence it nearly undid her entirely.
"Luna Lovegood," he said, and the sound of her name in that tone made her breath catch. "You have turned my miserable life into heaven."
He drew in a slow, unsteady breath, as if he was forcing himself to hold it together, as if the sheer weight of the moment was threatening to pull him under.
"I would know you in total darkness," he went on, his voice dropping even lower, softer now, like each word was costing him something. "If you could not speak and I could not hear, I would still find you. I would know you in another lifetime entirely, in another body, in another place. I would love you in every one of them. In every existence, in every universe, in every version of myself, I would choose you until the last star in the sky fades into nothing."
Her heart seemed to still in her chest. Her throat tightened, a painful knot of emotion pressing upward.
He swallowed, his hands trembling just enough for her to see, his eyes never leaving hers for a single second.
"Would you do me the honor of marrying me?"
Luna did not think. She did not draw in a careful breath or pause to gather herself. She did not weigh the question against all the years ahead of them.
Because there was no point.
He was hers.
And she was his.
And she did not care if he was possessive or obsessed or impossible to live with. She did not care if this was wild or reckless or completely irrational. He was everything she had ever wanted, and she knew with a clarity that felt like light breaking through that she was going to be his.
Forever.
So she did not speak. She did not give him a yes.
Instead, she launched herself at him, knocking him flat onto the floor and stealing the breath from his lungs as she kissed him hard, fingers curling into his hair. Every ounce of her answer was in the way her mouth moved against his, in the way she pressed herself to him, in the way she seemed to pour every part of herself into that single moment until there was no space left for doubt.
Draco laughed against her lips, breathless and a little dazed, but entirely victorious.
"Was that a yes?" he managed.
"Obviously," she whispered, her mouth still close to his.
That was enough for him.
He needed no speeches, no further assurances, because he knew. He had always known. She was his, she had always been his, and she would always be his in every possible way that mattered. His hands were still shaking as he took the ring from its box, holding it with the same careful attention he might have given to something ancient and priceless. Slowly, reverently, almost like an act of worship, he slid it onto her finger, as if it had been meant for her from the very beginning.
The ring was stunning, but its perfection had nothing to do with the cut of the diamond or the delicate filigree curling around the band. It was not even the faint, shimmering enchantment woven into the metal that made it glow faintly in the moonlight. Its beauty came from something else entirely, something that could not be weighed or measured. It was hers. Crafted for her. Chosen for her. The moment it slid onto her finger, gleaming like a quiet promise, it felt as though the piece had been waiting its whole existence to find her hand. Now that it had, it was complete.
Luna lifted her hand slightly, watching the way the light caught on the stone. Her lips parted and her breath hitched, a slow inhale catching in her chest. Something pressed down on her heart, not in a way that hurt, but in a way that made her feel so full she thought she might not be able to hold it. This was not simply a ring. It was not merely an engagement. It was a claim, a tether, a declaration that she belonged to him, that she had chosen him, that she was his and he was hers, and there was nothing that could undo that truth now.
Draco was watching her. His gaze did not stray once, his expression unreadable yet so intense that it almost burned. His breathing was uneven, and his fingers remained curled around her wrist as though the thought of letting go was unbearable. It was as if he needed the steady thrum of her pulse beneath his fingertips to convince himself this moment was real. The way he looked at her was devastating. He looked at her as though she was the only thing that had ever mattered. And Luna, in that instant, felt completely unmade.
Then he kissed her.
It was not just a kiss. It was not merely the meeting of lips or the relief that follows longing. It was not simply the inevitable collision of desire and affection. It was more than all of that. It was everything.
It was the most romantic kiss they had ever shared, the most important one they would ever share. It was soft, deep, slow, and endless. It tasted like forever, like vows unspoken, like the safety of a place you can always return to. His lips moved against hers with a tenderness that bordered on aching, a kind of reverence that made her dizzy. She felt weightless and grounded all at once, as though she was falling and being caught at the same time.
His hands slid into her hair, cupping the back of her head, holding her still as if she might disappear if he let go. His fingers threaded into the pale strands and stayed there, a silent promise that he would keep her close. Her own hands found his chest, then his jaw, then his shoulders. She clung to him, pulling him closer until there was no space left between them, until it felt as if she could draw him entirely into herself and never let him leave.
And Draco was undone. Every ounce of the control he prided himself on had shattered in the face of this one moment, because this was it. This was the moment he knew he could never let her go.
This was the moment he had been waiting for, the moment he had fought for, the moment he had dreamed of in all the sleepless nights spent staring at her empty side of the bed, the moment he had ached for in every second of their separation.
This was forever.
And he would never let her go again.
*
Their tenth wedding anniversary was something Draco had been quietly orchestrating for over a year, because of course he had. Nothing about loving Luna Lovegood had ever been straightforward, and he had long since learned that she was a woman who deserved not just thoughtfulness but brilliance.
In his mind, a decade of marriage to her could only be honored with something immaculate, something worthy of the extraordinary life they had built together. He had gone to lengths that would have exhausted a lesser man, pouring over every decision until each detail felt like a flawless brushstroke on a canvas.
Every menu, every piece of music, every flicker of candlelight had been chosen with precision. He had ensured there would be no flaw, no hesitation, nothing that might fall short of the mark.
Yet as he stood in the grand sitting room of the Manor, absently adjusting the cuffs of his perfectly tailored suit, he realized that none of it could hold a candle to the sight before him.
Scorpius and Seline stood together near the hearth, small and impossibly elegant, dressed in their finest as though the occasion belonged to them as much as it did to their parents.
Seline, his baby girl, his little moonbeam, wore an elegant silver dress that caught and reflected the candlelight in soft waves, each movement sending a shimmer across the room. Her hair, those wild golden curls she had inherited from her mother, had been tamed just enough to frame her face, the rest scattered with tiny pearls that glimmered with a quiet enchantment.
Beside her, Scorpius looked far too grown for Draco's peace of mind. He wore a miniature version of Draco's own evening suit, waistcoat and all, his tie neatly knotted, his posture straight in the way Draco had taught him. The sharp Malfoy lines of his face were softened by the open, unguarded joy in his bright blue eyes.
It struck Draco with an ache that felt both fierce and gentle, a weight in his chest he could never quite name. He had never expected this life, not truly. He had not imagined the kind of love that could settle in his bones without losing its fire, or the strange, ridiculous, chaotic devotion that came with raising children who were both pieces of himself and entirely their own. Yet here it was, in the warm light of his home, in the small hands of his son and daughter, in the knowledge that his happiness was no longer something fragile or fleeting. It was solid. It was real. And now that he had it, he could not imagine breathing in a world without it.
Draco knelt in front of Seline, brushing a loose curl away from her cheek with a care that was almost reverent. His voice softened in that way it only ever did when he spoke to his daughter, a tone that carried all the indulgence and quiet pride in the world. "Seli, baby girl, did you remember to wrap Mommy's presents?"
Seline's little nose scrunched as she nodded with solemn determination, placing both hands firmly on her hips in a display of confidence that was entirely her own but still very recognizably Malfoy. "Yes! I put on extra ribbons, just like you told me. I think she's going to love it."
Draco's mouth curved into a small, satisfied smirk, not out of surprise but because of course his daughter would handle the task perfectly. He pressed a kiss to the crown of her head before rising to his full height, straightening his tie with a flourish that suggested the moment was of monumental importance.
"But what are you giving her?" Seline asked, tilting her head, her bright eyes narrowing with the kind of suspicion that came from knowing her father far too well. She understood that Draco Malfoy never simply gave gifts. There was always something more, always an element of surprise waiting to unfold.
Draco smoothed a hand over the front of his waistcoat and allowed himself a touch of theatrics. "Another fucking cow," he said, drawing out the words with deliberate amusement. "And something very, very special."
Seline's gasp was instant, her hands flying up to her mouth as though he had uttered the most scandalous thing she had ever heard. "Daddy! You're not supposed to say bad words!"
From the corner, Scorpius stood with his arms crossed, the perfect image of miniature Draco, his expression far too smug for a boy of seven. "You always tell us not to swear," he said, with the air of someone delivering a damning verdict.
Draco sighed dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest as though wounded by the truth of it. "Yes, yes, no swearing when you two are around. I am aware of the rules." His tone softened at the end as he reached out to ruffle Scorpius's meticulously neat hair, earning a scowl that only made Draco's grin widen.
"But another cow?" Seline's voice was thoughtful now, her hands falling back to her sides as she regarded him with a look that could have been borrowed directly from Luna. "Mommy already has so many cows."
Draco leaned down again, lowering his voice as though they were sharing a secret that could change the course of history. "But this one is different."
Her gasp this time was filled with delight rather than shock, her small hands clapping together in uncontainable excitement. "Ohhhh, she's going to love it!"
Scorpius, however, pinched the bridge of his nose in the most exaggerated display of weary disapproval Draco had ever seen. "I swear, this family is insane."
Draco let out a bark of laughter, shaking his head. "Obviously. Your mother married me." His eyes swept between them, taking in the way Seline tugged impatiently at his hand and the way Scorpius tried, and failed, to maintain his air of mature indifference. "Alright, troublemakers, let us make sure your mother has the best anniversary of her life."
They walked together toward the hall, the three of them in perfect, chaotic harmony. And as they left the sitting room, Draco's smile deepened. Whatever grand gestures he had prepared, however extravagant his surprises might be, he knew the greatest gift he would ever give Luna was already here, laughing beside him, holding his hand, calling him Daddy. This life, this family, this moment was the real perfection.
Draco had been planning this night for months. Not days. Not weeks. Months. He had mapped out every detail, from the exact shade of silver in the table linens to the music that would play the moment they stepped into the garden.
He had worked with the best caterers, the most precise florists, and even bribed the weather witch in Wiltshire to make sure the skies would be perfectly clear. It was their tenth wedding anniversary, and there was no reality in which Draco Malfoy would allow anything less than perfection for the woman who had turned his life upside down and rebuilt it into something he never could have imagined.
And yet, no amount of preparation, no matter how flawless, could have prepared him for the moment Luna appeared.
She stepped into the garden as if she had been conjured by the night itself, bathed in moonlight, her hair catching the flicker of the candles so that it gleamed like pale gold. The sight hit him with such force that for a moment he forgot how to breathe. The dress was a living thing, silver silk that shifted like water with each movement, clinging and falling in ways that felt deliberately designed to ruin him.
It bared the graceful slope of her shoulders, the delicate line of her collarbones, and the soft curve of her throat, and all he could think about, urgently and almost desperately, was how badly he wanted to kiss every inch of exposed skin until she was trembling in his arms. Ten years of marriage, and still the hunger for her burned like the very first time he had touched her.
"Love," he rasped, his voice rough and unsteady, because she was looking at him in that way she sometimes did, the way that told him she knew exactly what was going through his head. "You look breathtaking."
Her lips curved in that slow, knowing smile that could undo him faster than any magic. She moved toward him, her steps unhurried, her hands finding the lapels of his suit, smoothing over the fabric with deliberate care before tugging him down into a kiss.
It was deep and slow, certain in a way that made his knees weak. A low sound escaped him as his hand found the curve of her waist and the other pressed against the small of her back, drawing her closer. He wanted to keep her there, to lose the rest of the evening entirely, but she pulled back far too soon, leaving him unsteady and aching.
"Thank you, darling," she murmured, her breath warm against his lips. Her fingers did not let go of his jacket. Instead, she leaned in closer, her mouth brushing his ear so lightly that he almost shuddered. "I have something very special under it."
The words landed with the weight of a spell.
He froze, his grip on her waist tightening, his thoughts racing through every possible meaning. Before he could ask, she was already easing away, her face a perfect mix of innocence and mischief.
"Love," he began, his voice low and suspicious, his control already fraying. "What—"
She winked at him, and then she turned, the silk of her gown whispering around her legs as she walked away as if she had not just set fire to his sanity.
"Be a good boy for me until the end of the evening, alright?" she said, her fingers brushing over his chest before she slipped past him into the crowd.
It took him several seconds to remember how to breathe. His fists had curled at his sides, his jaw was tight, and every muscle in his body ached with the effort of keeping his composure.
Across the garden, she was already smiling serenely at guests, every inch the picture of grace, and not a single person around them would ever guess what she had just done to him. He knew better. She had set a countdown ticking in his head, and the rest of the night would be torture.
He let out a slow, measured breath, the kind meant to steady a man on the verge of doing something entirely reckless, and dragged his hand through his hair. It did little to calm him. Every part of him ached to follow her, to catch her by the wrist and pull her back against him, to kiss her until neither of them remembered they had guests at all.
He wanted to ruin their perfectly orchestrated anniversary party without a single shred of remorse, propriety be utterly forgotten.
But she had told him to wait.
And Luna never said such things idly. She wanted him to feel every moment of the night as a countdown, wanted him to suffer the delicious agony of anticipation. And Merlin help him, he was going to let her. Because in ten years of marriage, he had learned one unshakable truth: when Luna Lovegood promised him something, she delivered in ways that shattered every expectation.
So he stood there, forcing his hands to unclench, forcing himself to turn away from the path she had taken through the crowd.
The temptation burned like fire under his skin, every nerve alive with the thought of what might be waiting for him when the evening finally ended. He knew, with absolute certainty, that whatever she had hidden beneath that gown would undo him completely, and he was already half-undone just imagining it.
Merlin, she was going to kill him tonight. And he was going to thank her for it.
*
His perfect family sat gathered around the long, polished dining table, the golden glow of candlelight turning the silverware into little flickers of light. The soft chime of cutlery meeting porcelain mixed with the quiet hum of conversation, the occasional burst of laughter, and the inevitable squeal from Seline whenever Scorpius made a face at his vegetables. Draco leaned back in his chair, his wine glass still untouched in his hand, simply watching them.
His gaze moved from one face to the next with a softness that would never be seen outside these walls, a tenderness he guarded as carefully as any secret.
The scene before him was warm and steady, wrapped in the kind of contentment that had once seemed impossibly far from his reach. It was peace. It was home. It was more than he had ever believed he could have, and far more than he had ever deserved.
He thought of every moment that had led to this, the good and the ugly both. The arguments that had stretched long into the night, the slammed doors, the whispered apologies given in the dark. The times he had been too stubborn for his own good, when his pride had outweighed his patience, when his possessiveness had run so deep it had driven them both to madness.
The moments he had held her too tightly, afraid to let go, and the moments he had let her slip away when he should have fought harder to keep her close.
The chaos, the ridiculousness, the sheer, maddening joy of it all. Every step, every misstep, had somehow brought them here, to this table, to this room, to this moment where everything felt exactly as it should.
It had been twelve years. Twelve years of loving her, of learning her, of living alongside her in ways that had changed him completely. Twelve years since he had stepped into her absurd little coffee shop for the first time and been met with a gaze that stripped him of every mask.
She had looked at him without judgment, without fear, without even a hint of the disdain he had grown so accustomed to. She had looked at him as if she already knew he was not the villain everyone else had decided he was.
He still could not understand how she had done it, how she had slipped so easily past the walls he had built, how she had taken a heart that had been nothing but stone and ruin and somehow made it a home. But she had.
And now here they were, with two children who were so perfectly, infuriatingly theirs, a son who carried his sharpness and a daughter who radiated her light, both of them wrapped in that same fierce, unshakable love.
Their home was filled with noise and chaos, with late-night laughter and small, quiet moments that still stole his breath. It was filled with her. It was filled with them. And Draco knew, as he sat there, that there was nothing in the world he would ever want more than this.
Obviously, their children were perfect. How could they possibly be anything else?
Scorpius sat across from him with a composure that would have looked more fitting on a man twice his age. His back was straight, his elbows nowhere near the table, his every movement measured as if he had already accepted the burden of the Malfoy name and all the invisible weight that came with it.
There was something almost unnerving in how naturally he carried himself, how instinctively he seemed to understand the unspoken rules of their world. Yet when Draco looked into his son's eyes, he found a softness that had nothing to do with him at all. That part was Luna. It was the quiet steadiness she gave without asking for anything in return, the warmth that made people breathe easier in her presence. Scorpius was the bridge between them, a perfect balance of Draco's controlled elegance and Luna's effortless grace, and every time Draco allowed himself to really see him, he felt that same rush he had been feeling since the day his son was born—fierce pride tangled up with something far more terrifying.
Seline was a different story entirely. She was chaos in curls, a walking reminder that love could be both joy and trouble in the same breath. Her hair was wild like Luna's, but her grin was all Malfoy.
She had a spark in her that could light up an entire room or set it on fire, and Draco knew she had inherited both her mother's stubbornness and his own tendency toward mischief. The girl was already an unrepentant menace with a wand, far too clever for her own good, and absolutely relentless when she set her mind to something.
And Merlin help him, she knew exactly how to undo him. The moment she had been placed in his arms, she had owned him completely. His little moonbeam. His brightest light. His greatest weakness. She understood the hold she had over him and, much to his dismay, was not above using it to her advantage.
When his gaze shifted to Luna, he caught her watching their children with that soft, almost secret expression she only wore when she thought no one was paying attention.
It was the same look that had made him lose his footing all those years ago. His wife. His Luna. The love of his life. The woman who had broken every rule of their world and chosen him anyway.
She was still as breathtaking as the first time he had seen her, still as maddening as the day she had walked away from him for the first time, still the only person who could strip away every defense he had with a single glance.
Twelve years. A lifetime already lived together, and yet it still felt like not nearly enough.
Without looking away from her, he reached for her hand beneath the table, his fingers finding hers as naturally as if they had been made for that exact purpose.
He gave a single, deliberate squeeze. She turned her head toward him, her blue eyes catching the light, her mouth curving into a private little smile that belonged to no one else in the world but him. And just like that, Draco Malfoy was reminded of the simple, devastating truth. He was hers. Entirely. And he would remain so for every year, every lifetime, every version of himself still to come.
And there was not a single thing he would change about it.
*
Steam still clung to his skin as Draco stepped out of the shower, his hand dragging a towel through his damp hair, his mind drifting lazily toward the night ahead. He was already picturing the quiet comfort of their bed, the cool press of the sheets against his skin, the steady rhythm of her breathing beside him. He wanted the warmth of her body under his arm, the familiar scent of her hair in the dark, the slow unwinding that came from knowing he could close his eyes with her safe in his arms. It had been a long day, and for once he thought sleep might come easily.
Then he saw her.
And sleep was no longer an option.
It was as if every muscle in his body locked at once, his breath catching mid-step, the towel slipping in his hands as though his fingers had simply forgotten how to work. All thought scattered, leaving only the pounding of his pulse and the sight of her—Luna—standing at the foot of their bed like she had been placed there for the sole purpose of undoing him.
Baby blue lace. The same set.
He could not look away. The towel slid soundlessly to the floor, forgotten entirely, because there was no room in his mind for anything except her. She stood with that infuriating ease that belonged only to her, hips tilted in a way that was entirely unstudied yet devastating, her arms resting loosely at her sides as if she had not just set his entire body alight. Her hair spilled over her shoulders in soft, golden waves, framing the delicate lace like a crown, a luminous contrast against the pale smoothness of her skin.
It was the exact same lingerie she had worn that night. That night. The one that had stripped him down to nothing but need, that had taken every ounce of control he had honed over years and shattered it in her hands. The night she had left him flat on his back, trembling, gasping, so far gone he had whispered her name like it was a confession.
His throat went dry. His heartbeat rattled in his chest with sharp, uneven force. His body went taut, drawn to her in a way that was almost painful.
"Love…" His voice came out raw, rough, like the word had been dragged over gravel. It sounded nothing like the practiced, composed tone he used for anyone else, and everything like the man who would walk through fire for her without a second thought.
She hummed in response, and the sound was worse than silence. Low, knowing, a thread of amusement curled inside it. She lifted her hand, her fingers gliding lazily over the curve of her own stomach, drawing his eyes down with a precision that made his pulse stutter. She lingered over the narrow dip of her waist, brushed the lace where it hugged her hips, traced the delicate straps of her bra as they framed the pale column of her collarbones.
"The same one," she murmured, and the words landed like a spark on dry kindling.
Draco's head tilted back slightly, his eyes squeezing shut for a fraction of a second as if that could help him steady himself. It didn't. He ran a slow hand down his face, dragging in a breath that did absolutely nothing to calm him. His body was already reacting to her in ways that had nothing to do with conscious thought. Every nerve seemed locked onto the sight of her standing there in that cursed, blessed set of lace, her gaze fixed on him with the kind of quiet confidence that told him she knew exactly what she was doing. Exactly how far gone he already was. Exactly how little it would take to break him entirely.
"Oh, fuck me," he breathed out, the words slipping from him like something wrenched from his chest, his voice rough and frayed at the edges. It was thick with want, thick with the kind of hunger that sat in his blood and refused to be quieted. His hands twitched helplessly at his sides, torn between the desperate need to drag her into him and the stubborn instinct to fist them at his sides in one last, pathetic attempt to cling to control. "You are perfect."
Her mouth curved in a slow, devastating smirk, the kind that burned its way straight into his spine. She tilted her head, watching him the way a predator studies its prey, her eyes dark and sharp, her lips curling into a smile that was not soft and sweet but deliberate, dangerous. She took one measured step forward, closing the unbearable distance between them with a grace that made his chest tighten.
"Yes," she murmured, the word a purr that slid over his skin like silk, her tone light and playful while her eyes promised something far less innocent. "I am planning to."
Draco's breath hitched, a pulse of heat slamming through him so hard it nearly doubled him over. He barely had time to inhale before she was there, before she erased the space between them entirely, before he could even begin to rebuild the fragile threads of his composure.
She did not come to him with hesitation. She moved like a woman with a plan, like someone who knew exactly how to break him apart and had no intention of showing mercy. Her hands found his chest first, palms pressing flat to his still-damp skin, fingers curling just slightly, dragging downward in a slow, deliberate path. She traced every hard line, every ridge of muscle, the lazy pace of her touch making it feel like she was drawing out his torment just for the pleasure of watching him fray.
He stood rooted to the spot, muscles pulled tight under her fingertips, water still trailing down his skin from the shower, heart pounding so hard he swore she could feel it. Every inch of him was tuned to her, wound too tightly, every nerve screaming with the unbearable, intoxicating awareness of her.
"Luna," he groaned, her name breaking from him in a voice that barely sounded like his own. It was raw, uneven, something between a plea and a confession. His hands abandoned restraint entirely, finding her hips and gripping them, his thumbs brushing over the lace that clung to her like it had been sewn onto her body. He needed to touch her, to anchor himself in the proof of her warmth, to confirm she was truly here and truly doing this to him on purpose.
Her lips brushed the edge of his jaw, the faintest ghost of a kiss, her breath warm against his skin. "Be a good boy for me," she whispered, her voice carrying something that sent a shiver through him, something dark and knowing and infuriatingly in control. "Just for the rest of the evening. Okay?"
She might as well have told him to stop breathing. Draco Malfoy had never been a good boy, had never been the kind of man to obey simply because someone told him to, had never once surrendered control without a fight. But this was her. And her voice, her eyes, her mouth could have asked for anything in that moment, and he would have given it.
A low sound rumbled from his throat, almost primal, as he pulled her flush against him, making certain she felt exactly what she was doing to him. "Luna," he rasped again, his voice cracking with the strain of holding back, trying to cling to the scraps of composure she had left him.
She tilted her head up to meet his gaze, her eyes catching the low light like shards of blue ice, a mischievous gleam threading through them. Her nails dragged down the length of his stomach in a path that was far too slow, far too intentional, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. "You are always so impatient," she murmured, almost pitying, though the curve of her lips betrayed the truth. "Didn't you just get out of the shower? Maybe you should take another one. You seem a little… tense."
Draco growled, low and dangerous, the sound vibrating in his chest. It was frustration and want and the sharp edge of obsession all at once. Every nerve was screaming at him to take her, to crush her against the wall, to ruin her until she could not even speak—but she was not giving him that. Not yet. And he knew, with the kind of clarity that hurt, that she was enjoying every single second of this exquisite torture.
She knew him better than anyone alive. She knew the depth of his need for her, knew how completely she could strip him of every layer of control he pretended to have, knew how thoroughly she could dismantle the man who had once believed himself untouchable.
And she was doing it with a smile.
His fingers flexed against the curve of her hips, the subtle dig of his thumbs pressing into her warm skin through the thin lace. The muscles in his jaw twitched, his breath uneven, his entire body trembling with the kind of restraint that cost him more with every passing second. He wanted to be good for her. He wanted to stand here and let her have her fun, let her take control, let her dictate every moment of this slow and calculated torment. But every muscle was coiled too tightly, every nerve was screaming, and he could feel the thin thread of his self-control beginning to fray.
He could already see how it would happen. He would break. He would snap. The carefully constructed patience he was clinging to by sheer force of will would shatter, and when it did, there would be nothing gentle left in him. And then, she was going to regret teasing him like this.
"You think this is funny?" The words rolled out in a low rasp, dangerous and deliberate, a warning coiled in the gravel of his voice. His breath ghosted hot against her lips as he pulled her that fraction closer, forcing her to feel exactly how hard and fast she was undoing him, forcing her to understand that she already had him on the edge.
Her lashes swept upward and she looked at him through the bright, deliberate calm of wide eyes, feigning innocence even as her mouth curved with barely concealed satisfaction. "I think it's hilarious," she said softly, the words a taunt disguised as a truth. Her arms lifted, settling over his shoulders in a lazy, unhurried motion, her fingers toying with the damp hair at the nape of his neck as she pressed herself flush to him. The slow grind of her hips into his made his vision spark, made every drop of blood in his body surge south.
He inhaled sharply through his nose, his chest rising and falling against hers, his grip tightening in a silent warning that neither of them pretended to take seriously. Every instinct he had screamed at him to throw her down onto the mattress, to fuck her until she was shaking, to reclaim every inch of control she was so smugly stealing from him. But the rules had been set, and for the moment, she was in charge.
He hated it.
He loved it.
And gods, if she kept holding his gaze like that, steady and smug and gleaming with wicked amusement, he was going to lose himself completely. She was going to be the death of him, and he was almost certain she would enjoy every second of it.
Luna, in that ridiculous baby blue lace that clung to her like it had been made for this exact purpose, standing in their bedroom as though she owned it, as though she owned him, was going to be the reason Draco Malfoy came undone. She had barely even touched him and already his composure was in tatters. One look at her, one brush of her fingertips, and he was on the verge of complete collapse.
But of course, she was not finished. She never was.
She knew precisely how far she could push him. She knew how to needle him with the softest touches and the slowest movements until his chest ached with the effort of holding back. She knew how to draw this out until it was torture, the kind of torture he would beg her for again and again.
And then, with that same infuriating calm, she took a single step back.
It was only an inch of space, barely more than the width of her foot, but it hit him like a blow. His hands fell away from her hips as if the ground had shifted beneath them. That single step was permission denied, it was retreat and provocation all at once, and it left him standing there like a man half-starved, watching the one thing he craved slip just out of reach.
A single step. That was all it took. Just enough to put space between them. Just enough to make him ache with the sudden absence of her warmth. Just enough to make him reach for her on instinct before she caught his hands in hers. She held them for only a moment, lifting one to her lips and pressing the faintest kiss against his knuckles. Then she pushed his hands away with maddening gentleness, her eyes glinting in quiet triumph. Not yet.
The sound he made in response was low and wrecked, a growl that vibrated from somewhere deep in his chest. His fingers flexed uselessly at his sides, his whole body pulled taut as though every muscle had been strung on the same fraying wire. His control was no longer something he could simply summon. It was hanging by a single thread.
"Luna—"
Her fingertip came up to his mouth, pressing lightly against his lips, silencing him without a single word. The touch was soft, but the look in her eyes was not. Dark, knowing, unbearably smug, she held him there for a heartbeat before she stepped back again. Just slightly. Just enough to make his pulse spike. Just enough to remind him whose game this was.
And then she moved.
Not with the rush of someone eager to give in, but with the slow certainty of a woman who knew she owned the room, who knew she owned him, who knew she had every second to do as she pleased. Her fingers rose, ghosting over the thin straps of her lingerie, barely grazing her skin before she adjusted the fabric with idle care, as if she were not aware that he was staring so hard his jaw ached from clenching. He watched the movement like a starving man watching someone toy with his last meal.
She drew it out. Of course she did. Every small adjustment was deliberate, every flicker of her fingertips a calculated stroke against his already fraying control. When she finally let one strap slip, it slid halfway down her shoulder before she stilled. She paused as though savoring the tension in the air, as though she could feel the way his restraint burned him from the inside out. The corner of her mouth lifted in the barest suggestion of a smirk, and it made his chest feel tight.
"Luna," he rasped, his voice no longer entirely human, little more than a rough edge of want scraping its way out of him. "If you—"
She silenced him again with that same featherlight touch.
He thought, quite sincerely, that he might die.
The second strap fell next, the slow slide of lace down her skin like the drop of a blade in some exquisite execution. It pooled at her arm, leaving the delicate fabric barely clinging to her breasts. The sheer material teased just enough to dry his mouth, to make his vision pulse at the edges, to make his fingers twitch as though they might betray him and close the distance without permission.
Her hips shifted slightly, the faint sway making the silk and lace ripple over her body. Her fingertips traced their way down, brushing across the smooth plane of her stomach, following the curve of her waist. They lingered at the edge of the lace on her hips, hooking just slightly under the fabric, as though she might push it lower. She didn't. She toyed with it instead, her nails grazing her skin in slow circles, knowing he was watching, knowing each second was agony for him.
He could not breathe. Not properly. Not when the air between them was thick with heat and the scent of her skin. His hands ached with the need to hold her. His mouth ached with the need to taste her. His body burned with the kind of need that made coherent thought impossible. Every bone in him screamed to take her, to tear the last piece of fabric from her body, to claim what had been his for years.
But she turned.
The movement was slow, a deliberate shift that revealed the smooth line of her back, the curve of her spine dipping into the swell of her hips. Her hair tumbled in loose waves, brushing the lace where it hugged her so closely it might as well have been painted on. And that sight alone almost undid him completely.
He could see the delicate clasp at the center of her back, could see how easily his hands could strip it away, could feel the phantom weight of her under his palms. But she did not give him permission. Not yet. And that alone was the cruelest thing she had ever done to him.
Her fingers slid lower, slow and deliberate, trailing down the graceful line of her spine until they reached the lace that hugged the curve of her ass. She hooked one fingertip under the edge and began to pull it down, inch by torturous inch, as though she had all the time in the world, as though she did not care that every second was winding him tighter, as though she did not notice that she was killing him where he stood.
He could feel his pulse in his teeth.
"Luna," he growled, the word rough and unsteady, his voice so wrecked it barely belonged to him anymore. "That's enough."
She looked over her shoulder, eyes dark and bright all at once, her lips curling in the kind of smile that meant trouble. "Oh?" she murmured, tilting her head just enough to let her hair spill over one bare shoulder, her fingers still idling at the lace. "I thought you were being a good boy for me."
Something inside him snapped.
He moved before his mind caught up, before reason could remind him she had been in charge, before his body could remember she had told him to wait. His arms locked around her waist, pulling her flush against him. His mouth found the warm skin of her throat, teeth sinking in just hard enough to make her gasp, his hands gripping her hips with the kind of force that promised she would feel him for days.
Her laugh was low and breathless, curling at the edges with delight. "Impatient, love?"
"Fucking done," he muttered, and in one swift motion he lifted her clean off the floor, tossed her onto the bed, and pinned her beneath him. The lingerie did not stand a chance. The fabric tore under his hands, ripped away in one violent pull until there was nothing left between them.
"That," he said, his breath searing hot against her lips, his palms sliding down the length of her thighs, "was the cruelest thing you have ever done to me."
She only smirked, her chest rising and falling rapidly, her legs already winding around his waist to draw him closer. Her fingers slid into his damp hair and tugged, hard enough to make him groan. "And yet," she whispered against his mouth, "you loved every second."
His laugh was low, rough, full of heat. "Not as much as I am about to love ruining you for it."
She barely had time to inhale before his mouth was on hers, deep and consuming, his weight pressing her into the mattress. His hands roamed greedily, dragging down her sides, gripping her hips, parting her thighs until she was spread wide beneath him. There was nothing patient in the way he touched her now. He was all hunger and possession, every movement fueled by the hours she had made him wait, every kiss searing with the promise of payback.
Her breath broke on a gasp as he left her mouth for the slope of her jaw, trailing heat down to her throat, marking her with sharp bites and slow, open-mouthed kisses until her skin burned. She arched into him, nails raking down his back in frantic, needy lines.
"Draco—" she gasped, her voice thin and shaking.
His hands tightened on her thighs, holding her open, forcing her to feel just how much control she had lost. "Say it again," he ordered, his voice dark and rasping, his lips moving lower, down the smooth column of her neck, down the warm plane of her chest. He caught one nipple between his teeth, just enough pressure to make her cry out, then soothed the sting with the flat of his tongue, his hand coming up to squeeze the other breast, his thumb rolling over the peak.
"Draco," she breathed, the sound breaking into something halfway between a moan and a plea. "Please."
That was it.
That one word in her voice, wrecked and desperate, was all it took to tear away the last thread of restraint he had left.
He shoved her further up the mattress, forcing her legs wider, locking her open for him as he moved between them. His breathing was uneven, sharp pulls of air that barely steadied him, his gaze drinking in every inch of her. She was sprawled beneath him, cheeks flushed, chest heaving, her skin glistening faintly in the low light. She was already slick, already trembling for him, already wrecked before he had truly laid his hands on her.
"Fuck, look at you," he groaned, dragging his fingers through her folds, slow enough to make her twitch. The wet heat clung to his skin, coating him, proof of just how ready she was, of how much she wanted this, of how badly she wanted him.
His thumb found her clit and pressed, circling once, twice, just enough to watch the jolt of her hips, the quiver in her thighs, the way her hands twisted in the sheets like she was hanging on by a thread. "You love this, don't you? You love pushing me until I lose it, love making me burn for you. But now," he said, voice low and deliberate, "now you are the one begging."
She bucked against him, a sharp, helpless sound slipping from her lips, but he withdrew his hand before she could reach the edge. The look she gave him could have set fire to the air between them, frustration and need warring in her eyes, her mouth parting as if to curse him. And fuck, she had never looked more beautiful.
"Draco," she warned, her voice ragged, shaking with both fury and want.
He let the corner of his mouth lift. "Yes, love?"
"If you don't fuck me right now, I swear to Merlin—"
Her threat was cut short by her own gasp.
He slid two fingers into her, deep and sure, curling them until he felt her clamp down around him, until he found that spot that made her cry out, her back bowing, her thighs trembling violently. "Oh, this?" he murmured, his lips brushing her hip, his breath hot against her skin. "This is what you wanted? For me to wreck you?"
"Yes," she moaned, her voice breaking, her body chasing every movement of his hand. "Yes, yes, please—"
The sound of her begging twisted something in him, something deep and primal. He loved her like this, every ounce of her composure stripped away, her need for him laid bare. It was too much. He could not wait another moment.
He withdrew his fingers, curling them briefly into a fist to feel her slickness still clinging to him before he reached for his cock, wrapping his hand around the hard length and guiding himself to her. The heat of her was right there, the barest brush of her making his head spin.
He pushed in, hard and steady, sinking into her in one deep stroke until there was no space left between them.
Luna's scream tore through the room.
Draco growled, the sound deep and ragged, torn from somewhere low in his chest, his head bowing as the sensation crashed through him.
She gripped him so tightly, heat enveloping him, drawing him in, holding him like she was made for this, like she had been waiting for this exact moment, like every inch of her existed solely to take him, to keep him, to make him hers. It was intoxicating. It was maddening. It was everything.
"Fucking hell," he breathed, his voice rough and unsteady, his fingers tightening almost painfully on her hips. He tried to hold back, tried not to lose himself in the need to drive into her with reckless abandon, tried to take his time, to savor every shiver, every gasp, every twitch of her body around him. "You feel so fucking good, love. So perfect. I could stay here forever. I—fuck—"
Luna's answering sound was half-whimper, half-command, her nails dragging down the length of his back, leaving streaks of fire in their wake. Her body arched into him, restless and demanding, the words tumbling out of her in a desperate rush. "Move, Draco. Please. Please, please—"
And there was no universe where he could refuse her.
He pulled back, slow enough to make her whimper again, to let her feel every inch leaving her until only the head of his cock remained. The loss made her shudder, her eyes going dark with frustration, her lips parting to plead again.
He drove back into her in a single, forceful thrust, burying himself to the hilt, groaning at the sweet, overwhelming tightness that welcomed him back.
After that, there was no stopping.
His hips worked in a steady, relentless rhythm, each deep stroke pushing her higher, each withdrawal making her chase him, her body instinctively tightening around him to keep him close. Every thrust was purposeful, measured, controlled in a way that made each one hit exactly where he knew she needed it most.
His mouth found her jaw, trailing to her throat where his tongue and teeth marked her in ways she would feel tomorrow. Then he captured her lips, kissing her slowly, deeply, pouring every ounce of himself into the press of his mouth against hers. He kissed her like he needed her more than air, like she was the only thing tethering him to the world.
She clung to him, arms wound tight around his neck, legs locked around his hips as if she could fuse them together, as if she could keep him inside her forever. Every sound she made spurred him on, every gasp and broken moan a claim on his soul.
And he wanted her to feel it all.
Every ounce of love. Every flicker of devotion. Every part of the unshakable truth that she belonged to him just as much as he belonged to her.
Forever.
Draco swallowed her cry with his mouth, kissing her through it, feeling every tremor of her body as she came apart beneath him. The way she clung to him made his chest ache, nails biting into his skin, legs locked tight around him like she was trying to keep him inside her forever. Her walls pulsed around him, hot and slick and perfect, dragging him closer to the edge with every clench.
"Good girl," he murmured against her lips, his voice hoarse, unsteady, as though the words had been torn from somewhere deep inside him. "So perfect for me. So fucking perfect."
She was still shaking, still gasping his name, her hips moving with his like her body refused to let the high fade. The heat coiled low in his spine, white-hot and impossible to hold back now, the sound of her wrecked little moans undoing him completely.
He buried himself in her one last time, deep and hard, staying there, holding her in place as the wave hit him. His forehead pressed to hers, breath ragged, his hands cupping her face like he could anchor himself to her. The world blurred, narrowed, burned until there was nothing but her, nothing but the way she felt, the way she held him, the way she whispered his name like it was the only one she had ever known.
He groaned low in his throat, spilling into her, every muscle tight, every nerve alight, his entire body shaking from the force of it. For a long moment, neither of them moved, just breathing each other in, their bodies still joined, still clinging like they might disappear if they let go.
When he finally lifted his head, he found her watching him, her cheeks flushed, her lips swollen, her hair a golden halo against the pillow. She looked devastating. She looked like home.
Draco brushed a thumb over her cheek, still catching his breath. "I am never letting you go," he said quietly, not a threat, not even a promise, but something closer to a vow.
Her smile was soft, tired, entirely unguarded. "Good," she whispered, her eyes closing as she curled into him, her body fitting against his like it had always belonged there. "Because I'm not going anywhere."
He held her until her breathing slowed, until the frantic beating of their hearts found the same rhythm. And when her lashes finally fluttered shut, when she drifted into sleep with his name still lingering on her lips, Draco knew with a certainty that reached down into his bones that he would burn the entire world before he let it take her from him.
Her body trembled beneath him, soft gasps spilling from her lips in uneven bursts, each one more broken than the last as the waves took her.
Her thighs locked around his hips, urging him deeper, keeping him there, riding out every aching second of release. She clung to him as if the very air around them might fall away if she let go. His name left her in a shattered whisper, not once but again, and again, like she could not stop herself, like he was the only word she had left.
Draco felt every desperate contraction, every flutter and squeeze pulling him under with her, dragging him into the sharp, blinding heat of her pleasure until there was nothing else. His mouth found the damp line of her jaw, his voice low and reverent against her skin. "That's it, love. That's my good girl."
The words made her shiver, her body still twitching beneath him, little aftershocks rippling through her in a way that stripped away the last of his control.
His groan was rough and raw, born from somewhere deep in his chest as he thrust once more, slow but mercilessly deep, holding her in place as his own release tore through him. He pressed his lips to her shoulder, open-mouthed and desperate, his hands gripping her hips hard enough to leave his mark.
He spilled into her with a shudder, keeping them joined as if the act of pulling away might undo something sacred. His forehead rested against hers, his breath uneven, his pulse hammering in his ears. Every muscle in him was tight, trembling with the force of it, his whole body wrapped around hers like he could fuse them together if he only held her long enough.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their breathing, the heat of their skin, the erratic thud of two hearts finding the same rhythm. He had no words for it, no language for the way she made him feel like there was nothing before this, and nothing after.
She was the first to move, the smallest shift, just enough to brush her lips against the rough stubble along his jaw. The kiss was light, almost shy in its tenderness, though her voice when it came was drowsy, husky, utterly wrecked. "Draco… you're still inside me."
"Of course I am," he murmured, his voice low and spent, pressing another kiss to her hairline, breathing her in. "Where else would I be?"
A soft, lazy laugh escaped her, her fingertips drawing idle shapes over the muscle of his arm, her body still warm and loose against him. "You're impossible."
"You love it," he said without hesitation, and she hummed in quiet agreement, her lips brushing over his throat, her tongue flicking out just enough to taste him.
Her gaze lifted, slow and heavy-lidded, a dangerous softness lingering there that made his pulse pick up all over again. "Maybe. But if you're planning on keeping me like this all night, you should make it worth my while."
Heat surged through him so quickly it was dizzying. "Oh, love," Draco smirked, rolling them easily so she lay beneath him once more, his hips pressing down, making sure she felt exactly what she had just done to him. "You have no idea what you've started."
His mouth claimed hers again, slow and deep, the kind of kiss that promised hours more, the kind of kiss that said this night would not end until she was wrecked all over again.
And then he kissed her again, slow, deep, deliberate, because they had all night.
And forever after that.