It was a slow afternoon in the dungeon-level classroom, the flickering torchlight casting warm glows across the ancient stone walls. Professor Snape’s monotone voice droned on about the properties of lacewing flies, but your attention had long since drifted, not to your notes, or your cauldron, but to the boy beside you.

Draco Malfoy sat like he always did—straight-backed, composed, elegant in a way that was so annoyingly effortless. But today, there was a softness to him, a subtle peace in the curve of his lips as he focused on the front of the room. His hand rested on the bench between you, pale fingers drumming absently, silver rings catching the firelight with each small movement.

You reached over slowly, your fingers brushing against the back of his hand. He didn’t flinch, didn’t even glance your way. Emboldened, you trailed your touch over the cool metal of his rings—one by one. The snake-shaped one coiled around his pinky, the thicker one with a serpent crest on his middle finger. They were beautiful. Familiar. And now that you were dating him, you finally had an excuse to admire them without hiding it behind stolen glances.

His lips twitched.

“If you want one, just say it,” Draco murmured without looking at you, his voice low and amused.

You smiled, still tracing the intricate design on the ring closest to his thumb. “Yeah?”

He finally turned, meeting your gaze with that signature smirk of his—the one that always made your heart stumble.

“Of course,” he said, as if it were obvious. “I was planning on buying you your own one day, but I suppose this will do for now.”

You barely had time to react before he slipped one of the rings off—his index finger’s, the one with the Malfoy crest engraved faintly into its surface. He took your hand and, with an unnecessary amount of flourish, gently pushed the ring onto your finger.

It fit a little loosely, but it made your chest tighten anyway.

Draco leaned in closer, brushing his shoulder against yours. “It looks better on you, anyway.”

You felt heat bloom in your cheeks, trying (and failing) to hide the giddy smile tugging at your lips.

You didn’t need the world to know you were his.

But wearing a piece of him like this? It felt like something sacred—something soft beneath all the sharp edges he usually wore so well.

And when he laced his fingers with yours beneath the table, letting them rest there for the rest of class, you knew he felt it too.