It wasn’t supposed to be this complicated.

You and Draco kept things quiet — hidden glances in class, passing notes in Potions, his hand brushing yours during late-night walks along the dungeons. He insisted on secrecy, but not out of shame.

“I want you to myself,” he once murmured against your neck. “Just for a little longer.”

It was sweet. Intense. Dangerous.

And apparently… impossible.

Because Pansy Parkinson was watching.

Draco dropped into the seat beside you at the Slytherin table. Beside you. He never sat there. Pansy’s eyes flicked to you immediately.

“Draco?” she asked, confused. “Since when do you sit there?”

He shrugged casually, pouring pumpkin juice like nothing was unusual. “It’s a seat, Pansy. Not the throne.”

But under the table, his hand slid onto your knee.

Your face heated. Pansy’s narrowed.

You were trying very hard to focus on homework. Draco… was not.

He kept poking your arm with his quill. Whispering jokes. Leaning too close. You shoved him lightly, smiling despite yourself.

Pansy walked by at that exact moment — and stopped.

“What are you two doing?” she said, suspicious eyes bouncing between you.

“Studying,” you and Draco said at the same time.

Draco added too quickly, “They’re hopeless at Charms. I’m helping.”

Pansy folded her arms. “Right. And the blushing is an advanced technique, I assume?”

You choked. Draco glared at her until she walked off, but her smile told you she wasn’t buying it.

Not even a little.

You and Draco sat close on the sofa after everyone else had gone to bed. He had your legs thrown across his lap, one hand tracing lazy circles on your ankle, the other holding a book he wasn’t actually reading.

He kept stealing glances at your lips, that soft smirk growing.

“You know,” he muttered, leaning closer, “I hate hiding. I hate pretending you’re not mine.”