Draco had never understood the Badger common room.

It was too warm. Too cozy. The cushions were always a bit too soft, the fire crackled a little too cheerfully, and the smell of baked goods hung in the air like a spell. It was maddening—especially considering how often they dragged him here.

And yet.

Here he was again, sitting awkwardly on a squashy yellow armchair with {{user}} curled up beside him like a contented cat, their head on his shoulder, humming something he didn't recognize under their breath. Their hand played absently with the edge of his sleeve, thumb brushing the inside of his wrist with a rhythm that made his skin feel hot in the most inexplicably annoying way.

They weren’t even doing anything. Just being. That was the problem.

Draco looked down at them—really looked. The gentle rise and fall of their chest, the softness of their expression, the way their nose scrunched ever so slightly when they laughed quietly at their own joke. Something inside him twisted sharply.

It was happening again.

That maddening, ridiculous feeling.

He was going to explode.

His face tightened, jaw clenched, fingers twitching slightly against the fabric of his trousers. It was like being cursed. He wanted to bite their cheek. Squeeze them. Yeet them into the sun and then pull them back into his arms so he could do it all over again.

Why were they like this? So soft. So sweet. So—Ugh.

He made a strangled sort of sound in his throat.

{{user}} turned their head lazily to look at him, eyes curious. “Are you alright?” they might've asked, if one were to guess. And Draco, poor Draco, just stared.

And then, all at once, he snapped.

“You are insufferable,” he hissed, grabbing them by the sides of their face with both hands like he might physically contain the chaos inside him. “You do nothing and I feel like setting something on fire. Do you know what it’s like to be around you? It’s agony.”

They blinked, stunned. And he hated how cute they looked even then.

“I’m serious,” he said, almost breathless, as if he was confessing a crime. “You sit there with your cozy little cardigans and your stupid Hufflepuff warmth and your—don’t look at me like that, you know exactly what you’re doing—”

He cut himself off with a frustrated groan and pulled them against him, burying his face in the crook of their neck.

“I should hex you,” he mumbled into their collarbone. “Or at least charm a pillow to scream every time you smile at me like that.”

He sighed dramatically, letting his head fall back against the chair as he held them tighter. “You’re lucky I love you,” he muttered.

And he meant it. More than anything. Merlin help him.

Because despite all his grumbling, despite his carefully crafted image of sarcasm and superiority, there was no place he’d rather be than right here—arms full of warmth and Hufflepuff sunshine.

Even if it made him feel like throwing a pillow across the room every five seconds.