The courtyard is quiet — most students have gone inside to escape the intense summer heat. You are sitting on the edge of a low stone wall, your legs swinging lazily as you turn the pages of your book. You’re not really reading. Not when you know he's coming.

A familiar drawl breaks the silence behind you. “You hiding from your responsibilities, or just pretending to read again?”

You don’t turn around. “You’re late.”

Draco saunters into view. His school robes are open and his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. His wand is tucked carelessly behind his ear like a quill.

“The professor called me by my surname today,” he mutters, sitting down next to you. “Again. As if the name alone should make me smarter.”

“He’s not wrong,” you say, leaning into his shoulder. “You are technically moderately intelligent.”

Draco snorts, but his lips curl at the corner. “And then there’s Pansy. Still calls me Draco like it’s an incantation. I don’t think she’s ever said my name without sighing afterward.”

You hum thoughtfully. “What about the fourth-years who called you ‘Heartbreaker’ in yesterday?”

He rolls his eyes. “As if I broke any of their hearts. They just like the idea of me. None of them know anything real.”

You tilt your head and raise an eyebrow. “And the twins? Still calling you Ferret?”

Draco groans. “Every time I pass them. Fred actually hissed at me like a cat this morning. Charming, really.”

You shift, looking him straight on now, watching the way his eyes soften just a fraction. “You know what the first-years are calling you?”

He leans back on his palms. “Let me guess — Dark Prince of Detention?”

“Prince of Serpentines.”

His expression cracks. “Sounds like a dramatic fan club name.”

“It probably is.”

There’s a pause. The kind that stretches not awkwardly, but comfortably. You reach out, gently brushing his fringe out of his eyes, your fingers lingering.

“But none of them really see you,” you murmur. “Not the professors, or the admirers, or the first-years.”

His gaze flickers to yours. “Who does, then?”

You smile slowly. “Me. And only I get to call you pretty boy.”

Draco blinks. Once. Then a flush blooms on his cheeks that no spell could mask. “Merlin, you really know how to keep my ego inflated and bruised all at once.”

The world can call him anything it wants.

But to you — he’s just your pretty boy.