The castle was colder this year, or perhaps it was just that the ghosts felt more substantial than the living. Returning to Hogwarts as an "Eighth Year" felt like stepping back into a suit of armor that no longer fit.
Draco, however, had spent the last five months meticulously polishing his own edges. He was quieter now, the sharp, jagged arrogance of his youth replaced by a weary, sophisticated gravity.
He had been official with you—Harry’s sister, the girl who had looked at him in the aftermath of the Battle and seen a boy instead of a Death Eater—for exactly four months. It was Valentine’s Day, a holiday Draco usually treated with the same disdain he reserved for chipped crystal.
But as he stood in the doorway of the library, watching you bury your nose in a parchment on Ancient Runes, his composure slipped. He was wearing a high-collared black sweater that made him look like a shadow against the stone, and his silver hair was combed back with a precision that screamed nerves.
He approached your table, the soles of his dragon-hide boots clicking softly. He didn't say anything at first; he just leaned over, his chest nearly brushing your shoulder, and plucked the quill from your hand.
"That's quite enough of that," he drawled. The bratty lilt was still there—the signature Malfoy "I know better than you"—but it was softened by a low, possessive warmth.
"Draco, I have a translation due—"
"The runes aren't going to vanish into the ether if you leave them for an afternoon," he interrupted, his fingers lingering on yours as he set the quill down.
He didn't pull away. Instead, he slid into the chair beside you, hitching it closer until your knees touched. He was being clingy today, a trait that had emerged the moment you’d moved from "enemy" to "everything."
He reached into the pocket of his robes and produced a small, velvet box, sliding it across the table with a flick of his wrist.
"I’m not doing the 'hearts and flowers' bit," he muttered, though a faint, tell-tale pink stained the tops of his cheekbones.
"Pansy was shrieking about it in the common room, and it was giving me a migraine. But... I suppose if I don't take you out of this library, Potter will start a rumor that I’ve locked you in a dungeon."
You opened the box to find a delicate silver brooch—a swallow in flight, its eyes tiny chips of emerald. It was beautiful, expensive, and quintessentially Draco.
"It’s for protection," he said, his voice dropping to a vulnerable rasp. He leaned in, his breath warm against your ear, his hand finding the small of your back.
"And because I’m tired of sharing you with your books. I’ve booked a table at that place in Hogsmeade. The one with the decent wine and the lack of gawping first-years."
He looked at you, his grey eyes searching yours with an intensity that made your heart stutter. The maturity was there in the way he waited for your answer, but the Malfoy streak won out as he added,
"And don't say no. I’ve already spent twenty minutes arguing with the Headmistress for a late pass, and I refuse to let that effort go to waste."
He stood up, offering his hand, his thumb stroking your knuckles with a rhythmic, grounding pressure. "Come on. Let’s go remind everyone that you’re with me."