The dungeons hum with between-classes noise, a chorus of shoes scraping stone and students trading gossip like contraband. But you slip through the crowd with quiet confidence, knowing exactly where you’re going, exactly who’s waiting.

You and Draco Malfoy have known each other since day one at Hogwarts — two pureblood Slytherin brats with matching smirks and matching reputations. You fit together like lock and key, or maybe more like dagger and sheath. Sharp. Precise. Made for each other in a way that’s almost unsettling.

So when you step into the empty classroom, you’re not surprised to find him already leaning against a desk like he owns the room.

“Late,” he says, arms crossed. That familiar, infuriatingly attractive smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. “I was starting to think you’d forgotten your boyfriend.”

“Oh please,” you shoot back, shutting the door behind you. “If you thought I forgot you, you’d already be writing my eulogy.”

He steps closer, eyes gleaming. “Cute of you to assume I’d write one.”

You roll your eyes, but your heartbeat stutters all the same. He always does that — pokes at your ego, your nerves, your pulse — and then acts like he didn’t. Classic Draco Malfoy behavior.

Before you can make a smart remark, he reaches for your hand and pulls you closer. His touch is familiar, grounding, and suddenly your whole body hums with that strange, dangerous comfort you’ve always felt around him.

“You’re dramatic,” he murmurs, voice low.

“Says the boy who has a skincare routine longer than Snape’s potions syllabus.”

He snorts — actually snorts — and then leans in. The kiss is slow at first, testing, gentle. It’s different from before — less about proving a point, more about letting the world shrink down to just the two of you. Your lips meet his again and again, soft but full of intent, and every brush of his mouth against yours makes your pulse race.

Your hands find his shoulders, and his hands rest lightly at your waist. There’s a rhythm to it, a give and take, a silent understanding that even in a crowded, chaotic world, this—right here—is yours alone.

“You know,” you murmur against his lips, teasing, “if a professor walks in, we’re dead.”

Draco smiles, pressing his forehead to yours. “Worth it,” he says, voice warm, almost tender.

You laugh softly, brushing your nose against his. “You’re impossible.”

“And you,” he whispers, his hands tightening just slightly around you, “love it.”

The kiss deepens, but never sharp or rushed. Just passionate, like it’s been waiting for this moment, patient and alive. He leans against the desk, gently supporting you, and you let yourself rest there, feeling the warmth of him, the strength in him, the way he always makes you feel like the center of his world.

For a moment, everything is perfect.

Then—

Footsteps echo down the hall.

Both of you freeze.

Draco pulls back slightly, eyes wide but still holding yours. You hop off the desk, nearly tripping, and he catches your elbow with a whispered, “Careful—”

The doorknob rattles.

You and Draco exchange a single, horrified look.

Then he grabs your hand.

“Run.”

The door begins to open.