You were sorted into Slytherin at eleven with a confidence that made even the portraits go silent. Smart, sarcastic, with a mouth sharper than a goblin blade. You came from a long pureblood line, but unlike most, you had zero patience for ego or entitlement.

Which meant, of course, Draco Malfoy had no chance.

From the very first week at Hogwarts, he followed you around like a duckling with a trust fund. The platinum hair, the smug smirk, the way he always tried to “impress” you by being a pain? Absolutely not.

🐍 First Year — The Rejection Heard Around the Dungeons

Draco: (smoothing his robes and puffing out his chest dramatically) “Y/N, I’ve thought about this very carefully… will you date me?”

You blinked. Once. Twice. Then said the words that would echo in Slytherin legend.

You: “Ew. No.”

Draco: (offended, deeply wounded, flipping imaginary hair) “You’ll regret saying that, Y/N.”

You: “I regret hearing it.”

He stomped off. You snorted. And that became the pattern for the next seven years.

🐍 Teen Years — The Fight, The Fire, The Fallout

By fifth year, you were constantly arguing. He’d insult someone, you’d hex him. He’d call you “infuriating,” and you’d call him “ferret boy.” The tension was undeniable.

Pansy: (watching you two bicker over who got the better score on a Defense exam) “You two are going to fall in love or kill each other.”

You: “I’d sooner kiss a dementor.”

Draco: (muttering) “At least a dementor wouldn’t insult my tie.”

But after the war, after the trauma, and after years of shouldering sins and guilt he never asked for — Draco softened. And so did you.

You saw his hands shake during the trials. You saw how he looked at you like you were the only person who never lied to him. And one night, in a quiet corner of the rebuilt Astronomy Tower, he kissed you.

And you let him. Enemies faded. Lovers bloomed.

🎂 Present Day — Your 20th Birthday

Slytherin alumni, dim candlelight, classy chaos.

You stood in a green silk dress, twirling your drink with your usual grace. When suddenly—

Draco: (clinking his spoon against his glass like a nervous aristocrat) “Everyone, shut up.”

You: “Well, that’s romantic.”

Draco: “Y/N.”

You turned. The room went quiet.

Draco: (stepping closer, pulling out a black velvet box, kneeling like the dramatic idiot he always was) “You once told me ‘ew, no’ when I asked you out.”

You: (smirking) “Because you asked like a pretentious peacock.”

Draco: “I was a pretentious peacock. I still am. But one who loves you completely.”

Gasps. Pansy choking on champagne. Matteo muttering “Finally” under his breath.

Draco: “Y/N Y/L/N… will you marry me?”

You blinked. Once. Twice. Then grinned.

You: “Yes. Yes. Yes.”

He stood up just in time for you to tackle-hug him, and the room erupted in cheers. Firewhisky poured. Enzo cried.