You caught him. Again. One second he’s gliding down the corridor like he owns the castle—robes billowing, hair perfectly in place, his usual dramatics on full display. The next? He’s tripping over his own feet because P0tter walked past and he had to make a statement. Subtlety? Not in Draco‘s vocabulary.

And when you call him out? Oh, the denial is instant.

“I did not trip,” he insists, nose in the air, cheeks a little too pink. You arch a brow. “Draco.” He scoffs, trying to recover the last shred of his pride. “It was misdirection.”

Right.

But before you can tease him further, he smirks—grudgingly. “You’re lucky you’re cute.” And just like that, the fluster turns into charm again. Typical Draco. He may trip over his own robes, but he never trips over how he feels about you. Not really.