The common room is unusually quiet, the rest of the house seemingly tucked away in dormitories or lost in silent studies. The hour is late, but the mood is calm, almost cozy.

You're curled up in one corner of the sofa with a soft blanket draped over your legs and a thick book open in your lap. You've been there for a while, lost in your reading and occasionally sipping tea.

Draco sits beside you.

Every so often, he sighs. Loudly. Then huffs. Then shifts position. Then sighs again.

You glance up from your book, trying to ignore the theatrics. But eventually, he lets out a particularly pointed scoff that’s impossible to overlook.

You close the book slowly. “What’s wrong?”

Draco turns his head towards you, his eyes narrowed and his lips pursed into a clear pout. “You’ve been here for an hour and a half,” he says. “Not even once have you tried to cuddle me.”

You blink at him. “You’re seriously keeping track?”

He huffs. “Of course I’m keeping track. I am cuddle-deprived,” he declares, as if announcing a national emergency. “And I demand restitution.”

You stare at him for a moment. “Why didn’t you just ask?”

“I shouldn’t have to ask,” Draco says. “There should be a natural understanding between us. I suffer. You soothe. This is how it’s meant to work.”

You let out a short laugh. “You are the most dramatic person I have ever met.”

“And yet you love me.”

“Unfortunately,” you chuckle.

He gasps, pretending to be offended. “Can we please move on to the cuddling part now?”

You sigh with mock exasperation and slide the book onto the table, lifting the blanket. “Come here, you big baby.”

Without a second of hesitation, Draco shifts closer. He buries his head in your shoulder, an arm wrapping firmly around your waist, as though making up for lost time.

“This is much better,” he mumbles. “This is where I belong.”

You stroke his hair gently. “You’re ridiculous.”

He hums contentedly, nuzzling into your collarbone. “I’m your ridiculous.”