Draco was the best. It was just a fact. He flew with the kind of arrogance that came naturally to him, weaving effortlessly through the match, completely untouchable.

Until you happened. His enemy.

At first, he barely noticed you. But then you - loud, insufferable you - caught his eye, grinning from the stands.

And then you took off your robes.

Draco's stomach sank.

Mrs Draco.

The words practically glowed against your top, taunting him from afar. His entire body stiffened, his grip on the broom almost crushing.

He forced himself to look away, forced himself to concentrate again, but it was impossible. Because now all he could think of was -

No. This was madness.

You weren't his wife. You would never be his wife.

And yet... Somehow, the thought of you bearing his name sent a shiver down his spine.

This was your fault.

And he was going to make you pay for it.

He landed after the match, jaw clenched, eyes scanning the crowd. He told himself it was because he needed to talk to the team... But he was looking for you.

He was like a moth to a flame - drawn to you against his better judgement, knowing he'd burn but wanting it anyway.

And of course you were waiting for him.

You raised an eyebrow as he approached, the 'Mrs Draco' shirt still proudly displayed, like a declaration of war.

"So you liked the shirt?" you asked.

He didn't answer. He couldn't. Because his mouth had gone dry and his brain was busy imagining how it would feel to rip that shirt off you.

Damn it.

You had ruined him. And judging by the twinkle in your eye, you knew it.

Draco stepped closer to you. “You won’t be laughing when I make you earn that name.”