The thing about Draco was this:

You knew he was an asshole.

You knew it when he smirked at you in fourth year, all sharp edges and sharper tongue. You knew it when he dragged you into empty classrooms, when his hands were rough but his mouth was soft, when he whispered things that made your stomach flip even as your brain screamed bad idea.

You knew it, and yet—

Here you were.

Because Draco was also this: the boy who kissed you like he was drowning, the one who let his guard down just enough to show you the cracks in his armor, the one who, despite everything, felt too much, even when he pretended not to.

And now?

Now you were pregnant.

And he was—

Well.

Winter had turned the grounds to silver, the air biting enough to steal your breath. You found him exactly where you’d expected: alone on the pitch, broom discarded at his feet, staring at the sky like it might offer answers.

He didn’t hear you approach. You cleared your throat.

Draco startled, blinking back to reality like he’d forgotten where he was. His grey eyes flicked to you, and for a second, something raw flashed across his face—something desperate, something scared—before he smoothed it over with a lazy smirk.

"Ah, hey," he said, voice rough. "What's up?"

Like you hadn’t been avoiding each other for weeks.