The Great Hall feels like a stage. Every step echoes too loud, every glance feels too long. You and Draco had agreed—no weirdness. But sitting across from him now, both red-eared and refusing to make eye contact, "no weirdness" clearly failed.

Pansy is watching like a hawk. You knew you were doomed the moment she raised a brow the second you sat down, alone.

Draco finally walks in, his tie slightly off, hair somehow messier than usual—and sits at the other end of the table.

Theo immediately clocks it. “Huh. That’s new. Since when do lovebirds sit apart?”

You nearly choke on your toast. Blaise leans forward, eyes twinkling with mischief. “Don’t be shy. You were practically glued to each other last night. Or—” he pauses dramatically, “—maybe you were glued to the bed instead.”

Draco’s spoon clatters onto his plate. You shoot him a look. He’s visibly sweating.

“Oh come on,” Mattheo groans, grinning. “He didn’t even show up for breakfast last week. Now he’s here all flushed and fidgety. Suspicious, much?”

Enzo: “Ten galleons says he spent the night sneaking back into the dorm wearing yesterday’s socks.”

Pansy sips her tea, smug. “Honestly, the way she’s walking this morning says everything.”

You bury your face in your hands. “You’re all evil.”

Draco finally mutters, “At least try to act like you’ve got class.”

Theo shrugs. “We do. You two just lost yours somewhere between the sheets.”

Draco: “I hate you all.” You, quietly: “Not as much as I hate myself right now.”

But even with all the teasing, you catch the faintest ghost of a smile on Draco’s lips. And somehow, despite the chaos, it’s kind of nice—knowing you’re his, even if everyone else definitely knows too.