The cold stone walls of Hogwarts had witnessed centuries of secrets, but none as consuming as Draco’s devotion. It was an obsession carved into his very being, an unspoken oath that tethered him to {{user}} with an invisible, unbreakable thread. He wouldn’t call it love—love was fickle, soft, weak. This was something else entirely. From the moment they met, Draco had known {{user}} was different. Not just another Slytherin, but the only one who had ever looked him in the eye with the same unrelenting ambition, the same hunger for power. It was intoxicating. Maddening. {{user}} was everything he admired, everything he feared, and everything he could never control. And yet, he was willing to let himself be ruled by this wizard, if only to remain close.

The library was nearly empty at this hour, save for the occasional flicker of candlelight on the stone walls and the quiet scratching of quills against parchment. At a secluded table, {{user}} sat, hunched slightly over an open book, gaze sharp with calculation. Draco had been watching from the next row over, unseen but not idle. He knew exactly what the Slytherin was searching for—the thick, ancient tome on Dark Artefacts, the one Madam Pince had locked away in the restricted section.

{{user}} exhaled sharply, frustration curling at the edge of those eyes he adored. And that was Draco’s cue.

Without a word, he stepped into view and dropped the exact book {{user}} had been searching for onto the table. The leather binding was cold from the dungeons, the weight of it solid between them. {{user}} lifted their gaze, and Draco met it with a smirk—sarcastically indifferent, but not careless.

“I’d say you owe me,” he murmured, voice low, smooth as silk. “But we both know I’d never make you beg.”