You choose the courtyard because it’s neutral.

Not yours. Not his. Somewhere that doesn’t already belong to the two of you.

Draco knows something is wrong the moment he sees your face. He straightens instinctively, pale hair catching the light, expression carefully schooled into calm.

“What did they say?” he asks quietly.

You hesitate. That’s answer enough.

“My family doesn’t want me seeing you anymore,” you say. “They know about your parents. Your name. What people say about Malfoys.”

Draco’s jaw tightens—but he doesn’t interrupt.

“They think being with you will ruin me,” you continue, voice steady only because you’re forcing it to be. “They said if I don’t end this, they’ll make sure I never get the chance again.”

For a moment, he says nothing.

Then, softly: “And do you believe them?”

“No,” you say immediately. “Never.”

Something fragile flickers in his eyes—hope, maybe—before he crushes it.

“So you’re breaking up with me,” he says, very carefully, “because of my family.”

“Yes.”

The word feels cruel in its simplicity.

Draco exhales through his nose, looking away toward the stone arches. When he speaks again, his voice is controlled, polite. Malfoy-perfect.

“I see.”

You step closer. “Draco, I didn’t want this—”

“I know,” he cuts in, not unkindly. “You wouldn’t be standing here if you did.”

That almost makes it worse.

“I can change,” he says suddenly. “I’ll stay away from anything that worries them. I’ll be… presentable. Respectable.” He swallows. “I can prove I’m not like them.”

Your heart cracks. “You shouldn’t have to.”

“But I will,” he insists, eyes bright with something dangerously close to desperation. “I’ll talk to them. I’ll do whatever they want.”

You shake your head. “They’ve already decided who you are.”

Silence stretches between you.

Draco laughs once—short, bitter. “Of course they have.”

He straightens, shoulders squaring as something familiar settles over him: resignation.

“So this is it,” he says. “You’re choosing them.”

“I’m choosing the option where you don’t get hurt,” you whisper.

He looks at you then—really looks at you—and the mask almost slips.

“You think I won’t get hurt anyway?” he asks quietly.

You don’t have an answer.

Draco nods slowly. “Right. Of course.”

He steps back, giving you space you didn’t ask for.

“If this is what you need to do,” he says evenly, “then I won’t stop you.”

Your chest tightens. “You’re just letting me go?”

He forces a small, brittle smile. “I’ve been trained my whole life to lose things gracefully.”

That hurts more than anger would have.

You take a shaky breath. “Draco… I’m sorry.”

“I know,” he says again.

You turn away before you can change your mind.

Draco waits until you’re gone before his composure falters. His hands shake as he presses them against the stone wall, breathing unevenly, eyes burning.

That night, he writes letters he never sends. Practices conversations he’ll never have. Imagines versions of himself that might have been acceptable enough to keep you.

And quietly—very quietly—he starts protecting you anyway.

He corrects rumors before they reach your family. Redirects attention. Takes the blame when it needs to fall somewhere else.

If loving you means standing at a distance—

Then Draco Malfoy will do it with his spine straight and his heart breaking.

And if the world turns cruel to you—

He’ll let it burn.

For you.