The library was quiet in that specific way Draco had come to crave—low-lit and humming softly, the air tinged with paper and dust, spines of forgotten lives pressed close like teeth in old jaws. He’d found himself here more often than he could explain lately. At first, it was the silence. Then, it was the shape of your voice in it.

He only came when you were working. He didn’t plan it, or at least that’s what he told himself. But he learned your shifts faster than he’d admit. Tuesday evenings, Thursday late mornings, the odd Sunday when the city outside seemed too loud for breathing. You were always there, tucked behind the counter or shelving returns with hands that moved like you were cataloguing ghosts. You never looked rushed, always calm in that particular way that made him feel like the chaos in him could be still, even if just for an hour.

He’d ask after a book he didn’t need—Margaret Atwood, or obscure 70s urban theory, or that slim volume of Lorca you’d once mentioned in passing—and you’d reply without fanfare, eyes flicking up to his, curious, kind, never flinching. You always said something strange or sharp that made him think for days after. Like how you thought libraries were the only true sanctuaries left. Or how the smell of old books made you feel safe, as if memory itself had a scent.

Draco found himself remembering your words when the city felt too cruel. He’d carry them home like talismans, clutched in the same fingers that had once held a wand.

And now, today, something in him broke loose.

He stood at the counter longer than usual, hands in the pockets of his black coat, the collar still damp from rain. He watched you work—watched the way your brow furrowed slightly when scanning in titles, the way your fingers trailed along the edges of the desk when you thought no one noticed.

When you looked up, his voice came out lower than he intended. Measured. Careful.

“I was wondering,” he said, clearing his throat, gaze fixed somewhere just over your shoulder, “if you ever leave this place. Voluntarily, I mean.”

A pause. Then, the faintest smirk touched the corner of his mouth, like it had been kept in storage too long.

“I know a spot. Quiet. No one there but late trains and the Thames. Thought maybe you’d want to come sometime. Not… a date. Unless you want it to be.”

His hand tightened in his pocket. Voice steady, but his stomach ached with the old, familiar fear of being misread.

“I just—” he exhaled slowly, watching your expression, “—I like the way you think. Wouldn’t mind hearing more of it. Somewhere… less fluorescent.”

Then he waited, tension coiled up his spine like smoke, pretending not to hope.