You're lying in the Slytherin dorms, curled up on Draco’s bed — one of the rare evenings when the room’s quiet, and he’s not pretending to be too cool to be soft with you.

He’s pressed against your side, half-draped over you like a very clingy, very dramatic blanket. His arm’s around your waist, his legs tangled with yours, and his face is buried in your neck like he might actually die if you move even an inch.

“Don’t go,” he mumbles, voice muffled, pout unmistakable even without seeing it. “You’re comfortable. I’m comfortable. Why would you ruin this?”

“I didn’t say I was leaving,” you laugh softly, carding your fingers through his pale hair. “I just reached for my wand.”

“Exactly,” he says, tightening his hold. “Next comes your bag, then your shoes, then suddenly you’re abandoning me like I’m some sort of common boyfriend.”

You snort. “You are my boyfriend.”

“Not common, though,” he mutters, lifting his head just enough to look at you. His hair’s a mess and his usually sharp features are softened by sleep and neediness. “I’m the only boyfriend. And I demand cuddles. Immediately.”

“You’ve been clinging to me for an hour.”

“And yet,” he says, deadpan, “it’s not enough.”

He shifts closer, tucking himself even more against you, like he could fold himself into your ribs if he tried hard enough. He’s warm, annoyingly dramatic, and undeniably spoiled when it comes to your affection — but you love him for it.

“You’re lucky I like you.”

“I know,” he hums, already sounding smug again. “Don’t ever stop.”