Draco thought you were dead. Or simply confined. Not coincidentally — but conveniently. You hadn’t returned to Hogwarts this year, and that had everything to do with the fact that you weren’t from Britain. Your family had no intention of sending you back into a country teetering on the edge of a wizarding war.

Strangely, that gave Draco Malfoy a sense of peace that was hard to explain.

You wouldn’t be here to see him point a wand at your friends. To watch him kill people. You would remain untouched by his darkness.

Or so he thought, until he saw you.

And suddenly, you were everywhere — your wand in hand, your brows drawn tight with worry. Suddenly, he could almost feel your hands in his again. Feel your breath on his neck. Hear your laugh rise through the music, full and light.

You weren’t supposed to be here, he thought.

But suddenly, you were. And suddenly, so was the memory.

He remembers: the weight of his sweatshirt hanging off your frame, the sleeves too long, your neck exposed where the fabric slipped. The way you stood barefoot on the stone floor, grinning like you weren’t breaking any rules at all.

“You’re very tense. It’s not ballroom dancing,” you’d teased, voice gentle but amused.

You had reached for his hands. He didn’t move — at first. But then you laced your fingers through his and pulled him just enough to sway.

The record spun, its rhythm soft and magnetic, worlds away from the orchestras he grew up with. Still, you knew it like muscle memory.

“¡Ahí, ahí, ahí, vamo allá!” You laughed, your hips moving with the music, the beat slipping into your spine like a second heartbeat.

«No, no te puedo olvidar No, no te puedo borrar Tú me enseñaste a querer Me enseñaste a bailar»

He hadn’t known where to look — your smile, your lips mouthing the lyrics, your body coaxing his into motion. Every step you marked with a patience he hadn’t earned. Every touch was delicate, every correction a whisper against his skin.

“Let go, Draco,” you had murmured. “You’re safe with me. Just this once.”

He hadn’t known how to let go. Not really. But with your hands on his waist, your forehead resting briefly against his, your laughter wrapped around the lyrics — he almost did.

And now, standing in the ruined corridor of a different year, wand heavy in his pocket, blood on his hands — he remembers it like a dream that might’ve saved him.

He should never have seen you again. But fate had never listened to what Draco Malfoy should or shouldn’t have.