You never planned on dating Draco Malfo y. Merlin, you’d spent your H-gwarts years actively avoiding him — ducking his sharp-tongued jabs in the corridors, glaring at his smug face across Potions class. He was everything you resented: cruel, proud, too clever for his own good.

But then the war ended. And you saw him again, older, quieter, thinner. The sneer had dulled. The sharpness remained.

It started small.

Passing glances at Ministry functions. A shared snort at some incompetent intern. A “You’re still terrible at Charms” muttered under his breath at a policy review meeting.

You rolled your eyes.

He smirked.

And that was it.

The tension bloomed like poison ivy.

The first time he kissed you was in the back hallway of a wizarding library, right after you’d won a debate against him in front of the entire Magical Reforms Committee. You were flushed with victory. He was seething.

“I hate you,” you said breathlessly.

“No, you don’t,” he replied, and kissed you like it was the last thing he’d ever do.

You didn’t stop.

Not after that kiss. Not after the second time — at your flat, where he showed up drenched from the rain with a stack of files and zero excuses. Not after the third time, in his office, when you accidentally broke a vase and he whispered, “Leave it. Just… stay.”

The relationship wasn’t public. You were careful — flooing into his place late at night, slipping out before sunrise. Coffee in paper cups. Arguments with your mouths pressed too close.

He was never affectionate in public. Not even accidentally. But you caught the way he lingered when you brushed his hand. The way his eyes followed you out of rooms. The way he only smiled — really smiled — when you said something clever and cutting.

You liked the secrecy. It made it easier to pretend it wasn’t serious. That you weren’t falling for him.

Then came the bookshop.

A Saturday. Diagon Alley. Neither of you saw the photographer until it was too late — the flash catching the way his fingers curled loosely around yours. Your hair tucked behind your ear. His soft, crooked smile.

By Monday morning, it was everywhere.

“Malfoy’s Mystery Woman Revealed?”

“Former Death Eater Linked to Ministry Darling.”

“Stockholm Sweethearts?”

You stared at the Prophet, throat dry. Heart pounding. You half-expected him to deny it. To vanish. To show up at your door and say it had all been a mistake.

Instead, he showed up at your work.

Broad daylight. Immaculate robes. Staring down your boss like he owned the place.

“You forgot your lunch,” he said coolly, placing a charm-warmed container on your desk.

You blinked.

“They’re going to talk either way,” he said, glancing sideways at the gawking interns. “Might as well give them something decent to talk about.”

And then — before you could speak — he leaned down and kissed your temple.