Draco Malfoy had never woken like this before.

The dormitory was hushed in the pale hush of early morning, lit only by the grey wash of light filtering through blue-laced curtains. The enchanted ceiling above your bed still shimmered faintly with the remnants of starlight—Ravenclaw charmwork, he supposed. Everything smelled like parchment, vanilla, and girl. You. A scent so soft it clung to his collarbone like a secret.

You were still asleep, half-draped across him, your breath slow against the hollow of his throat. One of your legs was curled possessively around his, and his arm—traitorous, foreign to his usual sense of detachment—was tucked around your bare waist. As though you belonged there. As though he had always held you this way.

He exhaled quietly, eyelids fluttering shut for a beat, then open again. He could still taste last night. Raspberry wine. Your lip balm. The ache of want laced with something far more dangerous: comfort.

How had it begun?

The memory came in fragments—Blaise disappearing into some alcove, the glow of floating lanterns in the Ravenclaw common room, someone handing him a drink with glittering herbs floating in it, blue and gold and a touch too sweet. And then you. Standing in the corner with your arms crossed, not talking to anyone, not looking at him, not doing anything in particular at all. And yet—he’d seen nothing else after that.

You had looked like Luna Lovegood, of course, but softer in some ways and sharper in others. Less starshine, more flint. The same dreamy quality around the eyes, but when yours met his, he’d felt distinctly watched—studied, even. Like you knew something about him he didn’t yet know about himself. That had unnerved him, irritated him. Interested him.

And somehow—somehow—his mouth had found yours behind a half-pulled tapestry and then again against the arch of your door, your fingers pulling his collar like a dare. He remembered fumbling with his wand, the silencing charm, the way you’d laughed softly against his lips like sin.

What came next had been anything but forgettable.

It wasn’t just the heat of it—though Merlin, there had been heat. But it was the quiet after, when you didn’t move away. The way you’d curled into him like a creature that trusted. That shattered him more than anything.

And now here you were, warm and pliant against him, your hair spilled across his chest like moonlight. Your fingers twitched as you dreamed. He didn’t dare move.

Draco stared up at the ceiling, feeling like his skin had been turned inside out. Something about this—about you—had cracked through his defenses. He was not built for this sort of softness. He was built for posturing, for walls, for girls whose names he forgot.

But you hadn’t let him perform. You’d kissed him like you already knew the part of him that hurt.

And now, with your lips parted against his throat and your heartbeat ticking slow beside his, he couldn’t lie to himself. Not even in his own head.

You’d bewitched him, and Merlin help him—he didn’t want the spell to break.