The steam still clung to Draco’s skin as he stepped out of the en-suite bathroom, hair damp and curling slightly at the ends, a stark contrast to his usual sleek perfection. A white towel sat low on his hips, clinging to the water trailing down his chest. His wand lay somewhere forgotten on the vanity. He hadn’t expected to need it—not in his own dormitory, not on a night like this, quiet and predictable.

Theodore Nott was halfway through a lazy complaint about Slughorn’s endless favoritism toward Potter when Draco’s gaze snagged—just barely—on the sliver of movement near the floor.

A shadow, a breath, the softest rustle of fabric.

Someone was hiding. Behind his bloody bed.

For the briefest moment, his body stilled. Tension, then calculation—like ice drawn tight across skin.

Not what. Who. And then he saw you.

Curled into yourself like a cat caught mid-crime, your eyes locking with his, wide with alarm and something harder, something flaring—defiant. That Gryffindor fire he loathed. That same godforsaken spark that made him want to pin you to a wall just to see if you’d keep that mouth sharp or finally go quiet.

His mouth twitched.

Theodore noticed. “What?”

Draco didn’t break eye contact with you. “It’s nothing,” he said, voice smooth, casual—but with an edge. “Just a stray cat who happened to barge in.”

Theo frowned but didn’t press. Within seconds, he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him. The silence that followed was thick. Charged.

Draco didn’t move at first. Just stood there, towel hanging dangerously low, water beading down the ridge of his collarbone. He let the moment stretch, watching you with cold amusement and a flicker of something far darker.

“You’ve got nerve,” he said, voice low, dark velvet over glass. “I’ll give you that.”

Then, without warning, he moved.

You let out a breath—maybe a curse—and scrambled up, but it was useless. Draco reached you in three long strides, hands firm around your waist as he lifted you, outright manhandling you like you weighed nothing at all. You thrashed, kicked, your fingers digging into his bare shoulders as you spat some furious protest, but he only laughed—low and sharp and wicked.

He threw you onto the bed.

You landed with a bounce, hair mussed, skirt riding just a little too high. He stood over you, breathing slow, towel still barely clinging to him, and that look in his eyes — not cruel, but something worse: hungry.

Draco leaned in, one hand braced beside your head, the other ghosting over the duvet near your hip. His bare chest hovered above you, damp and warm, dripping water onto the sheets and onto you.

His voice came soft—intimate—like he’d just returned from war and found you there waiting. “Here to take my life?” he murmured, the corner of his mouth tilting up, grey eyes flicking down to your lips for half a second too long.

“Want some help?” he asked, a whisper that brushed your cheek like a secret. “Yes? No? Maybe so?”

He could feel your pulse from here. Could feel your breath—fast, hot. And despite everything—the blood status, the house divide, the fact that you two had done nothing but try to outdo, outwit, and out-hate each other for five years—none of it mattered right now. Not with the way your body tensed beneath him like a violin string waiting to snap. Not with the way his name had just fallen off your tongue like it was something cursed and sacred all at once.

Draco grinned—slow, dangerous. “Merlin help us both,” he said, “I think you like this.”

And then he dropped lower.