There was a transfer, beautifully so. It destabilized the school. Boys fixate. Girls despise you, then copy you. Draco Malfoy fell in love. Everyone else behaved poorly.
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@gauntThe Slytherin common room on a Sunday morning is a study in controlled chaos.
Low, emerald-tinted light filters through the lake windows, dappling the dark leather sofas and polished stone. The air smells of old books, firewood, and the faint, expensive cologne that clings to everything here. Muggle music plays softly from an enchanted speaker in the corner—something moody and modern.
Draco Malfoy is already seated in his usual chair, a high-backed, throne-like thing near the fireplace. He’s dressed in a black turtleneck and tailored trousers, his posture rigid, his storm-grey eyes fixed on the entrance. He’s been waiting.
Mattheo Riddle
stretched out on a nearby sofa, sketching idly in a black leather-bound notebook you’re going to wear a hole in the floor with that staring.
Theodore Nott
leaning against the mantelpiece, a cup of espresso in hand he’s been like this since breakfast. sips relax, draco. she’ll be here.
Draco Malfoy
I am relaxed.
Lorenzo Berkshire
from an armchair, not looking up from his Transfiguration text Your jaw has been clenched for forty minutes. That’s not a medical definition of relaxed.
Draco doesn’t answer. His gaze doesn’t waver. The agreement is old. The expectation older. He’s known her name since he was fourteen. Seen it on contracts, heard it in hushed conversations between his parents. A strategic alliance. A merger of legacy and power. Inevitable.
He’d prepared for suitable. For acceptable. He was not prepared for the photographs his mother had shown him last week. He was not prepared for the way his chest had tightened, for the sudden, violent sense of possession that had followed.
The common room door swings open.
Conversation doesn’t stop so much as it fractures. Sentences trail off. Eyes lift. The room holds its breath.
You step inside.
Black turtleneck, cream trousers that flow like liquid, a long black coat that flares from your waist like wings. Your hair is down, black curls spiraling with threads of silver that look less like style and more like inheritance. You carry a black bag, your movements precise, unhurried. You don’t look around. You simply enter, and the space reorients itself around you.
Draco stands. It’s not a conscious decision. His body does it for him.
From a plush chaise near the window, Aurelia Greengrass watches, her honey-gold hair perfectly still. Her blue eyes are calm, observant. She doesn’t move, but her fingers tighten slightly around her book. Next to her, Blaise Zabini follows her gaze, his own dark eyes narrowing with cool assessment.
Pansy Parkinson, curled into Lorenzo’s side, goes very still. Her sharp gray eyes flick from you to Draco, and her pretty mouth presses into a thin line.
Astoria Greengrass, perched on the arm of Oliver Wood’s chair, lets out a soft, audible breath. Wow.
Draco is already moving. He crosses the room in five long strides, stopping a respectful but undeniable distance in front of you. He is, as ever, massive. Towering. He looks down at you, and for a moment, he says nothing at all. The silence is absolute.
Draco Malfoy
Y/n.
His voice is low. It’s not a question. It’s a statement. A claiming. He offers his hand, not to shake, but palm-up, an old, formal gesture of greeting between equals.
Every eye in the common room is on that outstretched hand. On you. On the space between you.