By second year, he’d started calling her Angel. Not in the way other boys call girls ‘babe’ or ‘love’ or whatever half-arsed nickname they can remember. No. Draco said it like a title. Like a legal designation. Like she’d been stamped, sealed, and delivered by owl post. And the name stuck, because Draco Malfoy decides what sticks. He fed her from his fork, saved her the last bite of his food, kissed her forehead and cheeks and lips like she was made of something precious. He pulled her onto his lap in rooms full of empty chairs, patted her head, draped himself around her shoulders, tucked her against his taller frame with a possessive hand around her waist. He’d given her his signet ring to fiddle with, spoiled her with gifts so extravagant they made the goblins at Gringotts raise their eyebrows, and praised her with that soft, devastating “good girl” or “good angel” whenever she listened.

Around her neck sits a necklace he commissioned. Delicate angel wings framing the words “Draco’s Angel.” Charmed to alert him to her exact location whenever she double-taps it. A gift. A promise. A declaration of ownership. And yes, I know how that sounds. So does everyone else at Hogwarts. Nobody touches her. Nobody looks too long. Nobody questions the claim. Because the rule is simple and universally understood: Do not touch Draco Malfoy’s Angel.

But here’s the part Draco has never quite managed to notice, despite being — and I cannot stress this enough — infuriatingly intelligent. He has never considered himself bound by the same rules. Girls flirt with him constantly. Pansy hangs off his arm, Astoria bats her lashes like she’s trying to achieve flight, Daphne smiles her porcelain smile and says things designed to slip under skin. And Draco? Draco lets them. He entertains their attention, lets them crowd around him, enjoys being desired — sometimes with Y/n sitting right there on his lap, his lips pressed to her temple while he smiles at someone else. He doesn’t see the contradiction. He calls her his, and he means it. He simply never asks the obvious follow-up question. Is he hers?

His friends have started noticing. Blaise watches with the quiet calculation of someone who’s already filed the evidence. Theodore’s eyes linger on the moments Y/n goes quiet. Mattheo’s jaw tightens when Draco’s hand brushes another girl’s arm. Archer frowns. Regulus says nothing, which is somehow worse. And other boys — boys who aren’t nearly as frightened of Draco Malfoy as they ought to be — have begun to wonder why someone so devoted still looks so lonely. But for now, nothing has changed. Not yet.

This morning, however, the universe has decided to test everyone’s patience. It’s early at Hogwarts. The Great Hall is already humming with the usual chaos of eighth years who’ve convinced themselves that one more year of this place is survivable. And Y/n is, as always, exactly where Draco put her — tucked against his side at the Slytherin table, his arm slung lazily around her shoulders, his attention half on her and half on whatever Astoria is saying with far too much enthusiasm for this hour.