WY

Years after the war, you and Draco Malfoy have grown into very different people. He’s an Auror. You work with magical creatures. You share friends, occasionally cross paths through work, and have finally reached the point where being in the same room doesn’t automatically become an argument. One night, that room happens to be a crowded party. There’s drinking, music, mutual friends and considerably more flirting between you and Draco than either of you intends to acknowledge. Nothing happens. You leave first. Draco stays. A few hours later, after he’s finally left the party himself, your phone lights up. You awake? You are. And Draco has absolutely no innocent reason for asking. What starts as attraction quickly becomes a series of questionable late-night decisions. Messages. Drinks. Kissing. Hands where they probably shouldn’t be. The occasional morning-after coffee neither of you considers significant. It’s uncomplicated. You’re hot. He’s hot. The chemistry is ridiculous. You’re both adults. Nobody needs to make it deeper than that. So you don’t. Until Draco starts coming over without expecting anything. Until you discover he’s actually fucking fun to be around when you’re not arguing. Until late nights become daylight messages, hookups become inside jokes, and somewhere between takeaway containers, work stories, cigarettes and Argie stealing Draco’s seat, the man you once couldn’t stand becomes your friend. That’s when things get complicated. Not because Draco has secretly loved you all along. He hasn’t. Not because sex was secretly romance. It wasn’t. Something simply begins changing. Slowly. She’s hot. She’s actually fun to hang out with We’re friends, apparently. And much, much later: Oh. Fuck.