Draco had never been the kind of man who asked for what he wanted—he simply took it, made it his, ensured that whatever or whoever he set his sights on had no choice but to belong to him. And Luna? She had belonged to him from the start, whether she had realized it or not, whether she had fought him or not, whether she had run or not. He had known it from the moment he first touched her, from the second she had moaned his name like a prayer, from the instant he had felt her melt against him and whisper his name as if it was the only thing she had ever known.
And now, knowing this, accepting this, having her tangled in his sheets, in his arms, in his life—it meant there was no going back, no undoing what had been done, no world in which he could ever let her go.
So, it wasn't a question of if she would move in with him. It was only a question of when.
The answer was now. Immediately. As soon as humanly possible.
Because the very thought of her sleeping somewhere else, of spending even one evening away from him, of waking up to a cold, empty bed when he could be waking up to her—to her warmth, to her sleepy murmurs, to the way she fit against him so perfectly—it was unbearable. Completely, fucking unbearable.
Which is why, while Luna was busy at the coffee shop, likely sipping tea and humming to herself in that absentminded, utterly distracting way of hers, Draco was on a mission. A very specific, highly necessary, completely rational mission. A mission that required the full force of his magical ability, the cooperation of every house elf under his employment, and the sheer, unshakable determination of a man who refused to spend even one more night apart from the woman who had completely ruined him.
Luna Lovegood was moving in today.
She just didn't know it yet.
First, the animals. Because of course Luna had animals. The absolute menagerie she had somehow accumulated in her ridiculous little valley was borderline concerning. There were Kneazles, a flock of Mooncalves that she claimed were "very polite" (whatever the hell that meant), a pair of rescued Diricawls that she swore understood human speech, and, of course, Dandelion. The little hellspawn of a cow that had betrayed him by accepting sweaters from him and then choosing to stay in his house like she had fucking real estate rights.
Draco stared down at the fluffy, perpetually unimpressed cow currently standing in the foyer of his home, looking entirely unbothered by the chaos of house elves flitting about, magically packing Luna's belongings, organizing her collection of herbs and potions, carefully securing her absurdly large collection of tea.
"You do realize you don't pay rent, right?" he muttered, watching as Dandelion lazily blinked up at him before letting out a slow, deliberate moo.
Right. He was talking to the cow. His life had officially gone to hell.
With a sigh, he waved his wand, levitating Dandelion off the ground and directing her toward the massive, enchanted paddock he had created overnight—because apparently, moving in Luna Lovegood also meant providing a luxury estate for a miniature Highland cow. The paddock was ridiculous, sprawling, perfectly charmed with fresh grass that regrew itself, temperature-controlled shelters, and a lazy little stream running through it because, and he quoted Luna directly, "Dandelion likes to cool her hooves after a long day."
Draco didn't even want to know what constituted a long day for a cow.
After ensuring that her other creatures were safely transported to the vast "Luna's Absolutely Ridiculous and Completely Necessary Magical Animal Sanctuary" (a name he would never say out loud), he turned his attention to the final, most delicate part of this entire endeavor—her house.
Or rather, the remnants of it.
Draco Malfoy did not do things halfway. He did not waste time deliberating or debating or waiting for her to come to the inevitable conclusion that she belonged with him. No. That wasn't his style. His style was handling it. Making sure everything was perfect before she could even begin to argue, ensuring that there was no reason, no excuse, no possible reality in which she could protest.
Which is why, as he stepped into her small, cozy, incredibly whimsical home—his wand at the ready, his magic already thrumming in anticipation—he did what needed to be done.
He relocated her house.
Not moved her belongings.
Not packed up a few sentimental items.
Not prepared her for an eventual transition.
No.
He relocated the entire fucking house.
With one expertly crafted, high-level spell, with one impossibly powerful piece of magic that no one else in the world would be crazy enough to attempt, Draco Malfoy shifted her entire home onto the edge of his estate, placing it in a secluded, perfectly scenic little clearing, nestled between two enchanted willows, complete with a direct, private pathway leading straight to his bedroom.
Because if Luna Lovegood thought she was going to spend even one night apart from him, she had another thing coming.
By the time the spell settled, by the time the last shimmering traces of ancient magic faded into the air, by the time he stood back, crossed his arms, and admired his absolute, unarguable success, Draco Malfoy had only one thing left to do—prepare for war.
Because his angel, his wild, unpredictable, too-clever-for-her-own-good, fucking perfect Luna Lovegood, was going to lose her mind.
And frankly? He couldn't wait.
***
Luna had expected a peaceful evening, had envisioned herself returning home to the comforting hum of her cottage, where the scent of lavender and honey lingered in the air, where the wind chimes would sway gently in the breeze, where her favorite chair by the window would be waiting for her, stacked with half-read books and loose parchment filled with unfinished thoughts. She had been looking forward to it, had been craving the solitude, the certainty, the space that had always been hers, but the moment she apparated, something was wrong, terribly, unforgivably wrong.
Her feet landed on grass, soft and cool beneath her, wet with the evening dew, and for the briefest second, she thought she had simply miscalculated, landed a step too far from her usual spot, an error so small it was barely worth noticing. But then she turned, then she looked up, then she saw the truth, and her heart stopped in her chest. There was nothing. No warm glow spilling from her windows, no gently smoking chimney, no weathered stone walls wrapped in ivy, no front porch creaking under the weight of the wind—just emptiness, just open land, just a vast stretch of nothingness where her home was supposed to be.
Panic surged through her, sharp and unforgiving, cold as ice and hot as fire all at once, sinking its claws deep into her chest as she spun in frantic circles, searching, scanning, willing it to be there, willing it to reappear as if by some cruel trick of the universe she had simply forgotten where she lived. But there was no mistake, no miscalculation, no trick of the light—her home was gone.
The realization hit her so hard, so violently, that her knees buckled beneath her, the weight of it all crashing over her like a tidal wave, suffocating, drowning, dragging her down, down, down. Her hands hit the earth first, fingers curling into the dirt, grasping for something solid, something real, something that wouldn't disappear the second she touched it, but it did nothing to steady her, nothing to stop the shaking, nothing to stop the sheer, overwhelming loss clawing at her throat, stealing the breath from her lungs, crushing her chest until she could barely think, barely function, barely breathe.
A sound tore from her lips, unbidden, raw, desperate, a choked, broken sob that barely felt like her own, a sound that belonged to someone else, someone weak, someone shattered, someone who had just lost everything. It built in her chest, crawled up her throat, spilled out of her in harsh, uneven gasps, and suddenly she was sobbing, violently, uncontrollably, the kind of crying that stole the air from her lungs, that made her shoulders shake with the force of it, that sent her collapsing further, forehead pressing into the dirt as if she could bury herself there, as if she could disappear along with her home.
The weight of what had happened still pressed against her chest, suffocating, consuming, a force so overwhelming that it stole the breath from her lungs before she could even think, before she could even process the reality of it. Her world—her home—had been ripped away from her in an instant, taken from her without warning, without permission, without a single ounce of consideration.
Every carefully chosen trinket, every well-loved book, every single thing that had made it hers—gone. The walls that had kept her safe, that had held her secrets, that had surrounded her in warmth on the loneliest of nights, had been lifted from the very earth as if they had never been there at all, obliterated by magic far stronger than hers, torn from the only place she had ever truly belonged.
She had not moved for what felt like an eternity, frozen in place, hands pressed against the cool, damp earth, fingers digging into the dirt as if she could claw her way back to what was stolen, as if she could force the universe to undo what had been done. But there was nothing left to hold onto. There was nothing left at all.
And then, like a drowning man gasping for air, she apparated. Without thinking, without planning, without any conscious control over her own actions, she let the magic take her, let it pull her through space, let it drag her to the one place she knew this injustice had been orchestrated from. Her body hit the floor of Malfoy Manor with a force that rattled through her bones, sending her sprawling onto the cold marble, her breath coming in short, erratic gasps, her entire body trembling violently, uncontrollably, every nerve in her skin alight with devastation, with rage, with disbelief.
The sound of her arrival echoed through the massive estate, the unmistakable crack of apparition cutting through the silence like a gunshot, startling the man who had just been pouring himself a drink, leisurely, smugly, as if he hadn't just destroyed everything she had built for herself. Draco Malfoy had been prepared for many things tonight—he had been prepared for shouting, for curses, for a screaming match that would inevitably end with her in his bed, beneath him, wrapped around him, fighting him in a much different way.
What he had not been prepared for was the sight of the love of his life collapsed on his floor, sobbing, gasping for breath, looking like she had just been shattered into a thousand irreparable pieces.
His drink fell to the floor, forgotten the moment he saw her. Panic hit him like a curse to the chest.
"Love—" His voice was sharp, desperate, his entire body already moving toward her before he could even think, before he could even form a coherent thought. He dropped to his knees beside her, hands reaching for her, cradling her trembling form, trying to pull her to him, trying to fix whatever had broken. "Breathe. Just breathe. What happened?"
She couldn't speak. She couldn't do anything. Her throat was locked tight, her ribs constricting, her body heaving with the weight of a panic attack so sudden, so suffocating, that it stole every word from her lips, every rational thought from her mind, every ounce of control she had left.
Draco cursed under his breath, his grip tightening, helplessness clawing at his insides. He had never seen her like this—Luna, who was always so calm, so steady, so untouchable in her own peculiar way, now shaking in his arms, gasping for air, unraveling in a way that terrified him.
"Fuck, okay, okay, just—just look at me," he murmured, his tone softer now, pleading, coaxing, desperate. "Take deep breaths, love. With me, yeah? In, and out." He inhaled deeply, slowly, deliberately, hoping she would follow, hoping she would mimic his rhythm, hoping she would find something to anchor herself to. "You're okay. You're here. You're safe. Just breathe."
It took time. Too much fucking time. But eventually, finally, she managed to pull herself back. Her breathing slowed, the shaking lessened, her grip on his arms loosening just enough for him to release the breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
And then—her voice came.
"…My home."
It was barely a whisper, barely more than a breath, but he understood.
Draco's face softened, something almost relieved flickering in his expression, because at least now he knew what had caused this, at least now he knew how to fix it. "Oh, don't worry, love. Your home is here already—everything is perfect."
Luna's entire body went still.
Slowly, painfully slowly, she turned her head, eyes wide, red-rimmed and still glistening with unshed tears, locking onto him with something dark, something unreadable, something deadly.
And then she was moving.
She pushed off the floor with a force that sent her stumbling, but she barely noticed, barely cared, because she was already running, racing toward the window, heart pounding violently against her ribs as she prayed—begged—that what she had just heard wasn't true.
And then—she saw it.
Her cottage, her home, planted neatly on the edge of his estate like some kind of fucking property acquisition.
Draco Malfoy was going to die.
Right. Fucking. Now.
She turned so fast that the world blurred around her, her vision narrowing, tunneling, locking onto the man who had done this. She grabbed the first object within reach—a solid, heavy crystal ashtray—and threw it with every ounce of strength she had.
Draco barely had time to react before it slammed into his chest, knocking the breath from his lungs.
"LUNA!" His voice was disbelieving, incredulous, pained. He clutched his chest, glaring at her like she had lost her goddamn mind, but she was already advancing on him, already stepping forward, already raising her hand.
The slap that landed across his face would be remembered in history books.
The sound echoed through the manor, a sharp, deafening crack of pure, unfiltered rage, sending his head snapping to the side, leaving a red imprint on his pale, perfect cheek. Draco was momentarily stunned, completely speechless, blinking down at her as if he genuinely could not comprehend what had just happened.
"WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?" she shrieked, voice raw, voice wrecked, voice furious.
Draco exhaled sharply, shaking his head as if that might clear the absolute madness of this situation. "I made sure you live here now!" he shot back, voice raising to meet hers, expression twisted with frustration, with exasperation, with something dangerously close to amusement.
Luna gasped, eyes widening, horror flickering across her face, her hands clenching at her sides as she tried to process the sheer audacity of this man. "SINCE WHEN?"
Draco smirked.
"Since today. Since you moaned my given name. Since you came on my cock."
Luna saw red.
With an angry, guttural noise, she spun on her heel, stomping toward the door, her magic crackling around her like a brewing storm.
"I fucking hate you."
Draco grinned.
"No, you don't," he murmured, watching her go, watching her storm across his land, watching her return to the house that was now sitting comfortably on his property.
She could run all she wanted.
But she wasn't going anywhere.
***
Luna lay in her bed, staring at the ceiling, seething, her thoughts a tangled, chaotic mess of rage, exhaustion, and the overwhelming realization that she had somehow, without meaning to, fallen into the gravitational pull of an absolute madman. How could he? How could he possibly think that this was okay, that he could just rip her life out of the ground, uproot everything she had built, everything that was hers, and plop it down like some oversized chess piece in his perfectly controlled, meticulously curated world? Who did he think he was? And more importantly—what the fuck was actually wrong with him? Because if she had the time, the energy, and the patience, she was fairly certain she could fill an entire book with his psychological issues alone.
Draco Malfoy was a problem. An unsolvable, irrational, devastatingly handsome, completely fucking unhinged problem. She hated him. She truly, genuinely, deeply hated him. She hated the way he thought he could do whatever he wanted and call it love, hated the way he wielded his power like a weapon, hated the way he seemed to believe that just because he had decided something, it was automatically law. She hated the way he looked at her like she was his to claim, the way he said her name like it was the only word that had ever mattered, the way he touched her like he had every right to. She hated him, hated him, hated him.
And yet, here she was, lying in the bed of the home he had stolen, the home he had placed on his land without her consent, without even a warning, as if she was just another possession to be collected and kept under his watchful eye. She hadn't even forgiven him for the Astoria fiasco, hadn't even processed the depth of betrayal she had felt when she had walked into his home and seen that woman standing there, existing in a space that should have been Luna's, reminding her of the parts of Draco's life that she would never truly understand, the parts that still had power over him. And now this? Now he had done something even worse, something even more insane, something that went so far beyond anything she could have ever expected.
She squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to calm down, but it was impossible. The anger burned too hot, the betrayal sat too heavy in her chest, and the sheer audacity of it all made her want to scream. This was a man with a god complex, a man so completely incapable of handling the idea of losing control that he had taken the most drastic, ridiculous, utterly insane action possible to ensure she could never leave him again. She could almost admire the lengths he was willing to go to, could almost be impressed by his sheer commitment to his delusions, but she was too furious to find any amusement in it.
Because that's what this was, wasn't it? Delusion. This wasn't love. This wasn't romance. This wasn't some grand, sweeping gesture meant to win her over. This was obsession. This was compulsion. This was Draco Malfoy refusing to accept reality, refusing to let her go, refusing to acknowledge that she was a person with her own thoughts, her own decisions, her own fucking autonomy. This was him convincing himself that she belonged to him, that she had always belonged to him, that the idea of her existing outside of his reach was so unbearable, so unthinkable, that he had physically altered the landscape of her life just to keep her close.
Her hands clenched into fists, nails digging into her palms, the frustration bubbling over, making her feel like she was going to explode. She wanted to march into his grand, ridiculous house, throw open his stupid expensive doors, and slap him so hard that his ancestors felt it. She wanted to hex him into oblivion, wanted to scream at him, wanted to grab him by his perfectly pressed collar and shake him until some semblance of reason entered his thick, infuriating skull. She wanted him to feel this, wanted him to understand how wrong this was, wanted him to suffer the way he had made her suffer.
But most of all, she wanted to understand.
Why? Why did he do this? Why was he like this? Why couldn't he just—be normal? Why did he have to take everything to the most extreme, the most dramatic, the most absolutely fucking insane level? Was it narcissism? Was it his borderline personality disorder? Was it his deep-seated abandonment issues, his desperate need for control, his absolute refusal to acknowledge that the world did not, in fact, revolve around him? Or was it something else, something darker, something even he didn't fully understand?
Because for all his arrogance, for all his possessiveness, for all his infuriating, suffocating need to keep her caged within the carefully constructed world he had built—there was something else there, something that made her chest tighten, something that made her stomach twist, something that made her hesitate, just for a second.
Desperation.
Draco Malfoy was desperate. Desperate to keep her. Desperate to hold onto her. Desperate to prove something—to himself, to her, to the world, she wasn't sure. And that scared her more than anything, because desperation made people dangerous. Desperation made people do things they could never take back. Desperation made people reckless.
And Draco Malfoy? He had already proven that he would burn down the world if it meant keeping her in it.
Luna exhaled sharply, rolling onto her side, glaring at the wall like it had personally offended her, because in that moment, everything offended her. She had never felt so exhausted in her life, had never felt so utterly drained by another human being's existence. She didn't know what to do, didn't know how to fix this, didn't know how to deal with the fact that she was in love with a man who was clinically incapable of understanding boundaries.
She hated him.
And yet, despite it all, despite her fury, despite her resentment, despite the fact that she should be packing her things and figuring out how to undo the mess he had made of her life—she wasn't.
Because deep down, in the part of her she refused to acknowledge, she knew the truth.
No matter how much she fought, no matter how much she resisted, no matter how many times she tried to convince herself otherwise—Draco Malfoy was never going to let her go.
And worse?
She wasn't sure she wanted him to.
***
The morning air was crisp, golden sunlight filtering through the windows of her little cottage—the cottage that should have been sitting in its rightful place, miles away from this ridiculous manor, far from the clutches of the absolute lunatic she had somehow entangled herself with. But no, because Draco Malfoy was incapable of acting like a sane, rational human being, and instead, had taken it upon himself to kidnap her entire fucking house.
She woke up with rage simmering in her veins, a deep, unrelenting fury that had been festering since the night before. Every second she spent here, every moment she existed in the gravitational pull of his obsession, the more her temper frayed at the edges. It was too much. He was too much. This whole situation was a disaster, and if she didn't put a stop to it now, she was going to lose her goddamn mind.
Storming out of her house and across the garden that now connected their two homes—because of course he had placed her house within walking distance, as if he needed to ensure she was always within reach—she barely took the time to register the sheer audacity of the scene before her.
Draco Malfoy, the man responsible for every single one of her current problems, was having a leisurely morning in his massive, stupidly elegant dining room, sipping his coffee like he hadn't done the most batshit insane thing imaginable just the day before. The very sight of him, looking so content, so at peace, so fucking pleased with himself, sent her blood boiling.
His head lifted at the sound of her arrival, that familiar smirk already beginning to form on his face, but before he could even get a word out, she was already on the attack.
"Shut up," she snapped, her wand already in her hand, her magic crackling in the air around her. "I'm going to Obliviate you now. This has to stop."
His smirk faltered, his grip on his coffee tightening, his eyes narrowing just slightly. "You wouldn't dare," he said, but there was a flicker of uncertainty behind his bravado, as if, for the first time, he was beginning to realize that he had pushed her too far.
But she didn't hesitate, didn't let his warning stop her, didn't give him a chance to manipulate his way out of this. With a smooth flick of her wrist, she muttered the spell under her breath, the air between them shimmering for a split second.
Draco's brow furrowed, his gaze going distant for a moment as if something had been wiped clean. He blinked, shook his head, and then—
"What did you have for breakfast, Malfoy?" she asked, voice sickly sweet, tilting her head as she watched the moment realization dawned in his expression.
His lips parted slightly, confusion flashing across his face, before he finally admitted, "I... I don't know. I don't think I had any."
She grinned, sharp and wicked, stepping closer. "Challenge me again with Obliviation, and you'll be miserable for the rest of your life."
Draco Malfoy, one of the most powerful wizards in the world, a man who had spent his entire existence wielding control like a weapon, the same man who had moved her entire fucking house just to keep her close, did not say a single word. His silence was a victory in itself.
But she wasn't done.
"Just because you have mommy issues doesn't mean you get to act this way," she continued, her voice low, dangerous, her anger curling through every syllable like fire.
Draco opened his mouth, no doubt to throw some pathetic excuse her way, but she cut him off before he had the chance.
"I told you to shut your mouth."
For the first time, he actually looked a little afraid of her, his usual arrogance dimming just slightly beneath the sheer force of her fury. And for once in his life, he made a good decision. He shut the fuck up.
Luna took a slow, deliberate breath, gathering herself before speaking again, her voice steady but unyielding. "Have you ever heard of communication, Malfoy? That thing that normal people do? That's what we're supposed to do. Having sex with you doesn't mean I forgive you. It doesn't mean I want to be with you. Just because you made me come doesn't mean I want a relationship with you."
At that, something in his expression shifted, his jaw tightening, his fingers twitching against the table. "You said you love me," he said, his voice rough, accusatory, as if that single confession should have undone everything else.
Luna exhaled, rolling her eyes, refusing to let him trap her in his delusions. "Could have been a moment of weakness," she murmured.
The second the words left her lips, he moved. So fast, so violently, that his coffee spilled across the table, dark liquid dripping onto the expensive wood, completely forgotten.
"You lied to me?" His voice was low, dangerous, but she didn't flinch.
"As I was saying," she repeated, unfazed, "moment of weakness."
He stepped closer, his movements slow and calculated, the air between them charged with something thick, something heavy, something volatile. "You're a horrible liar," he muttered.
She smirked, her gaze challenging. "Learned from the best."
His hand twitched at his side, his jaw clenched, his chest rising and falling unevenly. "I never lied to you," he said, his voice softer now, but no less intense.
She tilted her head, her expression almost amused. "Do you need a reminder?" she asked, voice dripping with mockery. "The night you begged on your knees—"
That was the last straw.
He moved before she could react, before she could process, before she could throw another scathing remark his way. His hands gripped her wrists, his body pressing into hers, forcing her back until she was pinned against the wall, caged in, trapped.
"Do you or do you not love me?" His voice was low, rough, edged with something primal, something desperate, something that burned through the very air between them.
She didn't answer.
She couldn't.
Because the truth was right there, staring at her, waiting to be acknowledged, waiting to be spoken aloud.
She didn't look away. Didn't blink. Didn't try to escape the weight of his gaze, the intensity of his presence, the suffocating force of what he was asking of her.
Because deep down, beneath the rage, beneath the resentment, beneath the absolute exasperation of dealing with this insufferable man—she knew.
She knew.
It was the way he was looking at her, the way his voice dipped into something soft, something pleading, something entirely too raw, that made her feel like the floor beneath her feet had crumbled into nothing. Because the way he said it, the way he whispered the words like they were a promise, like they were a vow, like they were something he had never questioned, made her want to scream. She had spent her entire life resisting inevitabilities, had spent years mastering the art of keeping herself untethered, untouched by the weight of permanence, yet here he was—saying the things she had spent a lifetime trying to avoid, shattering the careful distance she had so meticulously maintained. And he had done it so easily, so effortlessly, without hesitation, as if it had always been meant to be.
She hated it. She hated him.
She hated the way his hands felt too familiar, the way his scent curled around her like something dangerous, the way she could still feel the ghost of his lips against her temple, the way he was speaking about forever like it was something he could simply will into existence. He was relentless, exhausting, impossible, and yet, as much as she wanted to deny it, she knew. She had always known. He had wrapped himself around her existence so completely that it felt like she had never lived a day without him, like there had never been a time when he wasn't there, pushing, demanding, needing her.
And gods, did he need her.
She exhaled sharply, tilting her head back against the wall, refusing to meet his gaze, refusing to let him see the war waging inside her. "I told you the truth," he murmured, his voice dipping into something lower, something that sent shivers down her spine despite her best efforts to stay unaffected. "I never loved Astoria. I had a sexual relationship with her before you. Before I realized that I was in love with you."
She swallowed, her throat tight, her entire body locked up with the effort of not reacting, of not giving him the satisfaction of seeing just how deeply his words dug into her. "You just forgot to mention it to her," she bit out, her voice sharp, cutting, because if she didn't push him away now, she didn't know if she ever would.
"I…" He hesitated, something flashing across his face, something that looked dangerously close to regret. "I did."
Her lips pressed into a thin line, her jaw tightening as she forced herself to keep breathing, to stay upright, to not let the weight of it all crush her. "Why did you need to relocate my house?" she asked, her voice quieter now, but no less demanding. "What was the reason, Draco? What could possibly justify that?"
His hands tightened around her waist, grounding, unyielding, as if he were afraid that if he let go, she would slip through his fingers entirely. "I needed you to move in," he admitted, his voice steady, sure, as if that was reason enough.
"You could have asked," she snapped, shaking her head, exasperated, furious, exhausted by the sheer audacity of him.
He didn't flinch, didn't waver, didn't seem the least bit ashamed of his actions. Instead, he tilted his head, leaned in ever so slightly, his lips brushing against her temple in the softest, most infuriatingly tender way possible. "And what would you have said?" he asked, his voice laced with something knowing, something smug, something that made her want to hex him into next week.
She sighed, pressing her fingers to her temples, the remnants of her headache from the panic attack still lingering at the edges of her mind. "Eventually, yes," she admitted, begrudgingly, the words tasting like defeat on her tongue.
"That's a long time without you," he murmured, his breath warm against her skin, his hands tightening just slightly on her waist. "Without waking up next to me."
Before she could respond, before she could summon the willpower to argue with him again, a soft, familiar sound interrupted them, followed by the distinct shuffle of hooves against the wooden floors.
Luna turned her head, barely managing to keep the disbelief off her face as Dandelion, her beloved, ridiculous cow, wandered into the kitchen like she belonged there. Her large, soulful eyes blinked up at her, her tiny, furry body looking even more absurd in the middle of Draco Malfoy's pristine, lavish home.
With an affectionate sigh, Luna crouched slightly, pressing a gentle kiss to the cow's forehead, inhaling the familiar scent of hay and warmth that had always made her feel at home. But before she could properly process the absurdity of the moment, another realization hit her, and she turned sharply, eyes narrowing at the smug bastard standing behind her.
"Why is my cow in your kitchen?" she demanded, her voice dangerously calm.
Draco, looking entirely too pleased with himself, shrugged, taking a casual sip of his coffee. "It is our cow. And our kitchen."
She nearly choked on air. "There is no 'ours,' Malfoy. We are not married."
"Yet," he countered smoothly, as if the conversation was nothing more than a minor inconvenience, as if this was something already decided.
"NO!" she snapped, throwing her hands up in frustration. "You cannot do this. You cannot make decisions alone from now on. And stop dressing up my cow!"
He scoffed, shaking his head as if she was the one being ridiculous. "She's helpless without me."
"Be fucking for real," Luna groaned, rubbing her temples. "She is a farm animal, Draco. She does not need clothing."
He crossed his arms, utterly undeterred, his silver eyes gleaming with amusement. "She needs to look presentable. What would our children think of her?"
Luna's entire body locked up, her breath stalling, her mind screeching to a halt as the words settled between them like an anvil.
"We are not having a child," she stated, her voice firm, unwavering, but gods, did her stomach twist at the way he was looking at her.
Draco leaned against the counter, watching her with a mixture of amusement and something deeper, something unreadable, something that made her stomach twist in ways she didn't want to acknowledge. The smirk on his face had barely faded, his silver eyes glinting with satisfaction, as if he had already won this argument before it had even truly begun, before she had even had the chance to properly gather her anger and wield it like a weapon against him. And gods, did she want to wield it. She wanted to grab the nearest object and throw it at his stupid, infuriatingly handsome face, wanted to scream at him until her voice gave out, wanted to do anything that would make him understand that what he had done was unacceptable, that he had overstepped in ways she couldn't even begin to process.
"Yet," he had said, as if their future together was inevitable, as if her resistance was nothing more than a minor inconvenience, as if he had already decided that there would be no escape from him, no reality in which they weren't together. And she hated that a part of her, a deep, dangerous, secret part of her, wanted to believe him.
"Stop it!" she shrieked, her voice breaking through the quiet morning like a storm, her frustration bubbling over into something sharp, something uncontrollable, something that burned beneath her skin. He was still so goddamn smug, so certain, so completely unbothered by the chaos he had created. He just sipped his coffee, cool and composed, as if he hadn't upended her entire life, as if he hadn't just relocated her entire existence without a second thought.
Draco sighed dramatically, setting his cup down with a soft clink before crossing his arms over his chest, his gaze fixed on her like she was the most fascinating thing in the world. "Yes, yes. Communication. I know," he drawled, his tone bordering on exasperated, as if she were the one being unreasonable, as if this was just a minor dispute rather than a complete violation of her autonomy.
Luna's eyes flashed dangerously, her magic sparking in the air around her, but she forced herself to inhale, to keep from hexing him into oblivion. "I'm incredibly angry, Malfoy," she bit out, her voice steady but laced with venom, the weight of her fury pressing down on both of them. "You violated so many boundaries. Do you even understand that? Do you even care?"
He straightened slightly, something flickering behind his gaze, something almost guilty, almost regretful, but it was gone before she could fully grasp it. "How can I make it better?" he asked, softer now, more serious, and for a brief moment, it almost sounded like a genuine plea. "Please tell me."
Luna scoffed, shaking her head, unwilling to let herself believe that he truly wanted to fix this, that he truly understood the magnitude of what he had done. "Relocate my house," she demanded, crossing her arms tightly over her chest, daring him to argue with her, daring him to defy her again.
But, of course, he did.
"Absolutely not," Draco said without hesitation, his voice firm, final, completely unyielding. "You are going to leave me, and I won't survive it, and then I'll just die. From heartache. And then, it'll be your fault, darling. Is that what you want? A dead man on your conscience?"
Luna gaped at him, completely, utterly floored. "Why are you like this?" she demanded, her voice incredulous, her head throbbing from the sheer ridiculousness of this conversation.
Draco had the audacity to smirk again, tilting his head slightly, as if he were considering the answer himself. "Clearly, I have many issues," he said smoothly, his voice light, playful, completely at odds with the madness he had inflicted upon her life.
Luna groaned, rubbing her temples, wondering if she could just obliviate herself and forget that this conversation had ever happened. "Am I just supposed to make peace with the idea of living on your land?" she asked, already knowing the answer, already knowing that she was fighting a losing battle.
Draco's grin widened, his expression entirely too pleased. "Precisely."
She exhaled slowly, counting to ten in her head, trying to suppress the overwhelming urge to strangle him. "I need to slap you again," she muttered, more to herself than to him, already calculating the angle, already envisioning the satisfaction of her palm connecting with his impossibly perfect face.
Draco, infuriating as always, merely leaned forward slightly, tilting his head like he was inviting it, like he was daring her. "I'm right here," he murmured, his voice low, taunting, and gods, she hated him. Hated the way he always met her fire with something equally dangerous, equally consuming.
Her fingers twitched, her body tensed, but instead of slapping him, instead of giving him the satisfaction, she let out a sharp breath and pushed him away, hard, sending him stumbling back a step. Then, without another word, she stormed past him, collapsing into one of the chairs at the dining table, her body sinking into the cushions as exhaustion settled into her bones.
"I don't have the energy for this," she muttered, rubbing at her eyes, her entire body aching with the weight of this absolute disaster of a morning. "I'm just hungry."
Draco chuckled, the sound rich and amused, and when she finally lifted her gaze, he was already moving, already walking toward the kitchen, already pulling out ingredients, as if this was just another normal morning, as if they did this every day, as if this was their routine now.
"You're lucky I'm an excellent cook, then," he said, glancing at her over his shoulder with that insufferable smirk still playing on his lips.
Luna groaned again, pressing her forehead against the cool surface of the table.
She was never escaping him.
And, gods help her, she wasn't sure she wanted to.