Waking up next to her for months now, it was the dream coming true, but she still didn't wanted to move in. He should burn her house down.
What?! He quickly corrected himself, that would be too much.
How come she doesn't want it? Her little bloody cottage is on the edge of his manor. She slept here every night, her stupid cow is here. Okay okay, it's their cow now. But still nothing? Ne needed more elaborate plans.
Waking up next to her for months now had been nothing short of a dream come true, a fantasy he had never dared to believe could become his reality. Yet, despite the warmth of her body curled against his every morning, despite the way she always ended up in his arms by sunrise, despite the undeniable fact that she belonged here—Luna Lovegood still refused to officially move in. And it was driving Draco Malfoy to the brink of madness.
The first few weeks, he had been patient—well, as patient as a man like him could be. He hadn't pushed, hadn't demanded, hadn't even argued when she still insisted on calling her little cottage "home," despite the glaringly obvious fact that she spent every single night in his bed. He had given her space, let her pretend that she was still independent, still free, still in control. But every morning when he woke up with her tangled around him, her soft breaths against his skin, her scent lingering on his sheets—he knew. He fucking knew.
And still, she resisted.
It was absolutely infuriating. Her ridiculous, tiny, lopsided cottage sat at the edge of his vast estate, barely more than a glorified garden shed compared to the grandeur of Malfoy Manor, and yet she clung to it like a lifeline, like a symbol of something she wasn't ready to let go of. It made no sense. She was already here—her books were stacked on his shelves, her favorite tea was in his kitchen, her potions ingredients were cluttering up his counters, her clothes mysteriously ended up in his drawers, and, most damning of all, her stupid, ridiculous, utterly useless cow had taken up permanent residence on his land.
No, not her cow. Their cow.
And that, perhaps, was the worst part. Because if he could accept that Dandelion was now a shared responsibility, a part of their lives, then why the fuck couldn't she do the same? Why couldn't she just admit that she had already moved in, that this was their home, that they were, for all intents and purposes, together?
It should be simple. Logical. Obvious.
But no. Not with Luna bloody Lovegood.
Draco groaned into his pillow, his frustration mounting as he watched her sleep beside him, peaceful and oblivious to the absolute hell she was putting him through. He had half a mind to shake her awake and demand answers right this second. He could already hear how that conversation would go—her infuriatingly calm voice, her maddeningly serene expression, the way she would tilt her head and give him some cryptic, whimsical response that made no sense and yet somehow managed to completely disarm him.
He clenched his jaw. He should just burn her fucking house down.
Wait. What?!
Draco's eyes flew open, his mind screeching to a halt as he realized what he had just thought. No, no, no, that was a bit much—even for him. He wasn't that unhinged. Probably. Maybe.
Alright, fine, he wouldn't actually burn it down. That would be excessive. And she would most definitely kill him.
But still.
How was it that he, Draco Malfoy—pureblood, Slytherin, former Death Eater, heir to one of the wealthiest and most powerful wizarding families in Britain—could not convince one tiny, stubborn, slightly deranged woman to just accept what was already happening?
It wasn't even like he was asking her to do something drastic. She already lived here in every way that mattered. It wasn't as if she was actually spending any time in her cottage. The only time she ever set foot in the damn place was when she wanted to retrieve something, and even then, it was a rare occurrence. Half the time, he had to remind her that she even owned it.
So why was she holding onto it like some kind of security blanket?
Draco sighed, running a hand through his hair, eyes narrowing as he stared at the ceiling. No, this wasn't working. He needed a plan. A proper, elaborate plan. Because if there was one thing Draco Malfoy refused to do, it was lose. And he sure as hell was not losing to an inanimate cottage.
He could be subtle. Play the long game. He could make living in the manor so seamless, so natural, so utterly perfect that she wouldn't even realize she had fully settled in until it was far too late to do anything about it. He would infiltrate every little routine, every tiny habit, every small comfort she associated with her house, until the mere thought of sleeping anywhere other than his bed felt unnatural to her.
Yes. That was it.
Draco smirked to himself, his mind already spinning with ideas, with tiny, calculated moves that would ensure his victory. He would start small. Maybe accidentally misplace a few of her belongings every time she retrieved them from the cottage, subtly redirect her back to his home. He would make sure Dandelion was always conveniently at the manor when she went to find her, forcing Luna to spend more time here. He would subtly integrate more and more of her preferences into his home—enchanted lights that mimicked the stars, fresh wildflowers in the kitchen, a ridiculously comfortable reading nook filled with her favorite books—all so that she would wake up one day and realize she already belonged here.
Draco glanced at her again, his smirk softening slightly as he watched the steady rise and fall of her breathing, the way her hair fanned out across his pillow, the way her fingers twitched slightly against his chest even in sleep, as if she was reaching for him.
Yes. She was already his.
Now he just had to make sure she realized it too.
***
Having an actual, adult conversation instead of just tricking her into moving in. That was his big boy plan.
He prepared for it carefully, because Luna Lovegood was not someone who could be forced into anything. She needed freedom, choice, and the illusion of control, even when the decision had already been made in her heart. So instead of making demands, instead of issuing ultimatums, he framed the conversation in a way that would highlight the practical benefits without making her feel like she was surrendering to him.
Draco had always been strategic, always known when to push and when to hold back, when to bait and when to let the prey come to him. But this wasn't a game. This was her, and with Luna, force was never the answer. She couldn't be pushed, only lured. So, he waited—not for a moment of anger, not for when she was digging her heels in just to prove a point, not when she was feeling stubborn simply for the sake of it. No, he waited for one of those nights—the kind where the world outside seemed small, inconsequential, where the only thing that existed was the space between them, where she fit so perfectly against him that she had to feel it too.
She was already here, even if she hadn't admitted it yet. He just had to make her see it.
She lay against him, her head tucked beneath his chin, her fingers tracing aimless patterns over his chest, her breath warm and slow, her body soft and pliant, the kind of peace that only came when she let her guard down completely. She wasn't thinking about her cottage, wasn't worrying about what this meant, wasn't caught in the battle of whether or not she was actually his.
She was just here. With him. Where she belonged.
That was when he knew.
"Love, let's talk."
Her fingers paused against his chest, her head tilting just slightly, not quite tensing, but wary.
"That sounds ominous."
"Only if you decide to make it difficult."
He felt her breathe out slowly, felt the moment she considered shutting the conversation down, turning away, slipping through his fingers before he even got the words out. But he wouldn't let her slip away. Not this time.
Instead, he slid his fingers into her hair, slow and soothing, keeping his voice low, warm, intimate, his touch feather-light, giving her nowhere to run but deeper into him. He knew she responded better to logic than demands, to patience rather than ultimatums, to the steady, unshakable truth instead of force.
"You already live here in every way that matters. You sleep here. You eat here. Your books are here. Your cow is here."
Her eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of amusement breaking through the hesitation.
"Dandelion can live wherever she pleases."
"And where does she always choose to be?"
Silence.
Because he had a point, and she knew it.
Luna had spent more nights in his bed than her own, had fallen asleep wrapped in his arms more times than she could count, had woken up to the sight of him, to the feeling of him, to the warmth of his presence, not realizing how much she had come to crave it.
She had left her mark all over his home, even without meaning to.
Her sweaters were thrown over the back of his chairs like she had lived there for years, her books stacked haphazardly on his nightstand because she always fell asleep reading, her favorite mug was in his cabinets, her scent lingered on his sheets, her laugh echoed in the halls.
She was already here. She already belonged here.
But she hesitated.
Because moving in meant something. Saying it out loud meant something. Admitting it meant she wasn't just staying—she was choosing to stay.
And Luna Lovegood did not make choices lightly.
Draco watched her closely, seeing the battle unfold in her expression, the way her fingers twitched against his chest, the way she bit her lip, the way she breathed in just a little too sharply.
She was thinking about it.
She was considering it.
And Draco Malfoy was a patient man when it came to the things that mattered.
And she was the only thing that had ever mattered.
But still, she hesitated.
Because moving in meant admitting something she wasn't sure she was ready to name yet.
Draco saw it in the way her fingers twitched against his chest, in the way she bit her lip, in the way her breath hitched just slightly. He knew what she was thinking, knew that if he pushed too hard, if he framed it like a demand instead of a choice, she would dig her heels in just to spite him.
The first thing she moved into the manor wasn't her clothes, wasn't her books, wasn't even Dandelion—it was her plants. That should have been his first warning sign, the first real indication that living with Luna Lovegood was going to be an experience. Because it wasn't just a handful of plants, not just a couple of pretty, easy-to-maintain flowers sitting on a windowsill, no. It was a bloody jungle. A full ecosystem of vines, blossoms, herbs, magical flora, and even a few plants that, frankly, seemed like they should have been illegal.
Draco had thought he was prepared, had thought he could handle whatever she threw at him. But when she had walked into the manor that first day, levitating a literal forest behind her, he had realized he might have underestimated the situation.
"How many plants do you actually have, Luna?" he had asked, eyes widening as he watched yet another floating tray of potted greenery drift through the front doors, filling the entrance hall with an overwhelming mix of floral scents, damp soil, and—Merlin help him—a plant that appeared to be snapping at the air as it passed.
She had turned to him with a perfectly innocent expression, as if she weren't actively bringing the Forbidden Forest into his home.
"Not that many," she had answered, tone completely unbothered, even as more and more greenery continued pouring into his house.
"Not that many?" he repeated slowly, watching as one of her potted plants started glowing faintly.
"Yes, only the necessities."
Draco stared at her for a long moment, then at the ever-growing collection of plants now taking over his foyer, spilling onto tables, settling onto every available surface, climbing up walls in real time as the magical ones stretched their vines toward the high ceilings.
Necessities.
Right.
He wasn't sure what had possessed him, but he had sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose, and accepted his fate.
Because Luna was moving in, and that meant her chaos was moving in, too.
And that included a fucking greenhouse's worth of plants.
But Draco was nothing if not a problem solver.
That night, while she was asleep, he had commissioned an entire conservatory—one of the empty rooms in the manor transformed into a winter garden, complete with enchanted glass ceilings, self-watering charms, and even a temperature regulation system that would keep every one of her precious plants alive and thriving.
Because if he was going to lose his house to a botanical invasion, then it was going to be done properly.
By the end of the week, every plant had its own perfect place, her ridiculous carnivorous flowers were contained safely behind protective barriers, and her sprawling vines were given a dedicated climbing space so they wouldn't take over the furniture.
And then came the books.
He had known she had a lot of them. He had seen the overflowing shelves in her cottage, had tripped over stacks of them left on the floor, had watched her pull volumes out of seemingly nowhere whenever she needed to reference something.
But he hadn't realized just how many she actually owned until they started arriving in his library.
At first, it was a small stack on his desk, then a few more added to the shelves, then an entire cart's worth appearing overnight. Then, before he knew it, her books had begun completely overtaking the space, filling every available shelf, creeping into corners, slowly but surely merging with his collection until there was no telling where his library ended and hers began.
And wasn't that the point of all of this?
Wasn't that the reason he had wanted her to move in?
Because she was here now, not just in presence, but in permanence.
Because her things were mixed in with his, her life interwoven into his in ways he couldn't untangle, her voice echoing in his halls, her scent on his sheets, her magic humming through his home as if it had always belonged there.
And it had. Even if she hadn't realized it yet.
When she woke up the next morning, the very first thing she became aware of—before she even opened her eyes, before she stretched out her limbs, before she could fully process that she was waking up in Draco Malfoy's bed once again—was the undeniable energy buzzing through the room. There was movement, a restless shifting of weight, a low hum of excitement in the air that did not belong in a morning routine. Draco was awake. More than awake. And from the way the bed dipped as he practically bounced on his feet, he was waiting for her to wake up.
She blinked up at him sleepily, her voice still heavy with sleep as she murmured, "Good morning," before she even fully registered the look on his face.
"Good morning, love," he said quickly, far too quickly, and his voice was so full of energy that it made her pause. He was practically vibrating with excitement, his entire body humming with anticipation, like a child who had been waiting hours to open a present. "I have something very, very important to show you."
She blinked, barely awake, her mind still too hazy to process urgency before she lifted her hand to rub at her eyes. "Let me just freshen up a bit, yeah?"
"Sorry, love," Draco cut in immediately, grinning like a madman, his hands already grasping her wrist, already pulling her toward him. "Can't do."
"Draco—"
But he was already dragging her out of bed, already wrapping her up in the excitement of whatever this was, already leading her down the hall with barely restrained impatience.
Luna stumbled slightly as she tried to keep up, still barefoot, still half-asleep, still blinking against the bright morning light filtering through the manor. Draco was practically buzzing, his fingers firm but gentle around her wrist, his excitement infectious, and by the time they reached the doors leading to the back of the manor, she wasn't even frustrated anymore. Just confused and curious, because whatever had him this worked up, whatever had him unable to wait even five bloody minutes, had to be something worth seeing.
And then—he pushed open the door.
And she saw it.
Her breath caught in her throat as the sight before her unfolded in breathtaking clarity, her eyes widening, her pulse skipping, her chest constricting in a way she hadn't been prepared for.
A greenhouse.
Not just any greenhouse.
Her greenhouse.
It stood before her, attached to the manor like it had always belonged there, made of enchanted glass that shimmered under the morning sun, framed with the kind of intricate architecture that could only come from custom craftsmanship, with magic woven into every corner. Inside, through the tall, gleaming windows, she could already see rows and rows of her plants, lush greenery filling the space, everything perfectly arranged, thriving, exactly as she would have wanted it.
She couldn't breathe.
"Oh gods," she whispered, voice barely more than a breath, barely audible over the rush of emotions crashing through her, overwhelming her, threatening to consume her whole. Her fingers trembled as she lifted them to cover her mouth, her eyes burning with something she wasn't sure she was ready to name, something too big for her chest to contain.
Draco was watching her, watching her reaction like it was the only thing that mattered, like he needed her to love it as much as he did, as much as he loved her.
"It's beautiful," she whispered, voice shaking, eyes still locked on the masterpiece in front of her, on the home he had built for her plants, for her, for them.
He barely had time to react before she turned, before she threw herself at him, arms wrapping around his neck, legs barely catching up, her entire body crashing into his with enough force to send him stumbling back a step.
He caught her instantly, hands gripping her waist, supporting her like he always had, like he always would.
She buried her face into his shoulder, voice muffled but full of so much emotion that it physically hurt. "Thank you, so, so much."
Draco exhaled a slow, relieved breath, his hold tightening around her, holding her against him like she was something precious, something irreplaceable, something he would never, ever let go of.
"Anything for you, love," he murmured, pressing a kiss to her temple, lingering, inhaling her scent, her warmth, the way she felt so perfectly in his arms.
His voice dropped, softer, rougher, more raw than he meant for it to be.
"Anything."
***
Draco Malfoy being the perfect boyfriend was an understatement, and if anyone had told her years ago that this would be her life, that Draco of all people would be the one showering her with affection, with attention, with more romance than she had ever experienced in her life, she would have laughed in their face. But now, here she was, standing in the middle of a room so overflowing with flowers that it looked like an entire greenhouse had exploded inside the manor, bouquets upon bouquets spilling over every available surface, petals littering the floor, filling the air with an intoxicating mix of floral scents, overwhelming and beautiful and entirely too much—just like him.
Because of course, he was too much.
Of course, he didn't do anything in half measures.
Of course, he had decided that simply giving her flowers wasn't enough, that he needed to bury her in them, that he needed to make sure that whenever she walked into a room, she was reminded that she belonged to him, that he adored her, that he worshipped the ground she walked on.
And yet—despite everything, despite how perfect he was, despite how hard he tried, despite how effortlessly he made himself into the man she had never even let herself dream of wanting—she was still waiting for it all to fall apart.
She was still distant, still careful, still bracing herself for the inevitable moment when something would go wrong, when the dream would end, when the perfection would shatter into something she wasn't sure she would be able to survive.
Because Draco was perfect.
Except for the one, glaring issue that she could never quite ignore—his mind was a dangerous thing, and possessiveness was not just an occasional quirk with him.
It was woven into him, threaded into every touch, every glance, every kiss. It was in the way he always had to know where she was, in the way his jaw would tighten whenever someone so much as looked at her for too long, in the way his arms would tighten around her waist when they were in public, silently warning anyone who dared to think they could get too close.
And maybe, maybe some part of her should have been terrified of it, should have been wary, should have been concerned about the way he so obviously viewed her as something precious, something that could never, ever be taken from him—but she wasn't.
Because she knew him.
She knew that Draco Malfoy's love wasn't tame, wasn't gentle, wasn't something easily controlled. It was wild and all-consuming, ruthless in its devotion, unshakable in its intensity.
And she knew—Merlin, she knew—that if she let herself love him as recklessly, as fearlessly, as dangerously as he loved her, there would be no going back.
Because once Draco Malfoy had you, he never let go.
Her big girl idea—the master plan, as she so cleverly named it in her head—was pure, unfiltered torture. Not for herself, of course, but for Draco Malfoy, who had, by some miracle of patience, been trying to restrain himself, trying to be a gentleman, trying to respect the ridiculous game she was playing. And oh, was she playing. She was playing dirty.
It started small, at first. A shirt that was too sheer, a skirt that was too short, a stretch that was too deliberate, a lingering gaze that lasted just long enough to test his limits. But she wasn't cruel, not yet, not really. No, that part came later, when she decided that clothing itself was an optional part of life.
Which was how she found herself walking past his office, wearing only a sheer, lacy excuse for a nightgown, knowing full well that the delicate fabric did absolutely nothing to hide the curves of her body, knowing that Draco Malfoy was watching, that he was suffering, that he was barely holding himself together. She knew because she heard it—the distinct, sharp sound of glass shattering on the floor, followed by the scrape of his chair, followed by the heavy, determined steps that meant he had finally broken.
In two seconds, her chest met the cold, unforgiving wall, the chill of the surface a stark contrast to the heat of the man pressing against her from behind.
"You think it's somehow funny?" His voice was a growl, low and dangerous, his breath warm against her ear as his hands gripped her waist, pinning her in place. "Walking around like the goddess that you are, tempting me like this?"
She bit back a smile, loving the way his hands were already tightening around her, the way his breath was already uneven, the way he was already losing himself, unraveling under the sheer audacity of her teasing.
"It is funny," she replied, her voice sweet, innocent, full of mischief, as if she didn't already know exactly what she was doing to him.
Draco let out a slow, measured breath, the sound dangerously close to a growl, and pushed himself even closer, letting her feel exactly how much she had affected him.
"You talk a lot of silly things, darling," he murmured, his lips brushing against her ear, his voice dropping into something dark, something dangerous, something that made a shiver run down her spine. "But I have something for you that would shut your mouth."
It was a joke, meant to tease, meant to fluster her just a little, meant to give him back some semblance of control.
But she—Luna Lovegood, the woman who never backed down from a challenge, the woman who had been driving him insane for weeks—wasn't about to let him have the upper hand.
Instead, she did the only thing that made sense in that moment.
She turned in his grip, slowly, deliberately, meeting his gaze with a look so sultry, so devastatingly confident, that he barely had time to register what was happening before she sank gracefully to her knees before him.
The air crackled with something electric, something unspoken, something that had already sealed their fate.
He stared down at her, breathless, wrecked, completely and utterly gone.
And then—she smirked.
Because this?
Oh, this is going to be fun.
Luna could feel it—the tension thick in the air, the war raging within him, the way his entire body had gone rigid the moment she dropped to her knees before him. He wasn't breathing properly, wasn't speaking properly, wasn't even thinking properly, she was sure of it, because if he was, he would have stopped her by now. If he had any sense left in him, he would have stepped back, would have pulled her to her feet, would have told her no, not like this, not now, not here—but he didn't.
No, Draco Malfoy didn't move an inch.
He only stood there, watching her, his chest rising and falling with slow, heavy breaths, his fists clenched at his sides, his gray eyes dark and stormy, locked onto her every movement like he was waiting to see if this was real or just some cruel, beautiful dream.
Luna, however, had no patience for waiting.
With deliberate, torturously slow movements, she traced her hands up the inside of his thighs, letting her nails scrape lightly over the fabric of his tailored trousers, watching as his muscles tensed beneath her touch, feeling the way his body responded to her so effortlessly, so involuntarily. He was always so controlled, so measured, so perfectly composed—but she was about to ruin that. She was about to destroy him.
Her hands moved higher, closer, until she reached the very visible, very demanding bulge in his trousers, until she could feel the heat of him, the undeniable proof of what she was doing to him, the very thing he had been desperately trying to restrain for weeks. She dragged her nails over the fabric, watching as his breath hitched, as his head tilted back slightly, as his fingers twitched at his sides like he was resisting the urge to grab her, to stop her, to take control.
"Love," Draco rasped, his voice hoarse, wrecked, completely and utterly ruined by nothing more than her touch.
"Hmm?" Luna murmured, tilting her head slightly, playing innocent, as if she wasn't already palming him through his trousers, as if she wasn't already undoing him thread by thread.
"You still think it's not lady-like?" she asked, smirking up at him through her lashes, her hands working the button of his trousers, her fingers light, teasing, relentless.
Draco let out a breath that sounded a little too close to a groan, his hands flexing as if he wanted to touch her, as if he wanted to stop this madness before it got worse, before he lost himself completely, before he forgot all the reasons why this was a terrible, terrible idea.
"I never meant—fuck—" he sucked in a sharp breath as she unzipped him, her fingers brushing over him as she slowly, so deliberately peeled down the fabric.
"You never meant what?" she asked, her voice featherlight, teasing, knowing exactly what she was doing to him, exactly how far she was pushing him.
Draco opened his mouth, but the words—whatever weak, pitiful excuse he was about to give her—died in his throat the moment she wrapped her fingers around him, the moment she pulled him free from his trousers, the moment she looked up at him with that soft, knowing little smile, like she had been waiting for this moment all along.
His jaw clenched, his entire body going rigid as she stroked him once, slow, lazy, just enough to make his hips jerk forward slightly, just enough to make him curse under his breath.
"You never meant to tell me that?" she asked sweetly, her fingertips tracing over the sensitive head, smirking at the way his breath shuddered, at the way he fought so hard not to react.
Draco groaned, deep and broken, his hands finally reaching down, tangling into her wild, golden hair, holding her in place but not pulling her away, no—never pulling her away.
"Luna—" he started, his voice strangled, desperate, but whatever warning he had been about to give, whatever weak attempt at restraint he had left, was completely obliterated when she finally, finally took him into her mouth.
"Fuck."
The word left him like a prayer, like a curse, like something he hadn't meant to say out loud but couldn't hold back even if he tried.
Luna hummed in response, letting the vibrations travel through him, letting her lips stretch around him as she slowly, torturously sank lower, taking him deeper, her tiny hands wrapping around the base of him, holding him steady as her tongue teased along the underside.
Draco's grip tightened in her hair, his breathing ragged, his eyes wild, helpless as he watched her, as he tried to memorize every perfect, devastatingly beautiful second of this moment.
And then—then she looked up at him, her lips wrapped around his cock, her eyes heavy-lidded and utterly wrecked, and Draco Malfoy—the man who never lost control, the man who always had the upper hand, the man who could command a room with a single look—was completely, utterly ruined.
And fuck, he had never been so happy to be destroyed.