Love, in Draco Malfoy's experience, was a miserable, agonizing, utterly maddening thing. It made a man weak, desperate, irrational. It made him obsess, plot, scheme. It made him want things he had never imagined wanting, made him crave things that should have been beneath him, made him dream about a life he never thought he'd have. And the worst part? The most humiliating, devastating, soul-destroying part? He wouldn't change it for anything. He was ruined by her, utterly, completely, irreversibly destroyed by the woman who had somehow waltzed into his life, turned it inside out, upside down, ripped it to shreds, and then— against all odds—stitched it back together again.
It had been a year. A full, excruciating, intoxicating, torturous, exhilarating year since the day he had walked into that stupid fucking coffee shop and decided, right then and there, that he was never going to leave her alone. And now? He wanted more. So much more. It wasn't enough that she slept in his bed every night, that her books lined the shelves of his library, that her bloody cow wandered his manor like some furry little princess. It wasn't enough that she loved him, that she knew she loved him, that she had finally admitted she loved him. Because Draco Malfoy, selfish bastard that he was, wanted forever. He wanted the ring on her finger, his last name on her lips, his children in her arms. He wanted to own every version of her, to have her for a lifetime, to be able to look at her across the room and know, with absolute certainty, that she was his.
But instead of planning their inevitable wedding and obnoxiously large family, he was currently suffering through yet another pretentious, insufferable, utterly idiotic charity gala for a cause he couldn't have given less of a shit about. It was something about conserving magical wildlife, or maybe rehabilitating endangered creatures, or—fuck, he didn't know. Something noble. Something tedious. Something that mattered to Luna. Which meant, by default, it mattered to him, even if he had absolutely no interest in pretending to be entertained by a room full of socialites and old money frauds who only attended these events to show off their wealth and pat themselves on the back.
And so, instead of engaging in mind-numbing conversations about creatures he would never encounter in his life, Draco did what any sane man would do—he found the bar, ordered himself the strongest drink available, and sat down as comfortably as humanly possible, settling in for what he already knew would be a long, insufferable night.
His patience was wearing thin, his irritation creeping in like a slow-burning fire, but then—as if the universe itself was throwing him a bone, he caught a glimpse of her. Luna. Floating through the crowd like she was untouchable, otherworldly, something not quite human, something softer, lighter, something that didn't belong in a place as dull as this. She wasn't wearing anything extravagant, nothing that screamed wealth or excess, nothing that tried too hard to impress. But she didn't have to. She never had to. Luna Lovegood could have shown up in one of her oversized sweaters and a pair of mismatched socks, and she still would have been the most radiant fucking thing in the room.
And Draco? He was helpless against her. Utterly, painfully, pathetically enchanted.
Draco had entered the gala fully prepared to endure the night with the weary patience of a man who had long since accepted his fate. He had mentally armored himself against the onslaught of droning speeches, all dripping with self-importance, and the endless stream of insufferable conversations where every word was just another thinly veiled brag about investments, rare artifacts, or whose family had the most sprawling estate. He had steeled himself for the hollow toasts and the hollower people, for the sea of smug, champagne-drunk faces who only ever talked about their accomplishments, their lavish vacations, their obscene wealth—as if any of it truly mattered.
He'd even resigned himself—grudgingly, of course—to pretending to care about the night's noble cause, which, if he remembered correctly, had something to do with saving an endangered population of magical rodents. Or perhaps it was lizards. Or moss. Frankly, he didn't care. It was all a blur of overpriced wine, glittering chandeliers, and forced civility.
But none of it mattered. Not really. Because he'd do it. He'd tolerate all of it—for her.
For Luna, he would endure a thousand more of these pompous, soul-draining galas. He would smile when he wanted to sneer, nod politely while fantasizing about setting the buffet table on fire, and make small talk with people he loathed while imagining Luna's laugh echoing through their manor. Because all the while, he'd be watching her from across the room in whatever ridiculous, breathtakingly unfair gown she'd chosen—something soft, something shimmering, something that made it physically painful not to touch her. And he'd be counting down the seconds until he could lean in, whisper that they'd stayed long enough, and take her home to peel that dress from her inch by torturous inch.
But then—then—he saw it.
And the entire night shifted.
Ronald. Fucking. Weasley.
The bane of his existence. The roach of the wizarding world. The perpetual thorn in his side, made flesh and ginger. The walking, talking embodiment of everything Draco despised with every fiber of his being. Weasley was a disaster in ill-fitting dress robes. A calamity of bad hair, worse opinions, and the worst taste in conversation. He was the king of the unwashed masses, the ginger pestilence that clung like cursed fungus, impossible to ignore, let alone eradicate.
And worse—worse than his very presence, worse than the smug, oblivious grin on his freckled face—was the fact that Weasley was touching her.
Touching Luna.
As if he had the right.
As if he didn't value his life.
Draco had never— never —moved so fast in his entire life. One moment, he was standing stiffly at the edge of the ballroom, sipping a drink he didn't even like, barely listening to the droning voice of some pompous arsehole talking about offshore Gringotts vaults or the political implications of broomstick regulations, forcing himself to nod and hum appropriately like a functioning member of society, forcing himself to endure the absolute monotony of mingling with people he wouldn't piss on if they were on fire—because that's what the night demanded, because Luna had asked him to behave—and the next moment, as if possessed by something dark and ancient and entirely outside the realm of rationality, he was moving . No thought. No calculation. Just pure instinct. Just raw, seething fury coursing through his bloodstream like wildfire, like molten steel, like every restrained emotion he'd ever buried had exploded in a single heartbeat.
He was crossing the ballroom floor in great, purposeful strides, each one fueled by a singular, blazing intent, barely aware of the startled glances that followed in his wake, barely noticing the way his pulse had surged into a deafening roar inside his skull, his vision narrowing until the world shrank down to one point, one target—the unbearable, incomprehensible sight of Ronald fucking Weasley leaning in, far too close, his gawky body angled toward Luna in a way that made Draco's stomach twist, made his hands curl into fists, made something inside him snap , and then that absolute bastard pressed a kiss —a kiss —to Luna's cheek.
Luna's cheek.
His Luna.
Not the Luna who belonged to the world, the Luna who smiled at strangers and made people believe in magic. His Luna. The Luna he had bled for. Fought for. Loved with a madness so consuming it threatened to unmake him. The Luna who filled the manor with warmth and chaos, who left her socks in the corridor, who painted stars on his mirror, who broke him and healed him in the same breath. And now that weasel-faced, dirt-smeared, nerve-dead ginger plague had the audacity to touch her? To put his chapped, common lips on her cheek like he had any right ?
Draco didn't remember closing the distance. Didn't remember deciding to act. His body moved of its own accord, carried by a force beyond reason, beyond control—an unholy cocktail of protectiveness and jealousy and rage so feral he felt half-possessed. He was there before his brain could fully register what was happening, before logic could even try to intervene, before he could remind himself of decorum or social consequence. And by the time his hand clamped down on Weasley's shoulder— hard —the only thing he could feel was the overwhelming, bone-deep need to eliminate the threat.
He shoved him.
Hard .
Hard enough that the ginger idiot stumbled back several paces, flailing like the uncoordinated buffoon he was, hard enough that every smug aristocrat and wide-eyed socialite in the room turned to stare, their chatter falling into stunned silence, champagne flutes halfway to their mouths. Hard enough that Luna gasped beside him—soft, breathless—but Draco couldn't focus on that, couldn't care, because something primitive had taken over, something ancient and territorial and fucking done with pretending to be civilized.
" Do not touch what is mine, Weasley. "
The words left his mouth like a curse, low and lethal, each syllable sharp enough to draw blood. His voice was a growl, a barely contained snarl wrapped in steel, a promise of destruction that came not from anger, but from certainty. Draco meant every word. With his whole fucking soul.
And still— still —the absolute cretin had the audacity, the sheer reckless lunacy , to laugh .
"Merlin, Malfoy, calm down," Weasley said, his tone light, mocking , as he held up his hands in a pathetic display of surrender, like he wasn't seconds away from being obliterated , like he didn't realize he was dancing with death. "I was just greeting Seline ."
Seline.
Draco blinked.
The world blinked.
And then something inside him broke.
Snapped.
There was a sound in his mind—not a thought, not a voice—just the shattering of something delicate and irreplaceable, like fine glass fracturing into a million irretrievable shards. A crack in his sanity, a deep, jagged fracture in the already precarious structure of his restraint. Because Weasley — Ron fucking Weasley —had just used a nickname for her.
He had a nickname .
A nickname .
For his Luna.
But he —the fucking freckled fungus of the wizarding world—had claimed a piece of her with that stupid, smug voice, said it like he had the right , like he had the history , like he had any place in her life at all.
And that…
That was unforgivable.
What the actual fuck was this absurd, unthinkable bullshit? Since when had this become a thing? Since when did Weasley—the human embodiment of mediocrity, the poster child for unfortunate genetics and questionable life choices—have the right , the audacity , the absolute cosmic nerve to speak about his Luna with such casual familiarity, let alone refer to her with a nickname that suggested some level of closeness, of history, of unearned intimacy ? What in the name of Merlin's saggy boxers was going on here? Draco felt his entire mind grind to a screeching halt, short-circuiting in pure, incandescent disbelief. He didn't even have a proper nickname for her— not like that , not like Seline —and he was her husband , her partner, her everything .
Sure, he had pet names, affectionate ones, murmured into her skin in the privacy of their bedroom, whispered into her hair when she was half-asleep in his arms, growled against her lips when he was desperate and undone— love , darling , my moon , baby , doll , goddess , my goddess , always mine —okay, fine, maybe he had more than a few, but none of them were that , none of them were that ridiculous, that chummy , that infuriatingly mundane . None of them were born of casual proximity and mindless flirtation. His names for her were sacred, born of reverence and obsession and a kind of love that bordered on religious devotion. Seline , though? Seline sounded like the name you gave your coworker when you handed her a coffee in the office. It was light. Familiar. Stupidly personal.
And the fact that Weasley —that grimy, ginger rodent with the social grace of a troll and the face of someone who thought Axe body spray counted as cologne—thought he had the right to use it?
Unacceptable.
Unforgivable.
Un-fucking-real.
The absolute gall. The rank insolence. The audacity of this peasant , this commoner , this walking embarrassment of a man who had somehow managed to crawl his way into a respectable event dressed like a drunken house elf and now dared to speak to his wife like they shared some kind of secret language.
Weasley wasn't allowed to have thoughts about her. He wasn't allowed to mention her name in passing without permission. Hell, he wasn't allowed to breathe in her general vicinity unless Draco was standing right there to monitor and approve the air quality. If it were up to him, Weasley wouldn't even be alive to cause this offense, but alas, there were laws. Annoying, inconvenient laws .
Draco's hands clenched into fists so tight he felt his nails bite into his palms, the sharp sting grounding him, barely, as his entire body coiled with lethal tension—the kind of barely-leashed fury that typically came just before a curse was cast, before blood was spilled, before headlines were written and Ministry officials were summoned. Every muscle in him ached with the urge to destroy. Every cell screamed for violence , for vengeance , for retribution . But instead, he breathed —one long, slow, practiced exhale, dragging the rage out of his chest like smoke from a fire, taming it, tempering it, forcing it into a shape he could use .
Because if he gave in now, it would be over in seconds—and he wanted this to last .
So he didn't punch Weasley in the face. Yet.
Instead, he made a promise.
A dark one.
A dangerous one.
A lethal one.
A promise crafted with the precision of a blade and the quiet intensity of a man who meant every single syllable with the whole of his soul.
"If you ever touch her again," Draco said, his voice low and crystalline, sharp enough to cut through glass, cold enough to drop the temperature of the entire ballroom by several degrees. The words dropped into the silence like lead, like prophecy, like the opening lines of an execution order. "I will make sure you never touch anything again. Not with your hands. Not with your magic. Not with your soul ."
Weasley blinked, visibly thrown off—good—and Luna let out a quiet, sharp breath beside him, but Draco wasn't finished. Not even close.
"She is not Seline to you," he said, slow and deliberate, each word enunciated with deadly calm. "She is Mrs. Malfoy to you. Nothing more. Nothing ever more."
The words struck like thunder, echoing across the stunned hush of the ballroom, and Draco felt them land—hard. The impact was palpable, like a spell gone silent and brutal. And still, still , he wasn't done.
"If you ever touch her again," he repeated, this time with a smile—cold, tight, dead at the edges—the smile of a man who had already imagined the body, already dug the grave, already written the alibi. "I will kill you. Slowly. And it will hurt ."
There was a pause then. A long one. A dangerous one.
The kind of pause where the world seemed to hold its breath, where time stretched, suspended between one breath and the next, where everyone in the room began to realize this wasn't just a dramatic moment—this was a threat . A real one. And Weasley, that slow-moving, thick-headed fool, was finally beginning to understand .
Draco stepped closer, magic crackling just beneath his skin, buzzing in the air around him like the static before a lightning strike, like the earth before an earthquake— alive , pulsing, barely restrained.
"Do. Not." His voice dropped to a whisper, but the power in it made the chandeliers above flicker. " Touch what is mine. "
And for once— once —Weasley didn't laugh.
The instant Luna's heels clicked against the gleaming marble floor of their manor, the second the world righted itself beneath her feet and the relative silence of home settled over her like a suffocating fog, she released Draco's arm with the kind of force that wasn't just rejection—it was punishment . Her grip wrenched away from his sleeve so violently it sent him stumbling a step back, momentarily off balance, his polished shoes skidding slightly on the smooth surface. But she didn't even watch him regain it. Her arms dropped to her sides, her hands clenched into fists so tightly her knuckles blanched, and her entire body shook—not subtly, not delicately, but with full-bodied, palpable tremors. Her spine was stiff, her jaw tight, her eyes blazing with unspoken fury. And she didn't know—couldn't tell—if the trembling was from unadulterated anger, bitter frustration, or something deeper and more dangerous, something guttural and soul-deep and terrifyingly raw, something she hadn't yet dared to name.
What she did know—without question, without hesitation—was that she was livid . Not irritated, not upset. Livid . Beyond livid. This was not a fleeting mood. This was not something that would pass in a few hours or with a weak apology. This was rage in its most elemental form—scorching, pure, and all-consuming. It surged through her bloodstream like wildfire, hot and unforgiving, eradicating reason, burning down every rational thought she tried to grasp. There was no room for logic, no room for temperance. Only the need to unleash. Only the need to roar .
And then she did .
" DO NOT PUT ME IN AN UNCOMFORTABLE SITUATION EVER AGAIN! "
Her voice exploded from her throat like a spell meant to shatter glass. It echoed off the walls of the cavernous entryway, reverberating up through the vaulted ceilings, so loud and sharp that even the old enchanted portraits on the walls visibly recoiled, eyes wide, frames rattling in their sconces as if startled out of centuries of slumber. And then—without thought, without pause, without a moment to even consider what she was doing—she slapped him.
The sound was deafening in the silence that followed. A crack that split the air like lightning. Sharp. Brutal. Devastating.
It wasn't just a slap—it was a culmination. A blow forged from every disappointment, every dismissal, every time he had made her feel small, caged, owned . It rang between them, more than physical—emotional, spiritual, sacred . Her palm stung instantly, but she didn't care. Didn't flinch. Didn't regret it. Because all she could see in that moment, all she could focus on, was his fucking face —that infuriatingly composed face, that arrogant mask of control that never cracked, that infuriating , maddening, unrepentant look he wore like armor.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" she spat, the words spat like venom, shaking with the sheer force of her fury. Her chest rose and fell with every ragged breath, her heart pounding so loud she could barely hear herself think. "Why do you keep doing this? Why do you insist on treating me like some fucking possession ? Like I belong to you and you alone? How fucking dare you? "
Draco, stunned from the slap but somehow still standing tall, straightened himself with slow, mechanical precision. His jaw flexed visibly, rolling as though he was testing the damage, gauging whether she had truly hurt him—and not just physically. His eyes locked on hers, and what burned there wasn't just anger—it was something darker, something simmering and vicious, something so close to breaking that it made the space between them feel dangerous . His breath came in shallow bursts, his nostrils flared, his fists twitched at his sides as though his control hung by the thinnest of threads.
"How dare I ?" he said finally, his voice barely more than a whisper, but razor-sharp. The kind of quiet that didn't calm the storm, but announced it. A low growl, deadly calm in a way that was so much worse than shouting. " You let that little bitch kiss you."
Luna let out a sound—half laugh, half snarl—sharp and incredulous, like he had just insulted her intelligence and her dignity in one fell swoop. She shook her head, slow and deliberate, as though she couldn't believe the words had actually left his mouth, as though she were restraining herself from slapping him again out of sheer mercy.
Her fury didn't lessen—it intensified , stoking itself on the absurdity of his accusation. "And what?" she hissed, stepping forward, her heels clicking against the marble like gunshots, like a challenge. She invaded his space, got close enough that he could feel her breath on his lips, her body thrumming with energy, eyes wild with fire. "What if I did ? What if I let him kiss me? What if I let anyone I fucking want kiss me, Draco? You think you own me? You think you can snarl at a man across the room and mark your territory like some goddamn beast ?" Her voice cracked with the strain of her rage. " I am not a thing. I do not belong to you. I can do whatever the fuck I want. "
Draco's eyes darkened—not just with anger, not just with fury, but with a depth of emotion so volatile, so feral, that it seemed to suck the very light out of the space around them. His entire body tensed with the precision of a weapon being loaded, wound tight like a curse just waiting to be unleashed. His fists clenched so hard at his sides that his knuckles cracked under the strain, and the veins in his arms pulsed with magic—raw, uncontrolled, crackling in the air like a violent storm just seconds from breaking loose. The temperature in the room shifted. The very air around them began to vibrate, dense with static, thick with energy so intense it felt alive, charged with his rage, his frustration, his need . His jaw ticked once, then again, the muscle there twitching like it was the only thing keeping him from saying something catastrophic. His lips parted—just slightly—as if the words had already formed on his tongue, as if he was on the precipice of unleashing a tirade of possessive, sharp-edged, brutal truths that would detonate whatever fragile peace still lingered between them.
But before he could speak—before he had the chance to let loose whatever damning, impulsive thing was about to tumble from his mouth like a spell he'd never be able to take back—Luna struck first.
"You are absolutely disgusting ."
The words sliced through the tension like a blade, clean and merciless, and she saw the moment they landed. Saw it hit him. Saw his breath catch and stall in his throat. Saw the flicker in his eyes shift from rage to something else entirely—something deeper, something unguarded, something that made her stomach twist with sickening, unrelenting guilt even as the rest of her burned with fury.
It was hurt, yes—but not the kind born from wounded pride. No, it was deeper than that. This wasn't the surface-level bruising that came with a clever insult or a power shift in a heated fight. This was soul-deep, marrow-deep. This was a kind of hurt that unraveled something essential inside him, something that he didn't let anyone see, something she wasn't sure anyone had ever seen before. Not pain. Not shame. Devastation. The kind of devastation that came from being exposed—completely and utterly—only to be torn down in the same breath.
She had never seen him like that before.
And she shouldn't have looked.
Shouldn't have let herself see it, shouldn't have let herself feel it, because the truth was now pulsing between them, undeniable and cruel—she'd hurt him in a way that he couldn't laugh off, couldn't control, couldn't weaponize.
But she didn't stop.
Couldn't stop.
She had gone too far already, too deep into the dark spiral of anger and heartbreak and betrayal. She was already standing at the edge of the cliff with no way to turn back, already pushing the blade in with steady, shaking hands.
"This was a mistake."
The words escaped her lips like a curse—slow, flat, deliberate—delivered with such brutal precision that the very air between them seemed to recoil. They hung there, suspended, poisonous, echoing in the silence like the toll of a funeral bell. A statement not of anger, but of finality . And the moment she said it, the moment those syllables filled the space between them, she felt the full weight of it come crashing down on her shoulders like the ceiling itself had given out—heavy, suffocating, absolute. There was no un-saying it. No walking it back. No pulling that dagger out without causing more damage than the wound itself.
And Draco—he didn't move.
He didn't blink.
He didn't breathe.
He just stood there, every part of him going still, going silent, like the entire world had frozen mid-motion, like the universe itself had paused to witness his unraveling. She could see it—the way the color drained from his face, the way the fire that had blazed behind his eyes just moments ago flickered out, leaving behind only ash and void. Whatever he had been about to say, whatever fire had been rising in his chest, it was gone now. Extinguished by her words. Reduced to silence. His silence.
And then he said it— barely —just one word, broken and soft and terrifying.
"What?"
His voice was a whisper, a gasp, the sound of a man losing his grip on the one thing that had kept him tethered to his own humanity. But beneath it—beneath the quiet—was something sharp , something deadly , something so full of tension it sent a ripple of cold through her blood, made her shiver even as she stood firm. This wasn't rage—not yet. This wasn't the shout of a man pushed too far. No, this was the silence before the storm, the eye of the hurricane, the stillness just before the world was torn apart.
And still, she didn't stop.
Still, she pushed.
Still, she plunged the knife deeper.
Luna took a breath—sharp, shaky, slicing through her chest like glass—and even though her lips trembled, even though her lungs ached, even though every cell in her body screamed at her to take it back, to reach for him, to fix this, she spoke again. Because if she didn't finish it now, it would never end. It would haunt her. Consume her.
"This," she said, her voice quieter now, stripped of all fire, all venom—hoarse and broken, barely holding together. "This was supposed to be a mediocre shag."
And then came the silence.
A silence so heavy, so thick, so violent in its stillness that it felt like the entire world had collapsed inward. She had thought she knew what silence felt like—awkward pauses, tense lulls, the hush of cold nights and empty hallways. But this was something else entirely. This was the silence of destruction . Of endings. It settled over them like a fog laced with poison, sank into their skin, filled the room with something that felt alive, something that pressed down on their lungs and stole every ounce of oxygen. It was the kind of silence that didn't just exist between people—it changed them.
And Draco didn't move.
Didn't speak.
Didn't breathe .
He just stood there, arms heavy at his sides, lips parted slightly as if he was still trying to understand what she'd said, eyes wide and dark and haunted . Eyes that no longer looked like his, like they had been stripped of all the arrogance and control and power he'd ever possessed. He looked… empty . Hollowed out. As if she had reached inside him and ripped out something vital, and now he didn't know how to stand anymore.
His breathing was wrong—too shallow, too fast, too uneven. His chest rose and fell with the kind of desperation that belonged to someone bleeding out , to someone trying to survive something they couldn't even name. He looked like a man trying to stay tethered to a world that was crumbling beneath his feet. He looked like a man who had just been stabbed through the fucking ribs by the only person who had ever truly had the power to destroy him.
And gods—it hurt.
It fucking hurt .
It wasn't just the words—though they alone would've been enough to gut him—it was everything that had come with them, the way she had delivered them with that eerily steady voice, the way she had looked at him with eyes that were too calm, too cold, too done , eyes that once saw every fractured part of him and loved him anyway but now stared straight through him like he wasn't there at all, like he had never been there, like nothing they had shared had ever held any weight or meaning or substance; it was the complete and total dismissal in her expression, in the tilt of her chin, in the casual, offhand way she had tossed everything they were into the fire without even flinching, as if he hadn't bled for her, as if he hadn't lived for her, as if he hadn't breathed her name in the middle of the night just to remind himself that she was real—and for the first time in his entire, carefully calculated, control-obsessed life, Draco Malfoy didn't know what to do, didn't know how to rebuild the ruins she had left him in, didn't know how to summon a clever retort or biting defense or manipulative gesture to claw his way out of the wreckage, didn't know how to survive this, didn't know how to be without her.
Luna could feel everything—her breath dragging in and out like each inhale was too much, like each exhale might be her last, her heartbeat a deafening thud against her ribs that refused to slow down, refused to let her rest, refused to let her pretend for even a second that she hadn't just done something irreversible; her hands trembled at her sides, shaking uncontrollably, fingers twitching with restrained magic, with adrenaline, with grief—and she had never, not once, seen him like this, not really , not truly vulnerable in the way that stripped him down to nothing, not stripped of anger or pride or the sharpness he wore like armor, not reduced to this empty-eyed, statue-still figure who looked more ghost than man. She had seen him angry, yes, had seen the way his temper could rip through a room like a storm, had seen him cold and cruel and possessive, had seen the fury flash across his face like lightning when he felt threatened, had seen him desperate, demanding, disarmed in moments when the world around him didn't bend the way he expected it to—but she had never seen him like this. Shattered . And gods, wasn't that the worst part? That the devastation bleeding out of his eyes wasn't just his —it was hers too, mirrored in her own chest, in the way something inside her twisted so hard it made her sick, something that felt like it was cracking her from the inside out, something she didn't know how to stop because it wasn't just him who was breaking—it was them , all of them, everything they had built, everything she had once thought might actually survive.
She had meant for the words to hurt. That part was true. She had wanted to make him bleed, had wanted to burn him down the way his possessiveness made her feel caged, unseen, used —but she hadn't realized, not fully, not really , that those words would rebound and carve into her as well, that saying them would feel like driving a knife through her own ribs with a hand she couldn't stop.
She stormed into the bedroom like a force of nature, eyes wild, magic snapping off her skin like sparks, her whole body vibrating with the kind of rage that didn't come from fury alone but from heartbreak, from helplessness, from the kind of ache that was too big to contain; she didn't pause, didn't glance around, didn't hesitate to think or feel or process—her hands moved without instruction, yanking open drawers, ripping clothes from hangers, shoving anything and everything she could find into the first bag that appeared in her reach. The air around her crackled and screamed, her magic unstable and unchecked, lashing out in her pain, levitating items and tossing them across the room, forcing things into boxes with the kind of violence that mirrored the state of her heart. Her belongings packed themselves in chaos, not precision—not folded, not sorted, not cared for—just gone , vanishing from the bedroom that had once been filled with laughter and tangled sheets and whispered confessions, now turned cold, hollow, foreign .
With a fierce flick of her wrist, another drawer slammed shut, and her wand directed the rest of her things into the air, sweeping them away without mercy, not caring where they landed, not caring if she would even come back for them, not caring about the shattered picture frame that fell to the floor and cracked—glass splintering like the remnants of their relationship—because this wasn't just her home, wasn't just his home, wasn't just walls and rooms and furniture, it was theirs , and now it felt like a graveyard, like something haunted and desecrated and too full of memories to ever feel safe again.
She clenched her jaw so hard it hurt, swallowed down the sob that burned in her throat like acid, clawing its way up her windpipe, desperate to escape—but no. Not here . Not now. She would not cry while he was still in the house, would not let him see her break, would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her crumble beneath the weight of what they had become.
When the last of her things had vanished into her bags, when the room felt too still, too empty, when the bed looked wrong without the imprint of her beside him, she turned on her heel, spine straight, shoulders tight, and walked toward the stairs with steps that felt impossibly heavy, every one of them weighted with the truth of what she had just done. She didn't look back. She couldn't. If she looked back, she might stop , might run to him, might fall apart. And then— she saw him .
He hadn't moved.
Not an inch.
Still standing in the hallway like a statue carved from grief, like time had frozen him there, like he didn't know how to exist now that she had undone him. His eyes were still locked on the spot where she had last stood, but they were different now—duller, emptier, shattered glass where there had once been fire. Tears streamed silently down his face, unchecked, relentless, and his shoulders were pulled so tight it looked like his body might break under the pressure, his fists clenched like if he didn't hold onto something, he would fall, would reach for her, would collapse at her feet and beg her not to go, and gods, wasn't that the worst part? That he looked like he wanted to, like he needed to—but knew he couldn't.
Luna's heart twisted violently, her breath catching in her throat like a noose, like a tether trying to drag her back to him—but she didn't stop, didn't slow down, didn't reach for him, didn't let herself even feel it. She just kept walking.
Out the door.
Across the garden they had once danced through.
Down the long path that had always led her home.
Back to her cottage.
And the moment she stepped inside, the moment the door clicked shut behind her, the moment the familiar scent and silence of the place hit her like a blow to the chest— she broke .
Not a quiet cry. Not a tear slipping down her cheek. Not the kind of sadness that could be swallowed or brushed away or locked behind a smile.
No.
It was a soul-rending, body-wracking sob that tore free from her chest like a scream, like grief given voice, like all the pieces of herself she'd held together with sheer will now breaking apart at the seams. It was ugly. It was primal. It was the sound of someone losing something they could never get back. Her knees gave out beneath her, and she pressed her back against the door, sliding to the floor with a whimper, curling into herself like she could somehow protect what was left, like if she held herself tightly enough, she might not disintegrate completely.
But she already had.
Because this—what she had done, what she had said, what she had destroyed —wasn't just a fight, wasn't just a bruise, wasn't just another wound they'd recover from.
It was final.
It was permanent.
It was irreparable .
It was unforgivable .
It was unfixable .
***
After too many sleepless nights, after too many failed attempts at knocking on her door, after standing outside her cottage in the cold with his fists clenched at his sides, staring at the closed door that never opened, Draco finally gave in. He had never been a man of words, never one to articulate emotions, never one to sit down and spill his heart onto parchment like a lovesick fool. But for her? He would do anything.
So he wrote.
He sat at his desk, staring at the blank page, fingers tightening around the quill, heart pounding painfully in his chest. How could he even begin? How could he put into words the chaos inside him, the unbearable ache, the suffocating loss, the realization that without her—he wasn't really living at all?
He inhaled sharply, swallowed his fucking pride, and let the ink flow.
My love,
I know I have no right to call you that right now. But I need you to know that I still do. That I always will.
I was wrong. In so many ways, in more ways than I even understand, in ways that I know have hurt you beyond what an apology could ever fix. And I don't expect you to forgive me just because I finally realized it. I let my fear of losing you turn into something ugly, something controlling, something that is not love, something that is not the man I want to be. That is not the man I ever wanted to be with you.
You are not mine to own. You are not mine to keep. You are not something I get to possess.
But gods, Luna, I want to be yours.
Not because I deserve you. I don't. Not because I expect you to take me back. I won't demand it.
But because I love you more than anything I have ever known. And I would do anything—anything—to prove that to you.
I miss you. Fuck, I miss you. I miss your laugh in my kitchen, the way your books are scattered all over my house, as if they belong there, as if you belong there. I miss the way you make my world make sense just by existing in it. I miss waking up to your tangled hair spread across my pillow. I miss the way you curl against me in your sleep like you trust me to keep you safe. I miss everything.
And I am so fucking sorry.
If you want space, I will give it to you. If you want me to leave you alone, I will. If this is something you can never forgive me for, if you truly believe that we were just a mistake, then I will walk away. Even if it fucking kills me.
But if you are willing to talk, if you are willing to try—I am here.
Always.
Draco
Draco had been drowning in silence—not the peaceful kind, not the kind that came with solitude or the quiet hum of reflection, but the kind that suffocated. The kind that wrapped around his throat like a noose, echoing through the vast, empty halls of their home until even the sound of his own breath felt like an intrusion. At first, he told himself it was fine. That she just needed time. Space. That she would come back once the fire cooled in her chest. He convinced himself that if he stayed still—if he waited patiently, respectfully—she'd walk through the door again with that familiar fury in her eyes and forgiveness somewhere underneath it.
He clung to the fantasy. Told himself that if he didn't chase her, if he didn't smother her, if he gave her the room to breathe, she'd remember what they were. That if he suffered through the cold emptiness of their bed, of their home, of his fucking life—she'd come back. But the days became weeks. And the weeks became something darker. Something harder. Something unbearable. And Luna?
Luna stayed gone.
Draco wasn't proud of what he became in her absence. He stopped sleeping. Stopped eating. Barely functioned. He'd wake in the middle of the night and reach for her out of instinct, only to find cold sheets and colder silence. He knocked on her door—too many times. Waited outside her cottage like a ghost. Wrote letter after letter, his pride crumbling with every word. But she never opened the door. She never answered. And eventually, he had to consider the one truth he'd been trying so hard to outrun: maybe this was it. Maybe he had finally broken the one thing he swore he'd protect. Maybe she wasn't coming back.
And then—just as he began to believe that—she did.
Not gently. Not quietly. Not with a whisper of forgiveness or an ounce of softness.
No.
Luna Lovegood returned to him like a storm.
The door to his study slammed open so hard it rattled the chandelier and shook dust from the ceiling beams. His quill snapped between his fingers as he jerked his head up, his heart leaping into his throat. And there she was. Standing in the doorway, wild and furious, her chest rising and falling with sharp, ragged breaths, her fists clenched, her magic sparking around her like lightning desperate to strike.
She looked like she hadn't slept, like she had been walking for miles on nothing but rage. Her cheeks were flushed, her hair a mess, and her eyes—fuck, her eyes. He didn't even have time to take her in before she was moving, storming toward him like a wave about to crash.
"You absolute, possessive, infuriating bastard!"
He shot up from his chair so fast it toppled behind him, forgotten. His heart thundered, his skin burned, his body locked tight with tension and disbelief and something dangerously close to relief. Because she was here. She was yelling. She was talking to him.
And maybe—maybe—he should've let her finish. Let her scream. Let her cut him open with every word she'd held in since that night. Let her eviscerate him if that's what it took to bring her back.
But she was acting like she was the only one who had suffered.
And after weeks of living in hell, of clawing through the aftermath alone, of begging shadows for mercy— No.
He wasn't going to let her rewrite history like that.
"No," Draco snapped, his voice sharp, venomous, his own anger bubbling over before he could stop it. "I don't think everything is fine. I don't think you're just going to forgive me. But you don't get to stand there and act like I haven't been fucking dying without you. You don't get to pretend you weren't in love with me before we started fighting. You don't get to come back here just to scream at me like you haven't been missing me just as much."
Luna froze.
Her eyes flashed, her lips parted—but she didn't deny it.
Because he was right. She had missed him.
And that only seemed to piss her off even more.
"That's not the fucking point!" she hissed, stepping closer, pushing him backward with both hands to his chest. "I was trying, Draco! I was trying so fucking hard to make this work! I was ignoring all the red flags, all the times you treated me like I was something to be owned, all the bullshit possessive tendencies you refuse to control because I thought—I thought you would change! I thought you loved me enough to at least fucking try!"
Draco laughed.
A cold, sharp, broken sound that had no humor in it at all.
"You thought I'd change?" he sneered, his fingers twitching at his sides. He was shaking now. She was shaking. The whole fucking room was shaking. "No, love, you hoped I'd change. You knew exactly what I was when you let me have you. And you fucking loved it. You loved how obsessed I was with you. You loved that I would kill for you, that I would burn the fucking world down just to keep you. But now you're acting like you're so above it? Like you're so fucking innocent in all of this?"
Luna's nostrils flared.
She was breathing heavily.
So was he.
Their magic crackled between them, an unbearable, charged current of rage, of lust, of everything they hadn't been able to touch since she left.
"You think I loved it?" she whispered, stepping closer.
Too close.
Dizzyingly close.
Draco didn't fucking hesitate. He stepped forward, closing her in, backing her up against the nearest wall, refusing to let her slip away this time, his breath warm and sharp as it fanned across her lips, his fingers twitching with the unbearable need to grab her, to hold her, to make her admit that she had missed him just as much as he had missed her.
His voice dropped into something low, dangerous, something deliberately taunting as he whispered, "You want to tell me you don't love me? Go ahead, baby. Say it." He watched her struggle, watched her body tense as if she was trying to summon the strength to push him away, but he knew she wouldn't, knew she couldn't, knew that she was drowning just as much as he was.
Her eyes burned with defiance, but her breath was uneven, shaking, stuttering, betraying her in ways she clearly hated. He could practically hear the war raging inside her, the push and pull of her pride against the undeniable, unbearable truth that she wanted him, needed him, even now, even through all of it, even when she should have walked away and never looked back.
Her lips parted, her throat working around words that refused to come, her entire body trembling with restraint, and fuck, he should let her say it, should let her lie, should let her keep pretending this wasn't what it was, but he couldn't. He was too far gone, too desperate, too fucking in love with her to let her stand here and act like she wasn't about to shatter.
He smirked, just slightly, just enough to push her over the edge, and then she snarled, breathless, furious, her voice nothing more than a broken whisper as she ground out, "Fuck you, Malfoy."