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Summary
Draco couldn't do this. He was chasing that brat around his small flat, knocking into every piece of furniture he owned—and really he should've planned for this when he was decorating, if only he knew then that Ginny Weasley would be torturing him by running around his apartment and shouting—
"OoohhhhHH! Carlos! I can't stand to be apart from you any longer! I need you inside of me—"
Draco was dying. He was dead and somewhere on the floor Pansy was dying from laughter.
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Draco loves awful, cheesy romance books because he knows he could never have that kind of love. His life could never be anything like a torrid romance—could it? Or ten years after the war is he finally going to learn that the only thing standing in his way of happiness is himself?