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The Room of Requirement was cast in a pillow of quiet, except for the soft trilling melody of a finch as it fluttered about its cage. You lay stretched out with your bare legs on the emerald, velvet couch with your back leaning against the soft curve of an arm as you watched Draco from where he sat closer to the floor. A black, plush carpet with tiny silver stars scattered across its surface, covered the floor in the center of the room, and strewed about were several, oversized poufs in the same rich emerald as the couch. The Slytherin was perched on the edge of one with his socked feet planted firmly on the rug.
He wore a pair of dark, fitted jeans with a simple, but clean-cut, white, button-down shirt tucked into his waistline. The top few buttons had been left undone to show off his pale neck and collarbones. Though he was normally rather pale, fair-skinned enough to flush easily with hues of pink, in the golden light of the candles floating around the room his skin glowed with a warm tone. The flickering light of the tiny flames danced across his face as he focused on the sleek, black broom that was settled across his thighs.
You watched in reverent awe as his hands methodically moved with well-practiced ease as he pulled on and smoothed out the wry twigs of his broom. Set on top of another pouf beside him, a small, latched box sat open to reveal a simple set of broom care tools, wax, and a few different kinds of polishes. Without looking up from his broom, he reached over and picked up a small set of butterfly pruning scissors. He clipped away a few frayed edges on some twigs and then placed the shears back in their spot inside the box. He then reached over and pulled out a small tin can with a lid that was labeled Broom Oil.
“What does that do?’ you asked him softly as he undid the lid.
He looked up from where he was dipping the long fingers of one hand into the solidified oil. His icy blue eyes were soft in the lighting and as they looked you over. His expression was relaxed and unguarded.
“This?” he asked you gently, his voice calm as he held up the tin with his clean hand.
You nodded and he continued.
“It helps protect the wood from damage from the elements, but it wears off eventually, so it has to be reapplied every so often.”
You tilted your head, your long hair slipping over a shoulder. “Couldn’t you use magic for that?”
A small smile graced his lips as he placed the tin back down and ran his dry hand over the smooth handle of his Nimbus 2001.
“It wouldn’t be the same though,” he replied quietly.
“How do you mean?”
For a moment, he didn’t respond as he warmed the solidified oil between his pale fingertips until it softened and turned almost transparent. Carefully he wiped it onto the small cloth which he had procured from the box. From across the small distance, as he ran the cloth across the length of the broom's handle, you could see it increased the shine, and added to the richness of its color. Like pouring black ink over a dark canvas. When he finally did reply, it was with a soft voice that only carried well to your ears because the room was otherwise rather quiet.
“There’s something invaluable about doing it this way,” he told you, keeping his stormy blue eyes trained on the broom in his lap as he worked. “The tangibility of it makes a difference to me when I’m flying with equipment that I cared for by hand. Otherwise, it wouldn’t feel so…” he paused for a moment as if to think of the right word, “special.”
You regarded him for a moment, realizing that there was something more he wasn’t saying out loud, but you didn’t have to be a genius to know what it was. You knew him well enough to recognize the particular emotion he felt. Underneath his words, there was a deeper emotion that was tied to him caring for his things. It was a feeling of peace for him. There weren’t many things that brought him serenity in his life, and the things that did were few and far in between. You could tell that this was one of them just by the gentle tone of his voice, the slightly calmer pitch in his intonations, and the slower, smoother timber of his words.
“It relaxes you,” you said softly, as a statement instead of a question.
He glanced up at you again, his eyes piercing as he met your gaze, his fingers still running the cloth gently along the broom’s handle.
“It helps me focus and collect my thoughts as well,” he added. “It also reminds me to appreciate what I own, to take care of it, so that it lasts a lifetime.”
“I see.”
With that, you both fell silent as he went back to focusing on his handiwork. You looked back down to the open, abandoned book in your lap. You had been trying to read your Advanced Potions textbook before you had gotten distracted by the Slytherin, and it sat opened to a page on the Draught of Living Death. You thumbed through a few of the pages, flipping through, only half paying attention, until you decided that you didn’t want to read it anymore and shut the book with a quiet thump. You placed it on the wooden side table and sat up, closing your eyes while breathing in deeply before exhaling slowly.
“Is something wrong?” Draco’s voice whispered through the silence of the room.
You opened your eyes and met his gaze once more, all the while, he continued polishing the silver stirrups until they gleamed.
“I’m fine,” you reassured him with the tiniest of smiles. “I just don’t want to read anymore.” You turned your legs off the edge of the couch and faced him fully, propping an elbow on the arm and supporting your chin with your palm, your fingers curled slightly, brushing your cheek. “Besides, watching you is much more interesting.”
A slight smirk slid onto his face, stretching his lips as he huffed cockily. “You would think that.”
You didn’t respond and he went back to folding up the polishing cloth and putting it to the side, most likely to be cleaned later. With the broom’s twigs in order, the handle well protected, and the stirrups sparkling in the golden light of the room, he picked up his Nimbus 2001 and placed it on the rug beside the pouf. He then bent down and pulled his Quidditch bag into his lap.
It was a large, dark, leather duffle bag that he used to carry his gear, including his Quidditch uniform and robes. He dug around for a moment before, one by one, pulling out his shin, and arm guards. They too were made of the same dark leather as his bag. He placed said bag back down on the rug and reached over to pick up another different-shaped tin from the box. This one had a black label with white writing that said Leather Wax. He reached over to the box again and sifted through the few tools, wrapping his fingers around the wooden handle of what looked to be some sort of paintbrush, but it was much shorter and fatter.
You watched as he opened the tin and ran its coarse bristles over the wax inside, collecting a decent amount of the product onto the brush. He then lifted up a shin guard and started brushing the wax over its surface. Where it had been dulled and worn, the brush left behind a line of refreshed leather. It improved its luster and seemed to erase the dried creases in the dark hide.
“That protects it from the elements as well?” you asked.
He didn’t look up at your voice this time.
“Yes,” he replied. “Mostly from rain and humidity that would otherwise ruin the leather.”
“How does it work?”
“The wax?”
“Yea.”
He continued to coat the shin guard, meticulously brushing over every dip and crack in the leather.
“It provides a barrier so that the water doesn’t soak into the leather. If it gets wet, the water mixes with the natural oils, and when it starts to dry, they evaporate together. Without the natural oils, it leaves the leather vulnerable to drying out and cracking.”
“Oh,” you said quietly, falling silent as he continued working on the next guard.
When you didn’t say anything else for a while he looked up at you, watching you for a moment before he put down the brush and leaned over to drag an unused pouf closer to him.
“Come here,” he ordered you softly, patting the top of the seat.
Without a word you got up slowly, stretching, and padded your way over to the floor cushion. Once you settled onto it, your legs tucked neatly under you, you turned to face him, and he turned to look into your eyes. It seemed he was searching for something unspoken.
“Draco?” you asked. “What is it?”
He blinked and looked back at the items in his lap. Picking up the brush again, he held it out to you.
“Do you want to try?”
You raised a curious brow. “You want me to do it?”
“No,” he answered. “I want to know if you want to do it?”
You smiled softly and shook your head. “I don’t want to distract you from getting this done.” You motioned to the remaining equipment that he still had to take care of. “Besides,” you admitted quietly, “I like watching you work.”
A small smirk slid onto his face.
“You’re already distracting me.” His voice had dropped a tad bit lower as he was almost on the threshold of whispering his words. “You always distract me.”
He spoke as if he had told you something that held so much emotional weight behind it, and you knew him well enough by now to understand the implied meaning behind his words.
He loved you.
The reminder only made your heart clench in your chest and your breath hitch in your throat.
“Draco,” you nearly whispered as he drew closer to you, his blue eyes, piercing. “You can’t do that.”
“Do what?” he teased quietly.
“Turn this on me. I was trying to compliment you.”
His smirk only grew as he leaned further into your personal space. Your heart beat just a little faster.
“You were complimenting me?” he asked, his tone playful.
You slapped his chest lightly in reprimand, trying to wordlessly convey that he was getting too close. Your heart pounded, and you could feel the blood racing through your veins as he drew nearer.
“Don’t be a prat,” you retorted, trying to keep the wavering unsteadiness of your breath out of your voice. You knew it was pointless though because Draco could see right through you. He knew everything there was to know about you, and how you reacted to his proximity. He knew he was your weakness.
He stopped moving closer and glanced down at your hand that was still pressed to his chest. You quickly tried to retract it, but he was too fast—curse his Seeker’s reflexes—and he captured your hand in his, as he turned his whole body to face you. He folded one leg before him while the other remained with his foot planted on the rug. There was a soft thump as the brush and shin guard slipped off his lap and hit the plush flooring, but you both ignored it.
“Tell me,” he demanded quietly. “What was this compliment you were trying to give me?”
A fizz of heat ran up your spine and you suppressed the urge to shiver at his deep voice.
“Nothing,” you quipped, suddenly feeling embarrassment burn its way up your throat and into your face. You broke eye contact and turned away so that you didn’t have to look him directly in the eyes. How someone could make you feel so vulnerable, you’d never understand.
“Dove…” He squeezed your fingers gently, drawing your attention back to him. You couldn’t help that you were nothing but a moth to his flame. “Tell me,” he repeated, sounding more sincere.
You sighed softly.
“I was telling you I liked watching you work because I find it beautiful…” you finally admitted, your breath catching in your throat as the intensity in his eyes only grew. “I find you beautiful,” you whispered.
His expression softened, but only slightly as he silently reached up with the hand that wasn’t holding yours, and cupped the side of your face in his warm palm. You closed your eyes briefly, leaning into his warmth and breathing in deeply. This close you could smell the familiar, comforting mahogany that seemed to follow him. Underneath it was the subtle scent of his favorite shampoo, crisp green apples, and lime. When you opened your eyes, you realized just how close he was. He had leaned so far into your space, that in a split second, his forehead touched yours gently. He was so close you could count each individual hair of his lashes, and if you closed your eyes again, you’d still be able to map the pale freckles that were scattered across his cheeks and nose. The image of them would be burned behind your eyelids.
Your heart stuttered in your chest at the intimacy of his closeness.
“I think you’ve got it backwards,” he murmured. “You’re the beautiful one.”
When you blinked, your lashes caught on his and you sucked in a sharp gasp when it dawned on you that he had somehow moved even closer. You tried to pull away abruptly, but the hand that had cupped your face had slid to the back of your neck and kept you from going too far.
“Draco—wait.” You reached up with your free hand and placed it on his chest, trying to create distance between you both. “We can’t—”
He shook his head slightly, pulling away only marginally.
“Satu, look around,” he told you seriously. “No one can enter this room unless they are looking for exactly the same thing as us, and I don’t think anyone will. Not enough people even know this place exists. You’re safe here.” He paused for a moment. “We’re safe here.”
He stressed heavily on ‘we’re’ and you knew that he meant both your shared feelings for each other and your hidden relationship. You just couldn’t help feeling so on edge when your mind started flashing with images of everything that had occurred and of everything that still had the possibility of happening. Especially if certain others discovered the truth about the nature of your relationship.
“Umbridge found her way into the room for Dumbledore’s Army without knowing what she would find,” you countered. “That was just last year.”
“Umbridge had used a truth serum on Edgecombe to find out how to get into that specific room. It wasn’t by chance.”
You huffed, feeling as if the heart-pounding intimacy of the previous moment was over. Instead, a cold fear slithered its way into your chest and wrapped around your heart. A swell of the urge to back away rose up, but Draco held you in place, one hand still on the back of your neck, and the other clutching to yours like it was a lifeline.
“Satu, listen to me. Umbridge is gone, and no one is looking for us. No one will find us here. You’re safe. I’m safe. We’re safe.”
“But—”
“Please, Dove,” he urged, squeezing your fingers in a desperate attempt to calm you. He knew that the sudden fear you were experiencing would pass if he just held you close and kept reassuring you. He knew all too well what that lingering fear was like when it suddenly swelled up and became unable to be ignored. “I have never lied to you. You know you can trust me.”
And he was right.
Draco had been nothing but the most careful when it came to keeping your secret safe. You knew that he loved you so deeply that he wouldn’t let anything happen to you, and you knew he’d never take a risk that could put you in harm's way. You just had to take a moment and breathe. You closed your eyes briefly and drew in a deep breath before slowly exhaling, calming the unsteadiness that had you shaking in his arms.
“I know,” you said, once you had settled down again, and your fear had slithered back into the depths of your heart, tucked safely away, once again. “I trust you, Draco.”
It was his turn to suck in a sharp breath at your admittance. You knew that telling him you trusted him held so much weight for him. It carved a deep mark into his heart that you knew he kept close. Knowing that you could put your life into his hands so willingly moved him profoundly and you could almost feel the deep love he had for you only grow stronger with your words.
“Good,” he told you gently, “’cause I’m going to kiss you now.”
You sighed and gave in, closing your eyes and letting your head tilt back into his hand as his fingers slipped into the hair at the back of your head. You could feel the warmth of his breath on your face as he drew nearer, and then you were falling as his lips finally pressed into yours.
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