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The candles float above in their usual lazy dance, the ceiling painted in deep twilight, stars beginning to dot the illusion of sky. It's a quiet year.
Like every year, there’s new blood in Hogwarts.
The Sorting Ceremony was ending for the new first year students, but, like every year, some older students decided to join Hogwarts to end their studies. Students who were patiently waiting for their turn to sit under that huge hat.
The doors creak open again, and many heads turn. A girl steps into the hall. Cassiopeia Katerina Borja, wearing the school robes with the poise of a debutante and the quiet confidence of someone raised in marble hallways and taught by tutors who bowed. Sun-warmed skin, long dark hair flowing like ink down her back, and eyes as steady as steel.
The professors smile at her. She walks beside Professor Flitwick, who clears his throat with a proud little squeak. It was her turn to be introduced.
“Miss Borja will be joining us from Beauxbatons. Fifth year. Please extend your hospitality.”
She offers a polite smile and bows lightly. The whispers start immediately.
“Borja? As in the Borjas?”
“Why is she transferring now”
“Isn’t her brother in Slytherin? Leo Borja, right?”
“I must admit, she is gorgeous.”
And somewhere at the Slytherin table, Draco Malfoy leans back slightly, eyes narrowed, lips twitching faintly.
“You didn’t tell me that was your sister,” he mutters to Leo, who just smirks, eyes focused on his little sister.
The Sorting Hat didn’t take long.
“Ah… clever, perceptive, self-assured… and a wit as sharp as any I’ve seen. Better be— RAVENCLAW!”
The Ravenclaw table bursts into polite applause. Cassiopeia walks over with a soft, unreadable smile, posture perfect. She sits gracefully, legs crossed, eyes already scanning the hall as though memorizing every angle. Her gaze flickers to the Slytherin table, but only briefly.
Long enough for Draco to feel seen.
And then… dismissed.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖๋ ࣭ ⭑
It’s a rainy Thursday. The dungeons are damp as always, candlelight flickering off stone walls and copper cauldrons. Professor Slughorn is humming as he scribbles ingredients on the blackboard for today’s lesson: Amortentia. Of course.
Draco Malfoy leans back in his seat, arms crossed, bored expression in place like armor. He’s perfected the I’m-too-good-for-this look over the years. He’s always been exceptional in Potions, and this year won’t be the exception. It’s a Slytherin-Ravenclaw class, and DRaco is actually grateful for that. It’s way too early to deal with stupid Gryffindors or overjoyed Hufflepuffs.
Then the door opens, and there she is.
Cassiopeia Borja.
New fifth-year Ravenclaw, elegant as ever, with a pristine satchel, perfectly pressed uniform, and an expression that says she already read the entire syllabus and annotated it. She glides past the rows of students like she owns the room, stops when she spots the empty seat beside Draco, and... pauses.
His mind starts to work. What the hell is she doing here? She’s a bloody fifth year. His eyes scan the whole classroom until he makes eye contact with Leo, who just shrugs, a stupid grin on his face, and looks down at his notes again. He huffs. His friend is always so helpful.
Her brown eyes meet his silver ones.
“Is this seat taken?” she asks, voice cool and laced with an accent that makes his brain stall for a second.
He blinks.
“No,” he says, too fast. “I mean— go ahead.”
She seats, without looking at him.
He looks down at his books again. He’s known Leo for years, he knows his family is Spanish. Leo’s speech also carries that hint of a Spanish accent, he’s teased him for that multiple times. And yet, the way she speaks seems to scratch his brain just right.
Slughorn claps his hands and smiles. “Miss Borja, it is good to see you.”
She offers a polite smile. Then, the professor turns to the class. “Miss Borja will be taking Potions with you, sixth years. She is quite advanced in the subject and took the required exams to make this arrangement possible. And, I must admit, I was impressed.”
She doesn’t react beyond nodding her head in acknowledgement. Leo nods proudly.
“You’ll be working in pairs today!” Slughorn says.
Draco smirks. Fate has delivered.
Some minutes later, they’re chopping rose petals. Cassiopeia’s hands move with surgical precision. Draco’s… less so. But he is kind of distracted this morning. Not his fault. And then, she opens her mouth again.
“Your cuts are uneven,” she says, not unkindly, just correctly.
His hands still and he lifts an eyebrow.
“They’re fine.”
She continues chopping.
“They’re not. If you want the petals to dissolve properly, you need consistency. Amortentia is a delicate brew.”
That catches his attention. Draco turns and stares at her. “Have you brewed this before?”
She nods once. “Twice. The French curriculum is more advanced.”
He rolls his eyes and mutters. “Of course it is.”
“You asked,” she replies, lifting her chin.
He can’t help it—he’s annoyed. And intrigued. And maybe a little flustered. He watches her stir the potion clockwise, then counterclockwise, exactly seven times each. Her brow furrows slightly in concentration.
What do you smell?” she asks without looking up, totally serious.
“Excuse me?”
“The Amortentia,” she says simply. “It reveals what attracts you most. What do you smell?”
Draco is caught off guard. He leans forward subtly, and his lips part like he’s going to answer... but then—
“Vanilla,” he lies. “And old books.”
“Huh.” She doesn’t believe him. She doesn’t press, either.
But he notices the way she lingers over the cauldron, and he wonders what she smells. Spanish citrus? Warm parchment? The crispness of autumn? He doesn’t ask.
Later, as they bottle the perfect potion, Slughorn beams at them.
“Excellent work, the both of you! A pair to watch!”
Cassiopeia simply smiles, hands him the vial without looking at Draco, and gathers her things.
“Thank you for letting me sit here,” she says politely before walking away.
Draco watches her go. He hasn’t been this disoriented since Buckbeak.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖๋ ࣭ ⭑
The Slytherin common room is warm for once. It’s late afternoon, the rain still tapping against the windows of the common room like a lullaby of doom. The emerald light from the lake outside casts a soft glow, flickering off silver detailing and the edges of thick leather books.
Draco Malfoy is sitting on the green velvet sofa, arms stretched along the back like he owns the castle (as usual), staring into nothing. His potion notes lie abandoned beside him.
Leo Borja plops down across from him. Then, he rolls his eyes at not receiving any reaction from him.
“You’ve gone quiet. That’s suspicious. What happened, did someone actually outperform you?”
Draco doesn’t respond. The little shit knows exactly what he is talking about. Draco frowns, eyes focused on the fire.
Leo raises a brow.
“Let me guess. Brown eyes. Ravenclaw tie. Fifth year. Answers everything like she’s been summoned by the gods of academia.”
Draco sighs—a deep, dramatic one.
“She corrected my rose petal cuts.”
Leo smirks. “So she did outperform you.”
“She didn’t outperform me—she just... has annoying precision.”
“Right. That precision made Slughorn practically weep.”
Draco glares. One of his hands move to massage his temple.
“She’s insufferably competent.”
Leo laughs out loud now. “Merlin, you’re doomed.”
“She asked what I smelled in the Amortentia.”
The other Borja squints his eyes at that.
“And?”
“I told her vanilla and old books.”
Leo wheezes.
“That’s the most boring lie I’ve ever heard—who are you trying to impress, the Hogwarts library?”
Draco leans forward, running a hand through his hair, clearly bothered. He doesn’t even bother to deny it this time.
“She doesn’t look at me like everyone else does.”
Leo’s smile fades just a little, leaning back against his chair, arms crossed over his chest.
“Good. She shouldn’t.”
Draco looks up, caught off-guard. Leo isn’t teasing now. There’s a hint of warning in his voice—like some kind of older brother mode loading.
“You and I both know Cassie wasn’t raised like most pureblood girls. My parents trained her to command a ballroom, not chase after Quidditch stars and Prefect badges. You want to mess around, pick someone else.”
“I’m not messing around,” Draco says quietly after some moments.
Leo watches him for a beat, like he’s trying to read something behind that ever-present smirk. Then he nods slowly.
“Good. Because if you hurt her—friend or not—I’ll hex you into next week.”
Draco shrugs, cocky again. “Wouldn’t be the first time you’ve tried.”
Leo grins. “But this time, I’ll enjoy it.”
.𖥔 ݁ ˖๋ ࣭ ⭑
The Astronomy Tower is quiet this time of night. Wind brushes against the stone, carrying with it the hush of the Black Lake and the rustle of owls returning to the Owlery.
Cassiopeia sits cross-legged on a wide ledge, her Ravenclaw cloak wrapped snugly around her. She’s twisting a lock of her dark hair absentmindedly into a braid, gaze fixed upward at the stars.
Across from her, Luna Lovegood is lying on her back with a sketchbook propped on her stomach, drawing the constellation Cassiopeia with dreamy strokes. She smiles. She’s so glad she got to be friends with this little blonde dreamy girl.
“They say the stars remember us,” Luna murmurs. “Even when people don’t.”
“Do they?” Cassiopeia asks softly, voice laced with quiet amusement.
“Mhm,” Luna hums. “Especially if we’re named after them.”
Cassiopeia smiles again and leans back on her hands. The sky above glitters in scattered patterns, familiar and comforting. She's silent for a moment before saying, almost too casually:
“I partnered with Draco Malfoy in Potions today.”
Luna looks up at her with wide eyes that hold more awareness than anyone gives her credit for.
“He’s quite pretty,” Luna says with a thoughtful nod, like she's talking about a painting.
“He’s arrogant,” Cassiopeia replies immediately, nose wrinkling. “Completely used to getting his way.”
Her blue eyes focused on her. Big, pretty, knowing. Cassiopeia clears her throat and looks at the sky again.
“Did he get his way with you?” Luna asks, sketchbook forgotten.
“No,” she says, too fast.
Luna smiles like she knew that already. “That’s why he’s probably pacing in the common room right now.”
Cassiopeia turns to look at her, startled. “How do you—?”
She shrugs, grabbing her sketchbook again and continuing with her delicate strokes over the paper.
There’s a pause. The wind dances between them.
“He’s… not what I expected,” Cassiopeia admits. “He’s sharp. And lonely. He didn’t say it, but I could feel it. Like he’s always defending something—himself, mostly.”
“People like that need someone who won’t fall for the show,” Luna says. “But you already knew that.”
Cassiopeia laughs quietly. “I just wanted to pass Potions.”
“And now you’re wondering why he smells like smoke and mint and—was that bergamot?” Luna grins up at her.
Cassiopeia flushes, glaring lightly. “Luna.”
“What? Amortentia is very precise.”
Meanwhile, elsewhere, from a nearby corridor window, mostly hidden behind an archway, Draco Malfoy stares up at the Astronomy Tower. He can barely make out the silhouettes—but he knows it’s her. He’d recognize the way she sits, poised but relaxed, anywhere.
He doesn’t know what they’re talking about. He doesn’t want to.
And yet he’s there, again, doing what he told himself he wouldn’t—watching her. He does not sleep that night.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖๋ ࣭ ⭑
Next morning, the Great Hall buzzes with the usual morning chatter—clinking spoons, fluttering owls dropping mail, enchanted ceiling glowing with early gold light.
Cassiopeia walks in with grace that could silence a court. She crosses the hall like it’s a catwalk, Ravenclaw robes billowing slightly behind her, and makes a sharp turn—not to the blue-clad table on the left—but straight to Slytherin.
Heads turn. Including Draco’s, who chokes slightly on his pumpkin juice.
Leo barely lifts his eyes from his toast.
“Don’t make it weird,” he mutters without looking.
“I’m not,” Draco lies through his teeth.
Cassiopeia sits down beside her brother like she’s done it a hundred times, folds her hands neatly in her lap, and looks across the table at Draco with a mild nod.
“Morning.”
“Morning,” Draco echoes, blinking like he’s been hit by a spell.
Leo smiles at his sister, and Draco understands he must have invited her to have breakfast with him.
Across the table, however, Pansy Parkinson lets out a dramatic little scoff. It’s subtle, but icy.
“Oh. How quaint,” she says, swirling her tea like it’s blood.
Cassiopeia doesn’t flinch. She simply picks up a piece of toast and butters it with surgical calm.
“Is there a problem?” she asks sweetly, not looking up.
“Not at all,” Pansy replies, smiling with all teeth. “It’s just rare to see a guest at our table.”
“Well,” Cassiopeia replies, buttering the edge of the toast delicately, “you must not be very observant.”
Leo sips his tea slowly. He does not interfere. Draco lifts an eyebrow, amused.
“You know, not all Slytherins like sharing their space,” Pansy presses.
“And not all Ravenclaws care,” Cassiopeia says, finally looking at her, head tilted. “You should try it sometime.”
Draco looks like he’s witnessing a duel with no wands and he is not ready. He opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.
“You look nice today,” he blurts, then immediately looks like he wants to evaporate.
Leo slowly turns his head to look at him, looking ready to stan him with the butter knife.
Cassiopeia raises a brow, hiding a smile. She delicately bumps his brother’s shoulder with hers to appease him. “Thank you. I’ll assume you mean that in a strictly platonic, friend-of-my-brother sort of way.”
“Sure. Yes. Obviously,” Draco says, ears turning pink. Leo, at least, continues eating without looking murderous. Instead, he pats Draco’s shoulder once.
“I’m watching you, mate,” he says.
Pansy sips her tea aggressively.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖๋ ࣭ ⭑
It’s been getting colder and colder. Classes are way too stressful and he needs some time to just fucking stop thinking. So he goes where he usually goes when he doesn’t want anyone to bother him.
The library is quiet, save for the occasional rustling of parchment and the whisper of turning pages. He sighs slightly in relief. But then he sees her, stops in his tracks, and stares at the back of her head like it’s plotting his doom.
Cassiopeia is tucked into a corner desk by the tall windows, sunlight catching in her hair. She’s reading Advanced Potion-Making like it’s a romance novel.
Draco approaches with all the grace of a cat shoved into a bathtub. He wasn’t looking for her, obviously. It’s not like Leo mentioned just how much Cassie likes Hogwarts library. Absolutely not. He just happened to be looking for… a book. A book he doesn’t even name. Ever.
Cassiopeia doesn’t look up. Doesn’t need to.
“If you’re going to hover like a ghost, at least be useful and grab me the red vial diagram from the Potions shelf.”
Draco nearly fumbles a reply. Instead, he shuffles over, pulls the scroll she needs, and brings it back with a scowl like she owes him her firstborn for this labor.
“Thank you,” she says, taking it with a small smile. “You may now return to your usual routine of acting bizarre around me.”
Draco sits down across from her like she just insulted his lineage.
“I do not act bizarre.”
She closes her book. Leans forward, resting her chin in her hand. Her eyes are too knowing.
“So you don’t fumble compliments, avoid eye contact, and nearly trip over your own feet when I sit beside you?”
“That happened one time.”
“Twice, actually.”
Draco glares at her, but he’s pink in the ears again. His pale skin doesn’t help him.
“Maybe I don’t like being stared at like I’m… interesting,” he mutters.
Cassiopeia hums. “You are interesting. Unfortunately, you also act like a cursed teapot when you’re flustered.”
He scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest. Dramatic as always.
“I am never flustered.”
She raises a brow. “Alright then. Say ‘periwinkle’, please.”
He then looks at her as if she grew a second head. But then, in a quiet voice, he complies.
“…Periwinkle.”
He could swear her eyes shined a little more.
“Say it again,” she asks.
Draco frowns, now slightly nervous. “What does this have to do with anything?”
Cassiopeia shrugs, brushing some of her long, dark, beautiful hair behind an ear. His eyes follow the delicate movement.
“British accent. It’s a thing for me. Keep going.”
He wasn’t expecting something like that. Definitely not.
Draco looks like he’s going to combust. His cheeks feel suddenly warm and he is damn sure his ears are pink again. “You’re awful.”
And she giggles. She bloody giggles.
“And yet you’re still here,” she says sweetly, already returning to her notes.
A beat. Then he says it again, quieter.
“Periwinkle.”
Cassiopeia smiles to herself.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖๋ ࣭ ⭑
It kind of becomes a thing after that. Cassiopeia would ask him to pronounce the most random words for her, arguing she likes how it sounds when he says them.
Water. Bottle. Schedule. Vitamin. Always. Lieutenant.
He would roll his eyes but pronounce them with his thickest British accent. Sometimes, she giggles, sending Draco into a spiral of blushes. Sometimes, she laughs, making it impossible for him to tear his eyes away from her. Sometimes she would simply smile warmly and try to pronounce the word like he does. Draco smiles more around her, he noticed. He doesn’t tell anyone, of course. He doesn’t need Leo trying to skin him alive, thank you very much.
It’s evening, just after dinner. The Slytherin common room glows with green-tinged light from the lake outside. Leo’s off playing wizard chess with Blaise, Cassiopeia’s flipping through a fashion magazine, curled up elegantly in a wingback chair by the fire.
She’s been spending more and more time in the dungeons. Leo likes to have her around, she’s his “baby sister” after all. Theo likes to discuss international fashion tendencies with her. Astoria fell in love with her ridiculously long hair, constantly asking her if she can braid it. Cassiopeia always says yes. Even Daphne took a liking to her since Cassie agreed to help him with her Spanish. Leo was offended at first, but Daphne said she’d rather die than learn something from him.
Draco walks in, hesitates by the door when he sees her, and then starts to walk over—
—and Pansy steps right into his path.
“You’ve been awfully… distracted lately, Draco.”
Draco narrows his eyes slightly. He looks down at her, an eyebrow raised. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t you?” she asks, a bitter little smile tugging at her lips. “Because from where I’m standing, you’re tripping over yourself for a Ravenclaw. One that barely even acknowledges you, mind you.”
He feels the air shift in the common room at that. Leo pauses his game, not looking up, but listening. Draco frowns a little, voice low and tired.
“She does acknowledge me.”
“Oh yes,” Pansy purrs. “When she’s not talking about books, or showing off her fancy European pedigree, or asking you to say words like—periwinkle.”
Cassiopeia looks up at this, expression unreadable but eyes sharp.
Draco’s jaw clenches. “Watch it, Pansy.”
“Why?” she snaps. “Afraid I’ll say what everyone’s thinking? That you’ve lost your spine over some—some pretty little tourist who thinks she’s too good for our house, our friends—”
“Enough.”
Draco’s voice is low, cutting, the way it gets when he’s furious but too well-bred to yell.
“Say what you want about me, Pansy. But don’t talk about her like that.”
The room fully quiets. Leo finally looks up from his game, watching closely but still not interfering.
“You’re defending her now?” Pansy hisses.
“Yes,” Draco says simply, unapologetically. “I am.”
“She’s not even Slytherin.”
“Neither is Blaise’s cousin. Or Daphne’s boyfriend. We don’t gatekeep at this table.”
Pansy glares at him. “She’s using you. Playing some Ravenclaw experiment—”
“You don’t know her,” Draco snaps. “She doesn’t need to play games. If you spent five minutes talking to her, you’d know that.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Cassiopeia closes her magazine, stands, and walks toward them slowly.
“That’s enough,” she says quietly, but with the kind of calm that makes people listen.
She turns to Pansy. “I have no intention of replacing you. Or anyone. I sit at your table because my brother invites me. I spend time in your common room because my friends are here. If you don’t like me, that’s fine. But don’t mistake your bitterness for my fault.”
Pansy stiffens, eyes cold.
“Fine,” she says through clenched teeth. Then she spins on her heel and storms out of the room.
The silence left behind is thick. Leo sighs, long and tired, but continues playing with Blaise.
Cassiopeia raises an eyebrow at Draco. “You didn’t have to do that.”
Draco shrugs, avoiding her gaze. “She was out of line.”
Cassiopeia tilts her head. “Well… thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.”
She stands up, waves at her brother and walks to the door to go back to the Ravenclaw Tower. Suddenly, she stops and turns around.
“Draco?”
“Mm?”
“Say ‘treacle tart.’”
He groans, but turns away quickly—to hide the smile he absolutely, definitely isn’t wearing.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖๋ ࣭ ⭑
It’s nearly midnight. Most of the castle is asleep. But Cassiopeia’s still awake, a navy-blue cloak wrapped around her shoulders as she climbs the spiral staircase to the Astronomy Tower. Her heels click quietly on the stone, her breath a cloud in the cold air.
She likes the quiet up there. Likes the way the night sky feels close enough to touch. It’s been a couple of weeks since the Pansy incident. She still spends time with the snakes and, if she’s being honest, she hopes to be Pansy’s friend someday. Luna told her she would come around, eventually. Ginny wasn’t so convinced, but declared she was proud of Cassie and her answer.
She smiles faintly at nothing. It’s been an interesting first year at Hogwarts so far. She walks up the stairs carefully, silently, as if the tiniest noise could wake the whole castle up. Plus, she didn’t want to be caught by the Prefects.
She smiles when the fresh night air hits her face. She doesn’t expect to find someone already there, though.
Draco Malfoy stands near the edge, robes fluttering gently in the wind, platinum hair gleaming under moonlight like silver thread. She can’t help thinking what a vision he is.
He hears her footsteps but doesn’t turn.
“Couldn't sleep either?” he says, voice low.
Cassiopeia pauses, then walks forward until she’s beside him, leaving a respectable inch between their shoulders.
“Something like that,” she murmurs. “You?”
“Always been a bit of an insomniac.”
They fall into silence. The stars flicker above them, a thousand secrets stretched across the heavens.
She looks at him. He looks troubled and she hates it. She wants to make him smile.
Cassiopeia tilts her head back, gazing upward. “There,” she says, pointing. “Cassiopeia. The constellation.”
Draco glances sideways, smirking softly. “Named after a queen who was too proud.”
“Fitting, isn’t it?” she hums. “You always say I’m too proud.”
“I said it was fitting,” he says. “Didn’t say it was a bad thing.”
She turns to look at him. Really look. He is gorgeous. Those silver eyes have been stealing her sleep since she met him.
“Draco,” she says suddenly. “Say ‘darling.’”
He raises a brow, clearly amused. His voice is low and even. “Why?”
“Just do it.”
He huffs, dramatically, but obliges.
“Darling.”
She laughs softly. “You sound like an aristocrat from a 19th century novel.”
“I am one, technically.”
She brushes hair behind her ear. His hands itch to do so himself.
“It’s stupid how much I like your accent,” she mutters, mostly to herself.
Draco’s smirk fades. He’s staring at her now, really staring, and not like she’s just Leo’s sister or some Ravenclaw curiosity. Like she’s something he doesn’t quite understand but can’t stop wanting to.
“You know,” he says, voice barely above a whisper, “you’re not what I expected.”
Cassiopeia’s breath catches.
“What did you expect?”
“I don’t know,” he admits. “Someone colder. Like the girls I grew up around. Someone who would ignore me or try too hard. But you…”
“But me?”
He turns his body toward hers. “You laugh at me. You ask me about poetry. You steal my desserts at lunch. You sit at our table like you own it, and you still wear blue like it’s armor. You’re…”
“Too much?”
“No,” he breathes. “You’re brilliant.”
The wind rustles her cloak. A lock of hair brushes her cheek. He finally reaches up, fingers brushing it back gently behind her ear—and stops. His hand lingers near her jaw, not quite touching, his gaze flickering from her eyes to her lips.
“I shouldn’t,” he says.
“But you want to.”
“Yes.”
They don’t kiss.
Not yet.
But the space between them tightens like a drawn bow.
She leans in slightly—only slightly.
“Good night, Draco.”
“Good night, Cassiopeia.”
She walks away, and he watches her until she disappears into the dark.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖๋ ࣭ ⭑
It starts with a lie.
“We’re just going over Arithmancy,” Cassiopeia says calmly, scribbling something into her planner. They’ve been studying in the library. Her hair is up in a perfect ponytail.
“With Malfoy?” Leo raises an eyebrow.
“He’s good at numbers.”
“He’s good at scheming,” Leo mutters, but lets it go.
She doesn’t lie well, but she’s learned to lie beautifully.
They meet outside the gates, hidden behind winter scarves and layers of robes. The cold nips at her cheeks; his gloves brush hers as they walk.
They are not touching.
But they could.
Cassiopeia’s wearing a long cream scarf and a dark blue beret. Draco notices. Of course he notices.
“Is that new?”
She smiles and looks up at him as they walk.
“Mhm.”
He chuckles, but starts walking just the tiniest bit closer.
“Figures. You’re the only person I know who makes uniform accessories look like a Parisian runway.”
“Are you saying I’m overdressed for a date?”
“...So you’re calling it a date?”
“No.”
“Right. Study group.”
“Exactly.”
“With two people.”
“Shut up, Draco.”
He smirks. She hides a smile behind her glove.
Madam Puddifoot’s is out of the question. Too many hearts. Too much lace. Too obvious. So they sneak into Tomes & Scrolls, instead. Quiet. Dusty. Romantic in the we’re-sitting-too-close-in-the-back-corner kind of way.
She’s flipping through a thick spellbook on potion theory. He’s pretending to read Hogwarts: A History, but hasn’t turned the page in twenty minutes.
He’s watching her lips move as she reads silently. They are shiny. She’s using bloody lipgloss. Draco wants to kiss her.
She hums after a few minutes.
“Say ‘lavender.’”
“Why?”
“Just—say it.”
He chuckles, low. Her cheeks feel warmer somehow.
“Lavender.”
Cassiopeia closes her eyes dramatically. “Ugh. That accent should be illegal.”
“If I say cauldron, will you pass out?”
“Don’t test me.”
They laugh. Softly, intimate.
He buys her a pastry at Honeydukes.
She buys him a silly quill with a tiny silver snake charm at the end.
“It’s ridiculous,” he says.
“It’s you,” she grins.
“So you think I’m ridiculous?”
“Constantly.”
(He keeps it in his bag.)
As the sun sets and the walk back begins, snow starts to fall. Small at first—quiet and fluttering. She laughs, reaching out a hand.
“First snow.”
He watches her spin slowly beneath it, her hands outstretched, her nose pink, her beret slipping slightly to the side.
Something inside him lurches. He doesn’t know where the bravery came from, but he swallows and opens his mouth before he regains his rational thinking.
“Cassiopeia.”
“Yes?”
She is smiling. Glossy lips and rosy cheeks. Merlin have mercy.
“Don’t fall for me.”
She stops, looks at him and chuckles.
“Too late.”
His breath catches.
She doesn’t wait for a kiss. Just threads her fingers through his gloved hand, and keeps walking.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖๋ ࣭ ⭑
The following week was hell.
It all starts on Monday. It’s not even a confrontation. It’s a moment.
Draco’s walking her to the library, hand brushing hers—barely—when Leo rounds the corner.
He stops.
They freeze.
Cassiopeia blinks, already preparing a clever excuse. Draco just… stands his ground.
The older Borja crosses his arms over his chest, an eyebrow raised, that smirk on his face. The one that seems to say “I caught you, bastard”.
“Oh. Interesting,” he says, voice low and even.
“Leo—”
“No, I’m fine. Really. Just having a thrilling time trying to imagine what kind of study session ends with my sister looking like she wants to kiss you in the Restricted Section.”
Cassiopeia flushes scarlet. Draco smirks, then corrects himself. No smirking. Not in front of Leo.
“You have nothing to worry about,” he says.
“That’s what I’m worried about,” Leo replies coolly.
Pause.
Then, Leo sighs like an older brother who’s already done too much parenting for one week.
“Just don’t mess with her, Malfoy. Or I’ll break your nose.”
Draco swallows and nods, slowly. Awkward.
“...That’s fair.”
Cassiopeia sighs, shaking her head fondly.
“You two are unbelievable.”
After that, things became a little awkward. Just a little bit.
On Tuesday, Draco sits down heavily on a chair by the Slytherin table. Leo was normal. Well, kind of normal. Draco didn’t even tell Cassiopeia how her brother almost pushed him off his broomstick during yesterday evening's practice. She didn’t need to know that.
He takes a breath. It's breakfast time in the Great Hall.
The Borjas approach the table. Cassie normally joins them every other day. They still have to share her with her Ravenclaw friends, and some Gryffindors, much to Draco's displeasure.
Cassiopeia slides in next to Draco at the Slytherin table. He glances up, grins without thinking.
Pansy sees. She rolls her eyes.
“Oh, look. Ravenclaw royalty graces us with her presence again.”
Cassiopeia doesn’t flinch. She adds sugar to her tea calmly.
“You’re still here, Pansy? I thought you’d slithered off under a rock by now.”
Draco chokes on his juice. Blaise cackles. Astoria and Daphne hide their smiles behind their goblets.
But Pansy leans in close, sweet smile sharpening like a knife.
“Careful, cariño. Draco has a taste for danger, but he always comes back home. Don’t get too comfortable.”
Cassiopeia sips her tea and does her best not to grimace at the terrible Spanish.
“Thank you for the warning. I’ll remember it—and I'll see you at the annual Christmas Ball at Malfoy Manor, dear. Guess who invited me.
Silence.
Just Theo Nott dares to cough in surprise.
By Friday, both of them need some peace and quiet. They’re in the Astronomy section. Studying. Mostly.
Draco’s back is pressed against a bookshelf, and Cassiopeia is pacing with a textbook in hand.
She moves graciously. She’s ranting about something theoretical in Potions. He’s pretending to follow, but all he can focus on is the way she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear when she’s focused.
“You’re not even listening,” she says with a smile.
“I am. You said something about... lunar infusion and essence of belladonna—”
“Draco.”
He chuckles and closes the book he's been trying (pretending) to read.
“Alright, I’m distracted. You’re distracting.”
She steps closer. Her voice is low, suave.
“Should I leave, then?”
“Merlin, no.”
They’re inches apart.
Her hand is on the shelf beside his head. His eyes flicker to her lips.
“Say it,” she whispers.
He can't stop staring at her lips. She’s wearing lipgloss again.
“Say what?”
“Something. Anything. In that ridiculous accent.”
He leans in.
“Biblioteca.”
“That’s Spanish, Draco.”
Their laughter melts into silence. Their breath mingles.
And then—
He kisses her. Briefly, shy. Barely a kiss.
A thud from a falling book snaps them apart. Madam Pince screeches from the other aisle.
They both bolt, hand in hand, giggling.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖๋ ࣭ ⭑
The ballroom of Malfoy Manor glittered like frost under candlelight—chandeliers casting golden reflections across the marble, the room alive with the murmurs of legacy and polished shoes.
Cassiopeia adjusted her silver shawl, eyes scanning the crowd of crisp dress robes and practiced smiles. Her gown was navy blue silk, Spanish-cut, subtle embroidery of constellations winding down the hem. Her hair was swept back in an elegant twist, held by a jeweled comb shaped like a crescent moon.
“There you are,” Draco said as he appeared at her side, breath catching ever so slightly.
She arched her brow. “Took you long enough.”
“I had to get past five different aunts who asked me if I was ‘finally’ bringing Astoria Greengrass.”
She smirked. “Tragic.”
“Unspeakably.”
He offered his hand.
“Dance with me. Before someone else gets the idea.”
They moved like they were made for it—steps in perfect time, the fabric of their lives twining invisibly. Whispers rose like perfume as they spun.
“Who is she?”
“The Borja girl.”
“Spanish nobility. Old magic.”
“Ravenclaw, I think.”
“A bit forward, isn’t she?”
“Quite charming, though.”
From across the room, Narcissa Malfoy watched with a gloved hand wrapped around a glass of chilled wine. Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes were sharp.
Lucius stood beside her, cane in hand, eyes flicking from Cassiopeia’s form to the way Draco looked at her—softer than he ever looked at anything, more certain than Lucius had ever taught him to be.
“She’s not from here,” Narcissa murmured.
“She’s also not a fool,” Lucius replied. “And he listens to her.”
“He shouldn’t,” she said coldly. “Emotion weakens boys like him.”
Lucius said nothing.
Later, after the fifth dance and one (1) polite insult from Daphne Greengrass, Draco led Cassiopeia to the manor’s conservatory to escape the crowd. Glass walls, soft snowfall beyond. Stars.
“Your mother hates me,” Cassiopeia whispered as they sat on the edge of a marble fountain.
“She doesn’t know you.”
“She doesn’t want to.”
“She’s never been very good with change.”
Cassiopeia leaned her head on his shoulder.
“Do you want me here?” she asked, voice suddenly small.
Draco turned toward her, lifting her hand to his lips.
“I want you everywhere I go.”
And behind the glass, Narcissa watched.
And frowned.
And said nothing.
Some days later, Cassiopeia receives a handwritten note—immaculate handwriting, barely scented, just two sentences:
“I would like to speak with you. Tea will be served at ten.
—N. Malfoy”
She's early. Narcissa is already seated in a sunlit salon, where everything is white, silver, and cold. A house-elf pours tea. Narcissa doesn't offer sugar.
“You dance well,” she says.
“Thank you, Mrs. Malfoy.”
“And you’ve stirred up quite the conversation in every room you've entered.”
Cassiopeia stays silent. She knows better than to fill the silence too quickly.
“You speak with conviction,” Narcissa continues, fixing her with cool blue eyes. “You wear your bloodline with elegance. And yet… you linger near my son.”
Cassiopeia tilts her head just a little. “Does that trouble you?”
Narcissa’s smile doesn't touch her eyes.
“It would trouble any mother, Miss Borja. When girls appear from far-off places with quiet fire and clever eyes.”
And Cassiopeia, calm as ever, just sips her tea.
“I don’t wish to take anything from him. I only offer him someone who listens.”
And that silences Narcissa—for a beat.
“If you ever cause him pain,” she says, voice low and precise, “you will find that Spain is not nearly far enough.”
Later, as she explores the Manor’s gardens, she finds Lucius standing under the bare branches of a white tree. He’s not looking at her—but he knows she’s there.
“He used to stand there too, when he was a boy,” Lucius says. “Always wanted to fly.”
She approaches cautiously. “And did you let him?”
“Of course not,” he says. “He learned better.”
Lucius turns. His expression is unreadable.
“My wife fears you. Not for what you are—but what you make him feel.”
Cassiopeia stays very still.
“What do I make him feel?” she asks.
Lucius takes a long pause, then simply says:
“Uncontrolled.”
“Alive,” she corrects.
Lucius walks past her, stopping only to add:
“Make sure you don’t ruin him.”
She does not respond. She just lowers her head and stands there for a while.
The next morning, everyone’s dressed and poised around the long, cold Malfoy dining table. Pansy Parkinson says something snide.
“Ravenclaws are always so… desperate to be noticed. Aren’t they, Draco?”
Cassiopeia doesn’t flinch, but the clink of her fork stops.
And then Draco, voice calm but sharp as a hex, says:
“Funny. She walks into a room and people pay attention. You’ve been trying for years.”
Lucius raises an eyebrow. Narcissa sips her tea. Pansy gapes.
Cassiopeia just keeps eating.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖๋ ࣭ ⭑
Cassiopeia’s return is the talk of the school. She wore a navy silk gown to the ball with silver stars stitched in. She enchanted half the pure-blood population with a single glance. And she danced—with Draco Malfoy.
People talk. They whisper. But Draco doesn’t. He stares. Watches her across the Great Hall. Doesn't sit with Pansy anymore. Answers questions with a clipped, "What business is it of yours?"
And then—
The hex.
It happens late. She’s walking alone to the Ravenclaw common room—some 6th year Slytherins hex her from behind. It’s cruel and sudden. She kneels when she feels something akin to a sword cut the skin of her side. She doesn’t scream, doesn’t have the air or strength for that. She just whimpers through her tears.
She was lucky Luna was skipping in that corridor. She called Leo. He brought her to the infirmary.
Draco hears about it two hours later and loses it. There is nothing cold about the way he storms out of the Slytherin common room, face like steel.
"Who did it?"
“We are not sure,” Blaise says carefully.
“Find out.”
“Draco, calm down—”
“DON’T TELL ME TO CALM DOWN, BLAISE—SHE COULD HAVE—”
He storms into Snape’s office. Into McGonagall’s classroom. Into the Slytherin dorms. One by one.
“If I find out who it was, they’ll wish they’d never picked up a wand.”
He gets detention. Multiple. He doesn’t care.
He doesn’t sleep. He doesn’t eat. He stalks the corridors like a curse with legs. Even Leo is unsettled.
Eventually, he finds who cast it—some bitter seventh-year girl who’s always stared daggers whenever Cassiopeia so much as breathed near him.
“You think a hex will make me look at you?” he hisses.
“You do look at me now—”
“Like filth under my boot.”
And then... Draco casts something untraceable. He doesn’t touch her, doesn’t hex her face, but her wand is mysteriously snapped the next day, and her potion vials melt in her bag. No one can prove a thing.
Hours later, Cassiopeia wakes to a soft tapping.
It’s him. Leaning against the window, dark circles under his eyes, still in uniform like he never left school grounds. He walks in, a bouquet of enchanted snowdrops in hand—charmed to glow faintly in the dark. She knows he’s fuming, silent.
“Don’t say anything,” he says quietly. “I’ll hex someone if you thank me.”
She gives him a weak smile. “I was going to ask if you picked a fight with Snape.”
He shrugs. “I might have broken one of his vials.”
“Draco—”
“No. You don’t get to brush this off.”
His voice cracks just slightly.
“Do you know what I thought when I heard? That it could’ve been worse. That someone did this because they envied you. Because you don’t belong to anyone’s box. Because you smiled at me in front of Pansy and didn’t give a fuck about it.”
She says nothing. He speaks again after some minutes.
“You make me forget to breathe, and they hate that.”
He puts the snowdrops on her nightstand and turns to leave. Her voice makes him stop again.
“Draco.” And Merlin knows how much he likes the sound of his name from her lips. But he won’t forget what happened.
“They hurt you, Cass.”
“I’m fine now.”
“You bled.”
That shuts her up. She understands mostly. His eyes look like dark storms tonight. He is too far away, and she desperately wants to take his hand.
Her voice is soft, weak even when she speaks again. “I’m better now. Thank you for caring.”
Draco looks away again, jaw clenched.
“I won’t let them hurt you again. Even if I have to hex half the school. I’d burn the school down if you asked me to.”
And just like that, he leaves. Cassie sighs and closes her eyes, not able to stop her wild beating heart.
It’s after class, just one day after the incident. Draco is walking alone when Leo corners him in a hallway, arms crossed, eyes like cut amber.
“I heard what you did.” Leo’s voice is low and serious.
“You’ll have to be more specific.”
“You know what I’m talking about.”
They’re close now, tension like crackling spells between them.
“Was it true?” Leo asks. “You hunted down the girl who hexed her?”
“She bled, Leo,” Draco says, as if that's enough. And, to be honest, it is. For him at least.
“I know.”
“And you did nothing.”
Leo doesn’t answer for a beat. Then:
“I wanted to see what you’d do.”
Draco narrows his eyes, fits clenched.
“You’re testing me now?”
“She’s not just my sister, Draco. She’s... fragile in ways you don’t understand.”
He shakes his head, silver eyes hard as steel.
“She’s stronger than both of us.”
Leo studies him. A long, measuring silence.
“You’ve earned a fraction of my trust.”
“Only a fraction?”
“I’m still her brother, Malfoy.”
They shake hands. Barely. But it’s something.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖๋ ࣭ ⭑
Hidden deep in the castle’s west wing is a long-forgotten annex of the library. It’s dusty, drafty, and technically off-limits—but there’s a dusty upright piano in the corner, a velvet fainting couch, and enchanted windows that show the real sky even when it’s storming.
Cassiopeia finds it first.
She’s just looking for silence. She’s tired of whispering corridors and stares. And she’s still recovering. She stumbles across the hidden entrance behind a tapestry of Ariadne the Wise—the founder of a little-known Ravenclaw-aligned magical society.
She starts playing there. Alone.
And one night—after her recovery—Draco follows the sound.
“You play like someone’s breaking your heart,” he says from the doorway one night.
She doesn’t turn, simply smiles.
“What are you doing here?”
“I followed the music.”
“And if I asked you to leave?”
“I’d sit on the floor until you changed your mind.”
She lets him stay. Of course.
It becomes sort of their place after that. He brings her books he thinks she’ll like but pretends he doesn’t care about.
She makes him say “charming,” “peculiar,” and “luncheon” just to smile at his accent.
They sit on opposite ends of the couch at first. Then closer. Then touching. Then one night, not touching at all—just leaning, forehead to forehead in the candlelight.
He confesses things here. “I don’t think I believe in fate, but then you arrived.”
One night, she plays something that makes him cry—but he doesn’t say it was the music.
“Why are you really here, Draco?”
“Because the world makes more sense when I’m near you.”
“Even when I’m quiet?”
“Especially when you’re quiet.”
One day, Leo walks into the West Tower. Sees Draco asleep, head tilted against Cassiopeia’s shoulder. She’s reading. Doesn’t even notice him. But she looks content. Her own head resting against his.
He stares. Debates murder.
And then leaves quietly.
But the next morning at breakfast, he slides into the seat beside Draco, calmly sips his tea and mutters—
“Break her heart, and I’ll curse your entire bloodline with male pattern baldness. Don’t test me.”
Draco almost chokes on his pumpkin juice.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖๋ ࣭ ⭑
Everything was okay after that. Until it wasn’t.
The air is heavy. Charms class ended in chaos. Someone (probably another jealous girl) “accidentally” hexed Cassiopeia’s wand to backfire. She burned her hand. Just a little. But enough to make her bite her tongue to stop the curse that threatens to escape.
Eyes glinting with unshed tears, she storms out into the courtyard, rain falling in sheets—barely holding herself together. She sits under the marble archway, trying to breathe. Her fingers tremble as she reaches for her wand to fix the mess. She knows she should go to the infirmary, but she doesn’t want to.
And then—
He’s there.
No umbrella. Soaked. Angry.
“Who did it?” His voice low, menacing. It almost makes her whimper.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It does to me.”
She glares up at him. She’s mad, frustrated. Rain clinging to her lashes.
“You don’t get to be my knight in shining armor, Malfoy. ”
“I’m not. I’m the idiot who let you walk away.”
Her voice cracks.
“Why do you care so much?”
She thinks she knows the answer. But fuck, she needs to hear it.
“Because I—”
He hesitates. One hand in his hair. The other clenched at his side.
“Because I notice everything about you. Because I look for you in every hallway. Because when you laugh, it sounds like I could be better than who I am.”
And then it happens.
He kisses her. Really kisses her.
Not soft, not delicate. But desperate. Like he’s been holding it back for months. Like he’s terrified she’ll vanish.
She kisses him back.
The rain fades. All she hears is his breath, his lips, the frantic thud of her heart.
He pulls away first, eyes wide like he’s just committed a crime.
“Cassiopeia—”
She leans in again.
“Say my name like that again and I’ll forgive you for everything.”
He smiles and kisses her again.
Later that night, the castle is silent. Most students are asleep. The storm has passed—but not the one in her chest.
Cassiopeia creeps up the winding stairwell behind the tapestry. She doesn’t knock. She just slips inside.
Draco’s already there.
Sitting by the piano, candlelight flickering against the white wood. His hair’s still damp. There’s a book in his lap but he’s not reading.
He stands the moment she enters.
“I wasn’t sure if you’d come.”
“Neither was I,” she whispers, closing the door behind her.
She walks across the room slowly, her shoes silent against the carpet. For a moment, neither of them say a word.
She reaches out first.
Their fingers intertwine. Gently. As if anything more would break the fragile peace between them.
“You make it really hard to stay angry with you,” she murmurs.
He presses his forehead to hers.
“Good. I’d rather you kiss me again.”
And she does.
Softer this time.
Like music with no notes, just breath and presence.
They sit on the fainting couch, tangled up in one another. His coat around her shoulders. Cassiopeia lay sprawled across Draco’s lap, legs kicking softly in the air, Pride and Prejudice open in her hands. The fire crackling softly.
He doesn’t even have the strength nor the will to pretend he is not watching her. Her long hair, her lips, her cheeks, her lashes.
“Aluminium,” she said, out of nowhere.
He lifts an eyebrow, amused.
“No.”
“Say it, Draco.”
“I’m not a performing monkey.”
She turns her head and gives him the pout. The pout. His eyes flick down, narrowed.
“You’re ridiculous,” he mutters.
“And you’re British. Please.”
He rolls his eyes, pulls her closer.
“Fine. Aluminium.”
“Again.”
“Bloody hell—aluminium.”
“Once more. I need it for my nerves.”
He grumbles, brushing hair out of her eyes.
“Aluminium. There. Now stop looking at me like that.”
She smiles smugly.
“Like what?”
“Like I’m your favorite thing in the world.”
She blinks, genuinely caught off guard for a second. Then she whispers honestly:
“You are.”
His cheeks flush, and he tries to hide it by tilting her book up between them.
“You’re insufferable.”
“And yet, you let me stay.”
“You’re lucky I like your ridiculous laugh and the way you always steal my scarf.”
“You’re lucky I haven’t called you 'Draquito' again.”
He groans.
“Merlin, don’t. My ancestors are already disappointed enough.”
They laugh, hidden away in their little corner of the world, where nothing else matters but each other. Then, she rests her head against his chest again, his heartbeat steady next to her ear.
“Draco?”
“Mhm?
“Will you say something? Anything.”
“Cassiopeia,” he breathes, voice low and sleepy.
“What?”
“Just… Cassiopeia. Over and over again. Until you fall asleep.”
And she does.
With the sound of her name on his lips and his heartbeat in her ear. And for once—everything is still.