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The war was over. The Wizarding World was trying to heal itself.
After so many months of fear, death and suffering, the Ministry thought it would be a good idea to host a Ballroom. To celebrate what exactly? No one really knew.
The chandeliers dripped crystal like frozen tears. Gold filigree curled up the marble columns, and the room hummed with carefully moderated conversation and the clinking of glasses. Music swelled—refined, tasteful, the kind of waltz that existed purely to keep people moving in circles.
Draco stood at the edge of it all, jaw clenched, tailored in black. The war still clung to his shadow, even if his robes were immaculate. He knew the stares. Knew what they whispered when they thought he wasn’t listening. He didn’t care. Mostly.
He didn’t want to be there. In fact, he’d rather be anywhere else. But there he was. Pretending his family name wasn’t a synonym of disappointment to the majority of the magical population of England.
Then, suddenly, the temperature of the room shifted.
Not physically, but… socially. Viscerally. The way a forest goes still before lightning strikes.
The crowd near the entrance parted like someone had cast a silent spell, and the trio stepped into view.
The Borja siblings.
Whispers followed them like smoke.
“Those are the Spanish ones…”
“The pure-bloods from Madrid?”
“I heard they burned down a manor in Belgium. On purpose.”
“Don’t make eye contact—”
But people did, helplessly. Because the three of them were stunning, in the way storms are stunning. Leo led, quiet, jaw sharp as if carved from stone. Felix followed, his gaze flicking through the room like a scalpel, calculating, cool. And then—her.
Cassiopeia Katerina Borja. Wrapped in midnight silk, constellations scattered across her gown like secrets. Her hair was pinned with silver stars, and her eyes—Draco couldn’t look away. Not because she was beautiful (though she was, extremely so), but because she was elsewhere. Removed. Uninterested.
She looked like she’d rather be painting this ballroom than standing in it. Or reading a book in a quiet room. Or even sleeping. Her warm brown eyes focused enough to allow her to follow her brothers closely.
And Draco, for a moment, forgot how to breathe. He tried, really tried, to listen to the conversation his pure-blood friends tried to engage him in. But his eyes seemed to be more interested in admiring that mysterious and gorgeous woman wearing deep blue.
Later that night, he felt someone bump him in the shoulder softly.
“Stop glowering. You look like a disgruntled statue,” Blaise drawled, appearing at Draco’s side with two glasses of firewhisky and the kind of smirk that meant trouble. “You’ve been watching her.”
Draco didn’t reply, but his silence was admission enough.
Blaise handed him a glass. “That’s Cassiopeia Katerina Borja. Pretty name, don’t you think? And those intimidating mountains beside her? Her brothers. They are triplets, in fact. Felix and I went to a summer symposium together in Madrid. He hexed a French delegate over a chess game and then offered me wine. It was the beginning of a beautiful acquaintanceship.”
Draco raised an eyebrow. Blaise clearly wanted him to approach them. “And you want me to do what exactly? Walk into a lion’s den because you’re friends with one of the lions?”
He rolled his eyes in exasperation.
“I want you to meet someone who doesn’t give a damn about your surname,” Blaise said simply. “And who might just be your match. Come on. I’ll do the talking.”
Draco muttered something about regretting this already, but followed. Blaise led him across the floor like a general guiding a soldier into war—calm, confident, slightly amused.
The Borja siblings noticed them before they arrived, of course.
Felix’s eyes narrowed slightly—calculating, protective—but he nodded in recognition at Blaise.
Leo didn’t move. He didn’t need to.
And Cassiopeia… didn’t look at them. She was tracing a pattern on her champagne flute with her fingertip, lost in her thoughts.
Draco couldn’t help but analyse them now that he was closer. They definitely looked alike. Same deep brown eyes, same noses. Leo and Felix were almost identical. The main difference was Felix’s slightly lighter hair. Dark blonde. Huh.
“Felix,” Blaise said warmly, clasping the man’s hand. “I see you brought half the night sky with you. Mind if I introduce someone?”
Draco wanted the ground to swallow him whole. Fucking Blaise.
Felix shrugged with casual grace. “Depends. Will he cry if she doesn’t smile back?”
Cassiopeia finally looked up, and her gaze landed squarely on Draco. Calm. Cool. Curious.
“This is Draco Lucius Malfoy,” Blaise continued, ignoring the jab with a smile. “Draco, meet Cassiopeia Katerina Borja. And her brothers, Leo and Felix.”
She inclined her head, not quite a bow. “Malfoy,” she said. Her voice was low, smooth, lightly accented. “You stand like your back is made of glass.”
Draco blinked. “Excuse me?”
“If someone poked you wrong, you might shatter.” She tilted her head slightly. “Or stab.”
A beat of silence. Then she offered her hand.
He took it.
And he smiled.
The handshake ended, but her gaze lingered. Like she was dissecting him. Not cruelly—curiously. Artistically.
Cassiopeia turned to Felix, then to Leo. Both of them stared down at her the way two older brothers stare at their little sister. Their star. “Do I have to stay glued to your side the entire night?”
“You promised,” Felix said flatly.
“I promised not to disappear without warning. I’m asking to dance.” She looked back to Draco, eyes glinting with mischief. “If your glass spine can handle it.”
Draco nearly choked. Blaise grinned into his drink.
“I think I’ll manage,” Draco said coolly, offering his arm.
Felix looked like he wanted to protest, but Leo, who hadn’t spoken once, gave the tiniest nod, a hand on his sister’s back.
Permission granted.
On the dance floor, Cassiopeia moved like water—smooth, precise, effortless. Draco matched her, though his mind was racing. Up close, she was even harder to read. Her eyes weren’t blank—they were layered. Like she was holding back entire galaxies just to be polite.
“You’re quieter than I expected,” she said, tilting her head as they turned. Draco couldn’t tear his eyes away from her dark brown curls framing her face.
“And you’re far less terrifying.”
Cassiopeia gave a soft, delighted hum. “Don’t tell Felix. He works hard to maintain the illusion.”
He couldn’t help it—he laughed. A real one.
“You don’t like these events, do you?” she asked after a moment.
“I loathe them,” Draco admitted. “The posturing. The pretending. Everyone here’s either watching for weakness or waiting to exploit it.”
She smiled. Not smug—understanding. “You sound like my brother.”
“Which one?”
“Both. They like to think they protect me from the world.” She looked past his shoulder toward her brothers, still stationed like sentinels. “But they can’t protect me from being misunderstood.”
Her voice dropped. Quiet, barely audible over the music, but he heard her. Draco was caught off guard. “You mean the rumors?”
“Mhm,” she said. “They say I hexed a boy for stepping on my shoe. That I turned a tutor’s tongue into a toad. That I slit a girl’s palm open for copying my wand motions.”
His eyes widened slightly as he spun her around.
“Did you?”
“I did,” she said cheerfully. “The boy was rude, the tutor was a blood purist, and the girl—well, she got in the way.”
Draco stared at her.
Cassiopeia leaned in slightly, lowering her voice. “But what they never mention is that I cried after the duel. That I spent three weeks painting the girl a portrait because I felt guilty. Or that I play the cello to sleep at night because nightmares don’t like music.”
He had no idea what to say. Her honesty—soft and sharp at once—cut straight through him. Not like a dagger. Like a scalpel.
And just like that, Draco Malfoy was done for.
They danced some more. Talked about meaningless topics until Cassiopeia’s fingers brushed his wrist—barely a touch, but somehow commanding.
“Come with me,” she said, like it wasn’t even a question.
Draco didn’t argue. He didn’t want to.
She led him past velvet ropes and tall doors, into a quiet corridor lined with magical paintings. The Ministry Gallery Wing. Some of the art shifted with enchanted dusk, stars glowing faintly in each frame. It smelled like old parchment and violets.
“No one ever comes here,” she murmured. “They think it's boring. But I like the silence.”
She stopped in front of a large, circular canvas—an abstract swirl of silver and black. Draco recognized the style. Spanish magical modernism. He tilted his head.
“Is that… the Veela Migration piece?”
Cassiopeia turned to him, visibly surprised. “You know it?”
He nodded slowly. “My mother collects art. This one used to hang in the French Ministry. They said it glowed brighter when the Veela sang.”
Cassiopeia’s eyes lit up—not in a dramatic way, but like he’d unlocked something soft in her. “I saw it once, as a child. I cried. It was the first time I realized paintings could sing without sound.”
She sat down on the low bench beneath the frame, folding her hands delicately in her lap. Draco sat beside her, careful not to crowd.
“I play music,” she said, almost shy. “Cello. Violin. Piano, mostly. I paint, too. And sketch. I used to draw my brothers when they fell asleep on the train to Beauxbatons. Felix drools.”
Draco let out a laugh before he could stop it.
“I heard that,” came Felix’s voice—from around the corner. Draco tensed a little. He suspected those two never really left Cassiopeia alone for too long. Especially not in a building full of pure-bloods and liars.
Cassiopeia didn’t even blink. “Good. Maybe next time you’ll let me dance twice. Maybe have a conversation without being guarded”
Felix sighed like he aged a decade in one breath. “You’ve known him for an hour, Cassie.”
“Fifty-eight minutes,” she corrected, smiling slightly. “And I haven’t hexed him once.”
Leo appeared behind Felix—arms crossed, unreadable as ever. But he met Draco’s gaze. Nodded once.
You’re still being watched, that nod said.
But also: You’re not unwelcome.
Felix grumbled something in Spanish and stalked back toward the ballroom. Leo lingered a second longer, then turned and followed.
Cassiopeia leaned a little closer to Draco, voice light. “If Felix ever offers you wine, don’t drink it. It’s a test.”
Draco smirked. “You terrify me, Borja.”
“Good,” she said, brushing her fingers along the hem of her gown. “But I hope you’ll stay terrified long enough to learn how I like my tea. And which key my cello’s tuned to.”
He looked at her. Really looked at her.
And smiled.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖๋ ࣭ ⭑
Malfoy Manor – Two Days After the Ball
“He’s going to their manor?” Lucius asked, pausing mid-fold of the Daily Prophet.
Narcissa raised a brow, lips thin. “Apparently. He said he was ‘invited.’”
Lucius hummed. “Did he mention which Borja invited him?”
Narcissa’s silence was answer enough.
Lucius muttered something about Spanish aristocrats and poor decisions. Narcissa, however, didn’t look upset. Just... intrigued.
“She wore a dress that made even the Rosiers look underdressed,” she said absently, remembering the ball. “And her posture...”
“She could stab you with it,” Lucius finished grimly.
“Quite,” Narcissa said. Then, a beat later, almost too softly: “But her eyes were kind.”
Borja Manor – Southern Wiltshire – That Afternoon
It was not what Draco expected.
Sure, it looked grand from the outside—ivy-covered stone, enchanted glass, sharp lines softened by gardens and roses. But the moment the front door opened, and Leo—yes, Leo—greeted him not with a threat but a curt “Welcome, Malfoy,” he knew something was different.
Cassiopeia nearly skidded down the stairs in a simple skirt and a sweater, hair tied up, smudges of charcoal on her fingertips. In socks. She wasn’t even wearing slippers. Leo offered her a handkerchief to clean her hands.
“You’re early!” she said, eyes bright. “Would you want tea or are you morally opposed to anything brewed outside Wiltshire?”
“I’ll risk it,” Draco said, stunned speechless by her domesticity.
He was led to the Sitting Room.
Her mother, Katerina, was elegance incarnate—golden hair braided like a crown, a wand tucked into her belt like a knife. Her father, Santiago, barely said a word, but his gaze burned straight through Draco’s composure.
“You’re paler than I expected,” Katerina said, passing him a saucer of tea. Her voice was soft, melodious. Just like Cassiopeia’s.
“I haven’t been sunbathing lately,” Draco replied.
Felix snorted from his armchair, eyes focused on a Muggle book.
They talked. Slow paced. They didn’t pressure him to actively participate, but made him feel included.
“Do you play piano, Mr. Malfoy?” Santiago asked suddenly after an hour.
Draco blinked. “A bit. My mother insisted.”
“So did I,” Santiago muttered, glancing at his children.
Cassiopeia rolled her eyes fondly. “Leo plays like thunder. Felix like a storm.”
“And you?” Draco asked.
Cassiopeia smiled. Her brothers and parents answered at the same time. “Like a breeze.”
He ended up staying for dinner.
The table was warm. Lively. Conversation bounced like a Quaffle—Spanish, English, teasing, stories. Felix made fun of Cassiopeia’s childhood tantrums, Leo subtly slid her the last of the roasted potatoes. Her mother laughed with her whole shoulders. Her father cursed when he dropped his fork.
Draco had never seen a family like this. He’d seen power. He’d seen control. But this?
This was love, and it unsettled him. Softened him.
Somewhere between Santiago’s grudging nod when Draco mentioned Puddlemere United’s new Seeker and Katerina’s quiet approval of his wine choice, he realized something terrifying.
He wanted to come back.
Later, Cassiopeia led him to the music room. She played for him.
Cassie at the cello, low and sweet, framed by moonlight through stained glass. Her brothers listened from the hall—silent, guarded. Draco sat with his hands folded, unsure if he was allowed to breathe.
She looked at him when she finished. Eyes soft. Vulnerable.
“Well?” she asked.
“I’m not sure if I fell in love with the song,” he said, “or the way you looked playing it.”
He couldn’t see it, but Felix choked on air and Leo sighted through his nose.
And Cassiopeia? She smiled like a star unfolding.
After that first visit, he starts choosing to visit. No grand invitations, no formal owls. Just… showing up. Apparating at the edge of the Borja estate because he had a free hour. Felix still grumbles. Leo just gives him tea without saying a word. Santiago greets him with a curt nod, and Katerina asks if he’s eaten anything decent today. And Draco? He feels himself melting a little more every time.
He shows up early one Monday morning, expecting silence and formality.
Instead?
There’s music playing. Spanish guitar. Someone is humming. Katerina is barefoot, flipping pancakes without a wand. Santiago softly moves his fingers over the strings of his guitar, eyes closed. Felix is scowling at a crossword. Leo is half-asleep but peeling oranges, and Cassie—Cassie is perched on the counter sketching them, like always.
They barely blink when Draco arrives.
“Tea’s there,” Katerina says, nodding to the teapot. “Sit. You’re family now.”
Draco hesitates—then sits. No one stares. No one expects him to perform. He takes his tea, adds a sugar cube, and for the first time, it doesn’t feel like intrusion. It feels like… welcome.
Another day, he made the mistake of mentioning he used to play Quidditch back when he was a student at Hogwarts.
He’s roped into a match against his will.
Leo smirks and throws him a broom. Felix mutters, “If you fall, don’t expect mercy.” Santiago referees very dramatically. Cassie is absolutely not on Draco’s team, and laughs the loudest when he misses a catch.
But he laughs too.
They’re competitive and chaotic and loud. Nothing like the regimented drills of his childhood. Felix actually body slams him mid-air and cackles. And when Draco hits the ground, Cassie is there, hands on hips, grinning. “You’re not bad. Just slow.”
He flips her off and she blows him a kiss.
That’s when he realizes—he’s having fun.
One evening, he’s reading in the corner of the sitting room when Cassie pulls out her violin. Leo joins on piano. Katerina sings. Felix taps a rhythm with a spoon.
They don’t ask Draco to join. They don’t stop for him. They just continue—like this is what they always do, like the world hasn’t been cruel, like joy is something you can make together.
Cassie looks at him mid-song, eyes bright, and mouths, “Come here.”
He doesn’t know how to play.
She hands him a tambourine anyway.
He doesn’t want to ruin the moment—but when he starts, they cheer. And suddenly, he’s part of the music. Off-beat, off-guard, but held.
Some weeks later, he wanders into the garden while Cassie excuses herself to sketch something. Santiago is tending the roses. He gestures silently, hands Draco a trowel. No words. Just… digging and pruning and muttering spells.
They talk later. About soil and magic. About legacy. About daughters.
“You don’t have to prove anything,” Santiago says softly, without looking up. “Not to us.”
Draco stares at his dirt-streaked hands, silent for a long time.
“…I think I needed to hear that,” he says.
That afternoon, Cassiopeia observes him. Really observes him.
Draco is standing by the rose bushes, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, dirt under his fingernails, his blond hair slightly tousled by the breeze. Her father is beside him, talking low and steady, showing him how to trim the stems without harming the bloom. Draco listens. Nods. Says little.
And yet, there’s something about his expression.
Not cold. Not distant.
Still.
Like for the first time in a long time, the world has stopped demanding something of him.
Cassie is sitting under the pergola with her sketchbook balanced on her knee, but she’s forgotten the page. The pencil in her hand has stilled mid-line. Her heart hasn’t. It’s tumbling, soft and heavy, like ripe fruit falling gently to earth.
She’d seen him in so many forms by now—at the ball, sharp and aloof in all his perfect tailoring. At tea, careful with his words. At the piano, hesitant but willing. During Quidditch, laughing and breathless and impossibly boyish.
But this?
This is her favorite.
He doesn't know anyone is watching. Doesn't realize his usual armor has slipped away somewhere between the garden gates and her father's quiet instructions. He doesn’t look like a Malfoy right now. He looks like himself. Like someone who could grow roots here.
She watches him tilt his head at something Santiago says. He smiles—genuinely. It’s a small smile. Easy to miss. But Cassie sees it.
And her chest aches with how much she wants to keep that smile safe.
When Draco straightens, rubbing the back of his neck, her father claps him on the shoulder—an uncharacteristically open gesture from Santiago Borja. Draco stiffens for half a second, then relaxes.
Cassie bites her lip to stop the grin spreading across her face.
You’re doing so well, she thinks. And you don’t even know it.
He glances toward the house. His gaze catches hers.
There’s a beat—only a second—but it feels like the whole garden quiets around them. His face softens even more when he sees her. He says something to her father, hands over the pruning shears, and starts toward her.
Cassie quickly resumes sketching, pretending to focus, but her heart is sprinting.
He drops beside her on the bench, careful not to dirty her sketchbook, and rests his forearm along the back of the seat.
"Didn’t know you were out here," he murmurs.
She hums, tilting her sketchbook slightly away from him. “I was spying. Obviously.”
He smirks. “How’d I do?”
Cassie glances up, catching a petal stuck in his hair.
She plucks it gently, twirls it between her fingers, and smiles.
“You bloomed.”
A storm rolls in unexpectedly one afternoon. Thunder shakes the house. Power flickers. They could fix it easily with magic, but no one makes a move to do so.
They gather in the drawing room. Blankets. Pillows. Cocoa. Katerina tells stories of her wild childhood. Leo plays quiet melodies on the guitar. Cassie ends up curled at Draco’s side under a quilt, head on his shoulder.
Santiago and Felix argue over which one of them can imitate the British accent the best.
The fire crackles. The storm howls.
Draco watches them all, feeling warmth—not from the cocoa, not from the flames, but from being part of something alive.
He’s never had this before.
But now?
He never wants to lose it.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖๋ ࣭ ⭑
He quickly loses count of how many times he’s visited the Borjas. And then… it’s their turn. The Malfoy’s turn.
Cassiopeia Borja visits Malfoy Manor one warm afternoon.
She arrives like a breeze and a thunderclap all in one. Dressed simply, but she makes the drawing room look like a royal chamber just by standing there. Draco really thinks that blue suits her beautifully.
Narcissa greets her with a cool smile, perfect posture, and the steel of a woman who’s protected her son with fire and blood.
Cassiopeia doesn’t flinch. She bows—elegant, respectful, and says, “Mrs. Malfoy. I brought you flowers. Draco mentioned you like the midnight primroses.”
Draco mentioned… Narcissa’s eyebrow twitches. “Did he?”
Lucius is already analyzing her wand, her shoes, the way she holds her teacup. And she allows it. She sits pretty, her long brown hair is down today, the loose curls cascading over her shoulder.
And then Cassiopeia says something like, “Your garden is lovely, but I think it’s missing a moonvine arbor. I’d be happy to paint one for you—enchanted, of course.”
And Narcissa—Narcissa, who has not smiled at one of Draco’s acquaintances since 1995—actually hums. Approvingly.
And the conversation flows.
Cassiopeia doesn’t pretend. She’s poised but real. Talks about her art, mentions a duel where Felix accidentally set fire to her sketchbook. Laughs easily. Asks Lucius about wand design, impresses Narcissa by recognizing a rare French locket in her cabinet. It’s all effortless.
At one point, when Draco’s distracted, Narcissa leans slightly toward her and says, very softly:
“You are not what I expected.”
Cassie, just as softly, “Neither is he.”
And oh.
Oh.
By the time she leaves, Lucius is concerned but can’t find a single fault to exploit. Narcissa watches her go, eyes lingering on the flowers she left behind.
And Draco? He watches her walk down the front steps, stunned by how she fits, how the cold halls of Malfoy Manor felt warmer with her inside.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖๋ ࣭ ⭑
It starts with a storm.
Draco had only meant to drop by. He brought Cassie a book—something obscure on magical pigments and enchanted parchment—and stayed for tea, then stayed for dinner. It started raining halfway through dessert, thunder rumbling low across the Wiltshire hills.
“You’re not apparating in that,” Katerina says firmly, her green eyes fierce, watching the windows flash white.
“It’s fine,” Draco tries, but Santiago raises an eyebrow and holds up a hand, silencing him gently.
“And break your leg? I don’t heal. Quite the contrary, in fact”
Felix, already in pajama pants and socks, says dryly, “You’re sleeping on the third floor. Guest wing. It locks from the outside.”
Leo smirks over his cup of coffee. “Ignore him. You’ll be fine. Probably.”
Draco looks at Cassie, who’s sipping hot cocoa like this is completely normal. She just shrugs. “You can borrow something to sleep in. Unless you’d rather sleep in your dress robes?”
He stays.
He is led to the Guest Wing. Every new space within that manor, he discovers, is even prettier than the last.
The room they give him is warm. Lived in. The kind of place Draco thought pure-blood homes weren’t allowed to be. The walls have soft tapestries of constellations. The fire crackles on its own. A painting hangs above the bed—her painting. A moonlit garden, all gentle shadows and soft purples.
Draco stares at it for a long moment before sitting down on the bed that smells faintly of lavender and smoke.
Cassie knocks, then peeks in.
“I brought you a jumper,” she says, holding it out. It’s her brother’s—probably Leo’s. Definitely too big.
He takes it, their fingers brushing.
“Thanks.”
She doesn’t leave right away. Instead, she leans against the doorframe, candlelight catching the softness of her eyes.
“They don’t let just anyone stay here, you know.”
“Oh?” Draco says.
“They once made a guest of Leo sleep in the stables.”
“…You’re joking.”
“Nope. He said it was character-building.”
They share a laugh.
Then she says, softer, “I’m glad you stayed.”
Draco looks at her, hair messy from the humidity, warmth in her cheeks from the firelight, wearing a sweater too big for her too. She looks like home.
“I am too.”
Later, he simply sits in bed. He can’t sleep. The storm’s passed, but the manor is quiet and unfamiliar in a way that makes his thoughts too loud.
He walks, barefoot and curious, and finds the music room lit by starlight. Cassie’s there. Of course she is.
She’s playing, quietly. A tune he doesn’t know, but that sounds like a secret.
He doesn’t speak. Just sits across the room, listening.
When she finishes, she says, without turning, “Couldn’t sleep?”
“No.”
“Neither could I.”
She looks at him, and something clicks. Something ancient and new. Something inevitable. She plays for him until his eyelids become too heavy and gently tells him to go to bed and sleep.
He does.
The next morning, Leo finds him in the kitchen. Hair rumpled. Wearing the same jumper. Looking too comfortable. His pale skin looks rosy, he feels warm.
The brothers exchange a long, slow glance. Felix mutters into his coffee, “You let him near the cocoa?”
Santiago comes in next. Raises an eyebrow. Says nothing. Hands Draco a mug.
Cassie walks in like morning light, gives Draco a kiss on the cheek in front of everyone, and steals half his toast.
And it’s then—then—that Draco realizes:
He’s not just visiting anymore.
He’s being accepted.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖๋ ࣭ ⭑
When Draco first heard the surname Borja, he associated it with ruthless behaviour. That name carries quite a reputation, after all. Not just in Spain, but Italy as well. They are powerful and proud, but they are not cold. And that’s exactly what intrigues Narcissa and Lucius.
And just like that, the invitation is sent. Not by owl. But by Cassie herself, in perfect cursive and enchanted blue ink that sparkles faintly like stars across the page.
“Dear Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy,
My parents would be honored to welcome you for dinner at Borja Manor this Friday evening.”
It’s polite. Perfect. Unignorable.
Lucius narrows his eyes. Narcissa reads it twice.
“She has better penmanship than half the Ministry,” Lucius mutters.
Narcissa taps the parchment once. “And far more courage, to invite us.”
But they accept.
Borja Manor does not look like Malfoy Manor, they come to know. It’s still grand, still ancient, still humming with old magic—but it’s warmer. There are garden vines twisting through wrought iron, a white owl roosting in the ivy, and the faint sound of music leaking from the windows.
The doors open. Santiago and Katerina greet them with poise—but their smiles are real. Leo and Felix flank them like statues made of starfire and suspicion.
Draco waits beside Cassie. He’s the most relaxed of all of them, hand brushing hers, like he’s home.
Narcissa clocks everything.
Lucius nods once. “Thank you for having us.”
Santiago replies, “Any family of Draco’s is family of ours.”
And Narcissa… blinks.
Family.
Dinner starts tense, as expected. Cutlery polished to a sheen. Wine older than most wizarding lineages.
But slowly, so slowly, it shifts.
Felix makes a dry joke that actually gets a chuckle out of Lucius. Leo and Narcissa end up talking about botanical charms over the roast. Santiago and Lucius start arguing—politely—about international magical law.
And Katerina? She’s taken Narcissa’s hand and is telling her a story about Cassie charming every broom in the manor to fly through the halls as a toddler.
“Oh, our sweet little Peia. She was chaos,” Katerina says fondly. “We were cleaning soot out of the chandeliers for days.”
Cassie groans. “Mamá, please.”
Draco grins, head tipping back, the laugh so easy it makes Narcissa look up from her wine glass in shock.
It hits her, right then, why he loves it here.
Why he smiles differently in this house.
Later, they move to the sitting room.
Cassie’s sketchpad is out, half-hidden under a cushion. Narcissa picks it up delicately—and pauses. It’s full of family. A soft portrait of Santiago reading in the garden. A sleepy Felix and Leo leaning against a window. Draco—eyes closed, face soft, in mid-laugh.
And then one of her. Narcissa. Sketched from memory. Regal. Quiet. Wrapped in gentle constellations.
Cassie notices. She starts to apologize.
But Narcissa holds up a hand. “Don’t.”
She looks again at the portrait. Then at Cassie.
“You see people,” Narcissa says quietly, “like my son does.”
Lucius, overhearing, doesn’t speak. But his hand finds the small of his wife's back and stays there the rest of the evening.
They leave an hour later. Lucius says nothing until they’re back on their manor steps.
Then he finally murmurs, “She’s not what I expected.”
And Narcissa, ever the queen of quiet power, replies:
“She is exactly what he needed.”
.𖥔 ݁ ˖๋ ࣭ ⭑
After that visit, Draco starts feeling like he isn’t just a guest anymore. Really feeling it. He is part of a rhythm now, the laughter, the casual chaos. He doesn’t even realise when it happens–he’s just in it, and he feels like he’s home.
They are having a garden night. Warm summer air. Fireflies dancing like stars fallen to earth. Katerina insists on an evening picnic—just the family. Blankets laid out over the grass, food charmed to stay warm, a few floating lanterns bobbing lazily overhead.
Draco’s there before Cassie even calls for him. He brings the wine—one of Lucius’ vintage bottles, which he claims he “liberated for educational purposes.”
Felix snorts. “Corrupting our wine cellar already.”
Draco raises a brow. “Would you rather I corrupt your sister?”
Felix nearly chokes. Leo cackles, slapping him gently on the back. Cassie just grins and bumps her shoulder into Draco’s.
Then the games begin.
It’s nothing formal. Leo’s charmed enchanted orbs to hover in a pattern above them, and they play a version of magical charades using only gestures and wand sparks. Draco’s terrible at it. Cassie nearly cries laughing when he tries to act out hippogriff mating rituals.
He sulks for all of three seconds—until her hand finds his knee under the blanket and squeezes gently.
“You’re adorable when you’re bad at things,” she whispers.
He leans in, smiling like a fool. “That’s the meanest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
Later, people drift inside. Katerina yawns. Santiago wanders off muttering something about wanting “real pillows.” Leo disappears with a book. Felix pretends to go—but doubles back ten minutes later to “grab something” and shoots Draco a look.
Draco doesn’t flinch.
He just stays.
Just them now. The fireflies. The warmth. The way her hair glows in the lantern light.
Cassie is lying back, fingers laced over her stomach, looking up at the sky. He sits beside her.
“You know,” she says casually, “this is where I first imagined kissing you.”
Draco’s heart stops.
She turns her head, eyes gleaming. “Right here. Night like this. You laughing too loud, probably. Grass in your hair.”
He chuckles. “I don’t laugh too loud.”
“You do, when it’s real.”
And he’s leaning in before he even realizes it—hand brushing back a curl, thumb at her cheekbone.
“And what happened in that imagining of yours?” he asks, voice quiet.
“I kissed you first.”
“Sounds accurate.”
And she does
It’s not perfect. It’s soft and breathy and tastes a little like wine and sugar plums and nervousness. But then he tilts his head, she shifts closer, and suddenly it is perfect. The kind of kiss that rewrites the stars slightly. The kind of kiss you feel weeks later in your fingertips.
When they part, neither of them speaks for a moment.
Then Draco says, “You know I’m going to be completely useless now, right?”
Cassie smiles. “You already were.”
He falls back beside her in the grass, fingers finding hers.
And the stars wheel above them—silent witnesses to a moment he’ll remember forever.
He stays the night, obviously. The morning after, Draco wakes up to birdsong and the faint sound of someone playing the piano.
He’s in one of the guest rooms at Borja Manor. A room that, at some point, stopped being a ‘guest room’ to simply be ‘Draco’s room’. Besides, the sunlight through the wide windows, the lavender-scented sheets, the soft hum of life downstairs—it feels nothing like a guest experience.
He stretches lazily and finds his shirt rumpled on the floor beside the bed. His boots are lined up at the edge of the rug—someone must’ve straightened them. Probably Cassie. Or maybe Leo. He wouldn’t put it past him.
When he makes it downstairs, barefoot and slightly disheveled, Katerina is at the stove in a flowing robe, flipping enchanted pancakes shaped like constellations. Santiago is half asleep in an armchair, reading the Daily Prophet upside down.
Cassie is at the piano, wearing one of Draco's cardigans and humming under her breath.
He stops at the doorway.
Home.
She sees him, her smile blooming slowly, as if she’s been waiting for him all morning.
“Sleep well?”
“Like the dead,” he admits.
Katerina chuckles. “We drug the sheets with chamomile. Old family trick.”
Draco pads toward Cassie and leans on the piano. “If I’m not careful, I’ll never leave.”
She raises a brow. “Who said we’d let you?”
Breakfast is laughter. Music. Half a dozen arguments about what makes the perfect cafecito. Felix walks in looking like a god who hasn’t had coffee yet and flops into a chair with a grunt. Leo swats him with a toast triangle.
Draco eats three pancakes and ends up sketching beside Cassie with a bit of leftover syrup on his wrist.
He’s never been so at ease. Never felt this wanted, not for his name or his manners—but just… for him.
And it shows. In the way he smiles. In the way Cassie kisses his cheek in full view of her entire family.
In the way Katerina whispers to her husband later, “He belongs to her now.”
Draco doesn’t say the words.
He’s never been good with them. They feel too sharp in his mouth, too big for someone who was taught that affection is a private thing, a dangerous thing.
So instead—
He finds out what kind of sketch pencils she likes, and has a full set custom ordered with her initials embossed in gold.
He keeps a pressed violet in his pocket—the same color as those pretty dresses she likes to wear in summer—and later sneaks it into her sketchbook.
He lets her paint little silver stars on the inside of his wrist one afternoon, just for fun, and doesn’t wash them off for days.
And one night, when it’s raining, and she curls up beside him and says softly, “Sometimes I don’t believe things this good last…”
He doesn’t answer with promises.
He just reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a charm: a tiny glass orb, glowing with soft, shifting starlight. One of hers. A piece of a painting she said she loved but didn’t keep.
“I made them put it in this,” he murmurs. “So you’d always have it. Even when it’s dark.”
Cassie looks at him like he’s rewriting gravity.
She doesn’t say I love you either.
But she kisses his knuckles. His cheek. The tip of his nose.
And then his lips—like an answer.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖๋ ࣭ ⭑
They decide to have a little getaway. It’s a hidden cottage on the edge of the southern coast, all overgrown gardens and wild wind. Leo arranged it—very casually—after Cassie mentioned wanting a break. Felix grumbled, “Don’t get murdered,” but also slipped her an enchanted whistle just in case.
They floo there on a Friday. Cassie in jeans and a breezy blouse, Draco in something suspiciously Muggle (he won’t admit how much he likes the freedom of it).
The place is small, but charming. Ivy on the stone walls, windows that swing open to let the sea air in, a kitchen just big enough for two to bump hips while slicing peaches.
There’s no staff.
No house elves.
Just them.
They don’t do much. They rest.
Cassie sketches him once, sitting on the windowsill reading. She doesn’t tell him until he finds the drawing under her pillow later. He doesn’t speak—just pulls her into a long, silent kiss.
They go barefoot in the garden. She weaves daisies into his hair and pretends not to notice when he keeps one in his pocket all day.
They make dinner together—badly. Draco burns the garlic. Cassie nearly sets the bread on fire. They end up eating strawberries and chocolate on the floor, drunk on laughter and red wine.
At nightfall, there’s a storm outside, but the fire is warm. Cassie wraps herself in a blanket and curls into Draco’s lap. He reads out loud. A Muggle book. She listens, dozing off halfway through.
He doesn’t stop reading.
He keeps his voice low, like he’s casting a spell meant only for her.
The next morning, they find a hidden path down to the beach. He lets her drag him into the water, clothes and all. She laughs like she’s never known fear. He stares like he’s never seen light.
They sit on a driftwood log and talk about stupid things. What their animagus forms would be. Which star would be theirs. What color they’d paint their walls if they ever had a place of their own.
Draco says, quietly, “Sea-glass green.”
Cassie smiles. “That’s what I would’ve picked.”
They don’t talk about going back.
Not yet.
Here, there are no titles. No politics. No Borjas. No Malfoys. No history that follows their names.
Just Cassie and Draco.
Just the sound of waves and the weight of her head on his shoulder.
And maybe—just maybe—the quiet, unspeakable truth they both know now:
He’s already home.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖๋ ࣭ ⭑
It’s been a little over a year since that ball in which they first met each other. Since Cassie appeared like a storm of stars in his life, kissed his world into color, and refused to let him hide from softness.
They’re official now. Everyone knows. The Prophet had a field day. The British pure-blood circles are scandalized—a Spanish enchantress from a “dangerous” family with Draco Malfoy? Please.
But the ones who matter? They see it.
They see how Draco smiles more now. Softer. With the corners of his mouth instead of his mask. They see the way Cassie wraps herself around him without asking for permission because she never needed to.
They see the way he lets her.
It happens one warm evening, in her garden.
The Borjas have hosted a quiet summer gathering for close friends—full of music and dancing and candlelight under the trees. Cassie smells like jasmine and sings along to old Spanish songs. Draco is calm in her orbit, sipping wine and tracing runes on her wrist with his thumb.
He’s been carrying the ring for weeks.
A quiet, antique thing. A platinum band with a subtle constellation etched into it—the same one she pointed at during their getaway, saying, “That one’s mine.”
He hasn’t told anyone. Not Blaise. Not Felix (who would demand to “test” him first). Not even Leo (who’d glower in silent judgment).
But tonight feels right.
They sneak away after midnight. No spectacle. No crowd. Just the two of them. Fireflies and moonlight.
She’s barefoot, heels in her hand. He’s nervous. His hands won’t stop shaking, and she notices. Of course she does.
“Draco?” she asks, tilting her head. “You alright?”
And for the first time in his life, he doesn’t hide behind a smirk or sarcasm. He just takes her hand.
“Cassiopeia Borja,” he says, voice steady but full of everything, “you are the most terrifying, radiant, ridiculously gorgeous woman I’ve ever known. You paint stars on napkins and dance barefoot in thunderstorms. You made me laugh when I thought I’d forgotten how.”
She stares, eyes wide.
“I want to build a quiet life with you,” he says. “One that’s loud with love and safe in ways I never imagined. I want to wake up next to you when we’re wrinkled and grumpy and arguing over tea. I want… you. All of it. Always.”
He drops to one knee.
Pulls out the ring.
Doesn’t even say “Will you—” before she throws herself at him, laughing, crying, whispering “Yes yes yes yes” over and over again as if saying it only once isn’t enough.
Later that night, she tells her brothers.
Felix looks ready to duel someone out of instinct. Leo just smiles, slow and quiet, like he already knew.
Lucius says nothing when he hears the news. Simply nods approvingly.
But Narcissa?
She writes Cassie a letter. It simply says:
“You’ll be the best thing to ever happen to my son. Thank you.”