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"You're quiet tonight."
The words are light on purpose. You've learned the tone to use when Draco slips into himself like this. Usually, if you keep it soft enough, you're able to coax him back out. It's worked plenty of times before, and you expect the same now.
But Draco doesn't look at you.
He's standing near the window of your shared flat, his shoulders angled slightly away, gaze fixed somewhere outside where the grounds fade into the dark. One of his hands flexes at his side, like he's trying to shake something loose that won't let go.
"Just thinking," he says.
You huff a quiet breath, standing from the couch and moving closer to him, your shoulder brushing his. "That's usually my line," you quip, glancing up at him in a way that's meant to be teasing and familiar.
He doesn't take it.
"Draco," you try again, the tug of unease strengthening into a yank. "What's going on?"
He turns then, finally, and there's something in his expression that makes your stomach drop before he even says a work. It's worse than if he looked distant or cold. Whatever decision he's made is final. This conversation you're about to have is one he's already had in his head, and you're only just catching up.
"Nothing's wrong."
The control in his voice gives him away. It's too even for the look on his face. He's sanded down every edge before it reaches you, but you know him too well.
"Don't do that," you plead, searching his eyes. "You don't have to. Not with me."
There's a flicker there, something behind his eyes almost breaking through—something familiar and fragile that you know how to reach.
But then it's gone.
"We've been doing this for a while now," he says, his tone maddeningly calm.
You frown, not quite following. "Okay...?"
"I think," he continues, slower, choosing each work before he allows it to exist between you, "we've taken it as far as it goes."
The words land, but they don't hit. They hand there, suspended in the space between you, too strange to make sense of.
"What?"
He doesn't repeat himself, or soften it, or clarify. He just watches you, waiting.
And slowly, horribly, understanding starts to creep in.
"No," you choke out in a small, disbelieving laugh. You shake your head like you can physically push the words away if you simply refuse them. "No, that's not—what are you talking about?"
His expression doesn't change.
"Draco, we're fine," you press, stepping closer to him, closing the space he seems determined to create. "If something's wrong, we can fix it. We always—"
"This isn't something to fix. It's over."
And then it finally hits.
It's not a blow you can brace for. It spreads fast, like something cracking open under your ribs. Your breath stutters as you stare at him, searching his face for something—anything—that makes this make sense.
"You don't mean that," you say, because you know him. You know the way he looks at you when he thinks you're not paying attention, the way his guard slips in the quiet moments, the way this—whatever this is—has never felt like something that ends the way it is.
"I do."
"You don't," you insist, even as your voice starts to thin. "This isn't just something you decide out of nowhere—"
"It's not out of nowhere."
Your throat tightens even further. "Then where is it coming from?" you ask, the question sounding pathetic even to your own ears. "Because this doesn't make any sense."
You can feel it, the real reasons sitting just beneath the surface. There's something he's choosing not to say. Everything might make sense if he would just let it out. You search for it, for any crack in his careful composure, any sign that this isn't as simple as he's making it sound.
Because it can't be.
It can't be.
There have been things lately, yes. You've noticed then. You've noticed when conversations dip when you enter the room, or when certain looks linger too long before sliding away. You've heard your name spoken in a way that carries a heavier subtext than it used to.
You've heard it. You've seen it. Experienced it.
But you don't care, because Draco Malfoy, to you, is worth anything anyone can throw at you.
And he knows that.
You know he knows that.
Which is why the silence stretches the way it does. He's choosing not to give you the one thing that would let you fight for this.
"I don't want this anymore."
The words knock the breath out of you before you can even react. It presses in from all sides, thick and heavy, until it feels like there's no room left to breathe. You stare at him, your thoughts scrambling, trying to catch up and reconcile what he just said with everything you know about him.
He doesn't move—not to comfort you, not to walk away, not to take back his words.
"Right," you say finally, your voice barely above a whisper. "I didn't realize it was this easy for you."
"It's not," he says, and you think that might be the closest thing to the truth he's said so far.
"Could've fooled me," you snap, anger trying to take hold of your words to protect you. "This doesn't feel real."
His jaw tightens, just slightly, but you catch it.
And that's why this doesn't make sense.
If this were real—if he really meant it—he wouldn't look like that. He wouldn't stand there like he's holding himself in place and one wrong move might break whatever he's trying to keep intact.
"Then say it properly," you press. "Because right now, it sounds like you're trying to convince me of something, not telling me the truth."
You think you've cracked him, based on the flicker of pain in his eyes, like glass catching light before it splinters.
But then he pulls it back, and you're left wondering whether you were only seeing what you wanted to see.
"You'll be better off," he says.
It's not an answer, and it's far from enough.
"That's not something you get to decide for me," you deadpan.
"I'm not."
"You are," you shoot back. "You are, and you won't even be honest about it."
"I think we're done here."
Final.
Like closing a door.
And this time, you don't argue. There's nothing left to argue against.
He hasn't given you anything to hold onto—no solid anger, no explanation, no opening to wedge yourself into and refuse to leave. An ending, smooth and sealed, like it was always going to happen this way.
You nod once, stepping back toward the front door.
"Okay."
You grab your coat, your thoughts already starting to dull the closer you get to the door. It's easier that way—easier not to think too hard about what just happened, what this means, and what it doesn't. Your hand shakes when you grab the door handle, subtle but impossible to ignore, and you tighten your grip around it to hide the slip.
"I'll be back for my stuff later."
The words are too practical for the situation. It sounds too normal, like it's just another conversation or minor inconvenience you'll sort out in a few hours. Too simple for something that marks the end of the best part of your life.
He doesn't stop you. He doesn't call your name, doesn't tell you he made a mistake, doesn't reach for you like he has before when things felt like they were slipping too far out of his control. You hate that part of you that thinks he—despite everything he did and didn't say—will still try to fix this.
But he doesn't.
He says nothing.
And that silence follows you all the way out the door.
You should've left earlier.
The thought comes the second the door shut behind you, the noise of the room dulling into something distant and manageable. You can pretend you were never really part of it to begin with out here. It had felt safe when you arrived. You were surrounded by familiar faces, low voices, and a warm drink in your hand that you, admittedly, didn't taste.
You felt safe enough to forget, if only for a little while, that it'd been nearly a year since you lost the man you loved for reasons you were never privy to.
You should've known better.
The hallway stretches out in front of you, dim and quiet. You focus on the door at the end and on the simple act of leaving—coat, exit, air, distance. Clean and uncomplicated.
"Leaving already?"
You stop on instinct—the same instinct that used to have you turning toward him in crowded rooms and the same one that has yet to learn how to ignore him.
You close your eyes briefly, steadying yourself, and turn.
Draco is standing a few steps behind you, one hand still resting on the door he must've just pushed open. He looks exactly the same in all the ways you remember—composed, ready, controlled—but there's something else there that you don't remember seeing the night he let you walk away.
It shouldn't matter.
It does.
"You followed me."
"Yes. Well, you walked out."
"That usually means I want to be alone."
"It's unlike you," he says. "To want to be alone."
"You don't know what's 'like me' anymore," you shoot back.
"No one changes that much in ten months."
"You changed in much less than that."
He goes quiet, and you swear you see him visibly flinch. You take a breath, scratching your arm nervously, before folding your arms to feign annoyance.
"What do you want, Draco?"
"I think you know."
You shake your head, a quiet, unamused breath leaving you. "That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have."
The familiarity of him hits so hard it's almost stupid—the way he stands, the cadence in which he speaks, the way his eyes refuse to stray from yours. Everything about this feels like stepping into something you never fully left behind. You've spent months building distance, layering it carefully over everything that used to be automatic, and now it feels like you didn't really build anything at all.
"You don't get to do this," you say lowly, but no less firm. "Not after what—"
"I know."
The interruption is immediate, and it sounds more like desperation than him simply wanting to be the one to speak. You hate that it makes you want to listen to what he has to say. You shake your head, taking a step back even though the space doesn't feel any wider for it.
"No, you don't. Because if you did, you wouldn't be here."
"Then where would I be?"
"Anywhere else."
"I tried that."
Your breath catches before you can stop it.
That was the point. That was what you were supposed to accept and even help create—distance, silence, some sort of new start. And you did. You did. It just all feels meaningless now.
"That was your choice," you say, but it doesn't sound as strong as you want it to.
"Yes," he agrees, and you're momentarily surprised he isn't trying to deflect. "It was."
The silence that follows is full of everything that never got said and everything you both chose to leave untouched for these past ten months because it was easier than pulling it apart. You can feel it pressing in, narrowing the space between you without anyone taking a step.
"Then what's changed?" you ask, because now, more than anything, you deserve a solid reason as to why he's standing here now after months of nothing. "Because last time, you seemed very sure."
"I was," he says, though the softness of his words don't match the meaning they're supposed to carry.
"If this is your way of trying to fix this—"
"It's not."
Frustration slips through before you can stop it. "Then what is it?"
He steps closer, leaving enough distance as to not make you feel cornered. But you feel cornered anyway, and you don't know how to get out of this.
"I'm trying not to do that again."
Your brows furrow. "Do what?"
"Decide for you."
Your jaw tightens and a short, disbelieving laugh slips out. "Then why did you in the first place? It doesn't make sense, Draco. I've gone over that night more times than I can count and none of it—none of it—adds up."
His eyes close for a moment before he forces them open again. "I knew you would keep choosing me."
"Yes. That's how relationships work."
"I'm aware," he says quietly. "But you were paying for it. The whispers, the rumors, the looks, they all—"
"Meant nothing, you daft, self-important prick!"
His lips twitch, like he's about to smile. Your eyes narrow, and he sobers, running a hand through his hair.
"I know that now," he says. "I just thought you were pretending they didn't."
The air between you feels thinner now, stretched tight with everything you're still holding onto.
"Regardless," you push forward, "this isn't something you can't undo just because it's inconvenient now."
"It's not inconvenient. It's unbearable."
Your heart jumps into your throat. His tone is far from what he sounded like ten months ago in your flat. Back then, there was little emotion. He had effectively convinced you that he truly didn't want you anymore.
But now, here he is admitting that the distance has been just as hard for him as it has been for you.
"That's not enough," you say, even though the break in your voice is telling him otherwise. "It doesn't change anything."
"I'm not asking to change what happened."
He steps closer, and now he's too close. You crane your neck up to look at him, and he reaches up to touch your face but stops, his fingers curling into his hand.
"I'm asking if it changes anything now."
You should say no.
You know you should. Everything about this—the history, the way it ended, the way your pulse has already started to trip over itself like it used to—tells you to walk away before it gets worse.
You've done it before. You could do it again.
And yet, you're still standing here, and he's still looking at you like he isn't holding anything back this time.
"I shouldn't have let you walk out that door."
Your chest tightens the way it did ten months ago, but for completely different reasons. You don't look away, even though part of you wants to. If you do, you're not sure you'll be able to gather the courage to look back.
"I didn't want to," you say softly. "You made it impossible to stay."
His expression shatters completely, the control he was barely holding onto crumbling. His eyes drop to your mouth before returning to your eyes, his shoulders pulling tighter, bracing against something he's already preparing himself to lose.
His hand lifts slowly, expecting himself—or you—to stop him before it gets to far. It hovers between you, suspended in that same careful restraint he's been clinging to since he followed you out here, the thin thread he's still trying to convince himself he still has.
Then his fingers find your face.
The touch is light at first, giving you time to pull away. You don't. His palm settles against your cheek, warm and steady, his thumb brushing against your skin enough to undo whatever walls you thought you still had intact.
"Please let me kiss you," he rasps out, the words fraying at the edges.
You search his grey eyes, thinking about what it would mean to say no—what it would take from you, what it would cost.
But you already know your answer.
You knew it the moment he followed you out here.
Your hand lifts on its own accord, fingers brushing against his wrist, pressing against his elevated pulse.
And you close the distance.
The kiss isn't soft. It's desperate, leaving no room for doubt that this is something neither of you should have ever even thought of letting go of. His other hand comes up without hesitation, finding your jaw, your neck, pulling you closer as if the space between you had been a problem from the start. Your body remembers everything you tried to forget, molding with his like it used to.
You don't think about it. You don't let yourself. The second you do, it becomes something you have to justify.
And you don't want to justify this.
He's no longer holding back. It shows in the way he pulls you closer and deepens the kiss. He lets out a quiet, rough exhale against your lips like he's been holding this back for months.
And maybe he has.
You certainly have.
Your fingers tighten around his wrists, then slide up, catching in the fabric of his sleeve before settling against his shoulders, anchoring yourself there, needing something solid to keep yourself from losing your balance entirely.
The kiss falters—not because neither of you wants it to, but air is essential and not something you can ignore any longer. You pull back a fraction, and Draco rests his forehead against yours. His hands stay at your jaw, thumbs resting where they've cemented themselves, like he hasn't quite caught up to the fact that you've stopped.
You both know this isn't a moment you can step out of unchanged.
"Draco, this—" you start, and then stop, because you don't know how to finish it.
"I know," he says quietly, his thumbs brushing your cheekbones.
You let out a breath that doesn't clear your head, your grip loosening slightly where your hands rest against him, but you still don't fully let go. You can't find it in yourself to.
"We can't just—" you try again. You sigh. "This doesn't fix anything."
"I didn't think it would."
The honesty of it lifts your eyes to his.
"Then what are we doing?"
His hands shifts slightly at your face, not pulling your back in, but closer. Close isn't close enough for either of you, despite the storm raging in your mind.
"Not pretending it's over," he says quietly.
You swallow, knowing that's what both of you have been doing for months, despite the words that were spoken and the distance that was created. You search his eyes for clarity, or a reason that makes this feel less like stepping back into something you barely made it out of the first time.
"It's not like it was before," you say.
"I know."
"It won't be easy."
"Counting on it."
Your lips lift into a small smile at that, because Draco Malfoy does not back down from a challenge.
"Nothing about this is simple," you breathe out.
His lips lift, and you follow the movement with your eyes, your stomach flipping.
"It never was."
You let out a slow breath, your hands finally slipping from his shoulders, though you don't move any further than that.
"Are you going back in?" you ask, reaching for something normal and uncomplicated.
His gaze flicks toward the door before returning to you, like he can't bear to let his eyes stray from you for more than a second. His hands slide from your face down your arms and to your hands, threading your fingers with his.
"If you come back in with me."
You nod once, small.
The space between you still feels too close, too charged, and you know stepping back into that room together means acknowledging something neither of you is ready to put into words yet.
Eventually, you turn, your hand locked with his.
And this time, you walk through the door together.