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Chapter Text

Celeste Zabini adored the summers. Not for the warm Tuscan breezes that followed her family even to the English countryside, nor for the languid pace of life once the Season wound down, but because Summer meant she could keep her children close, with no tutors and no governess whisking them away.

Her children. 

Blaise, dark-eyed and solemn even at six, carried his father’s aristocratic grace in miniature. And beside him, curls untamable no matter how many times Celeste tried to smooth them, was Hermione. Mimi, as Blaise had called her since he was a toddler – the only sound he could manage when introduced to his baby sister. The nickname had stuck, much to Hermione’s indignation. 

Hermione was not hers by blood, but by heart. Eduardo’s mistake, some whispered. Celeste’s triumph, she thought. The day the wild-haired girl had come into her home, Celeste had expected to feel only betrayal. Instead, she had been struck by a fierce, irrational devotion. Hermione had climbed into her lap, chubby hands tangling in her pearls, and Celeste had loved her ever since. 

Now, watching the two of them dart across the Malfoy Manor lawn, she felt only pride. They were her children, both of them – and woe betide anyone who ever suggested otherwise. 

From the terrace above the gardens, the women sipped chilled wine and watched. 

“They grow fast,” Narcissa murmured, pale hair gleaming in the afternoon sun. “It seems only yesterday Draco was small enough to hide beneath Lucius’s desk.”

Celeste smiled. “And now he torments my Mimi to utter distraction.”

Below, Draco had cornered Hermione at the edge of the fountain, tugging at one of her curls with a smirk. She shrieked in outrage, swatting at him. Blaise immediately shoved Draco back, planting himself like a shield in front of his sister. 

“She’s my baby!” Blaise shouted. 

“I’m only five weeks younger than you, Blaisey!” Hermione yelled, fists clenched and her cheeks flushed. 

The women laughed softly. 

“You see?” Narcissa said. “They are already perfectly matched.”

Celeste arched a brow. “Matched, or at each other’s throats?”

“Both,” Narcissa replied, serene as a queen. 

Inside the drawing room, the men were visible through the open French doors – Eduardo, sharp in his emerald waistcoat, Lucius draped in silver and black. The heavy scent of cigars drifted outward. 

“Cissa, your boy is insufferable,” Eduardo called with mock severity, gesturing at the scuffle below. “Already tormenting my principessa.”

Lucius’s laugh was a low, velvety thing. “Better that than ignoring her. A Malfoy only teases what he cannot resist.”

Eduardo snorted, shaking his head. “Celeste, cara, stop trying to marry off our daughter before she can even read properly.”

Celeste, unbothered, lifted her glass and watched Hermione stamp her foot at Draco. The boy’s smirk faltered when she stumbled against the fountain; for a moment, his hand shot out instinctively to steady her, eyes wide with alarm, before he covered it with another taunt. 

“She could do worse than young Draco,” Lucius said smoothly, exhaling a plume of smoke. 

Celeste hid her smile behind her glass. The idea was ridiculous, of course. They were children. 

Still, as she watched Draco and Hermione bicker beneath the summer sun, a spark of inevitability flared in her chest. 

*

“Give it back!” Hermione shrieked, chasing Draco around the fountain. 

Draco dangled her ribbon high above his head, pale hair gleaming in the sunlight. “If you want it, Mimi, you’ll have to jump for it.”

“Don’t call me that!” She snapped, curls bouncing as she stamped her foot. 

Blaise appeared at her side in an instant, glowering. “Give it back, Malfoy.”

Draco smirked, delighted by Blaise’s dark scowl. “Make me.”

Hermione lunged for the ribbon, nearly toppling into the fountain. For a heartbeat Draco’s smirked slipped – his hand shot forward to steady her. But the moment she straightened, fists on her hips, he covered the crack with another sneer. 

“You’re clumsy, Mimi.”

“I am not!” She fired back. “And don’t call me Mimi, I hate it.”

Blaise bristled. “Only I get to call her that.”

“She doesn’t even like it!” Draco shot back, triumphant. 

Hermione crossed her arms. “Well, I like it better when Blaisey says it.”

Draco scowled, more unsettled by that than he wanted to admit. 

“Lascialo perdere, sorellina,” Blaise muttered, slipping into the lilting Italian their tutor had been drilling into them. (Ignore him, little sister.)

Hermione’s face lit up as she turned to Blaise, replying fluently, “Non sa niente, Blaisey.” (He doesn’t know anything, Blaisey.)

The both snickered, leaning close in their secret tongue. 

Draco’s ears went red. “That’s not fair! You can’t just – just whisper in another language! What are you saying about me?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Blaise said coolly, his arm curling protectively around Hermione’s shoulders. 

Hermione beamed, sticking her tongue out at Draco from the safety of her brother’s side. 

Draco clenched his fists, torn between the urge to shoe Blaise away and the inexplicable desire to yank Hermione’s ribbon back into her hair himself. 

He settled for glaring at them both, muttering under his breath. “One day I’ll learn your stupid language. And then we’ll see who’s laughing.”

But for now, it was Mimi and Blaisey against him – and Draco hated how much it mattered. 

Hermione went to pull away from Blaise, trying again to recover her stolen ribbon but her foot caught on the edge of the fountain. 

She yelped and went down hard onto the flagstones, palms smacking against the stone. For a split second the world went still – her curls tumbled into her face, and her green ribbon skittered out of reach. 

“Mimi!” Blaise gasped, already dropping to his knees beside her. 

But Draco moved faster. He was crouched at her side in an instant, pale face tight with alarm. “I didn’t mean it – I didn’t want you to fall.” His hand hovered awkwardly at her elbow before he helped pull her upright, brushing gravel from her curls with clumsy fingers. 

Hermione blinked up at him, startled. 

Then, as if remembering himself, Draco’s cheeks flushed. He snatched his hand back, scowling. “Honestly, you should watch where you put your feet. Clumsy as a troll, you are.”

Hermione’s eyes flashed, her lower lip wobbling between indignation and tears. 

Blaise immediately cupped her scraped palms in his small hands, inspecting them with grave seriousness. “She’s bleeding!” he cried, outraged. “You made her bleed!”

“I didn’t!” Draco snapped, though his voice cracked with guilt. “She did it herself –”

“Did not,” Blaise shot back. “You were teasing her.”

Hermione sniffled and wriggled her hand free of Blaise’s inspection. “Stop fussing, Blaisey. It’s only a little scrape.” She lifted her chin proudly, though her cheeks were pink. 

Draco shifted uncomfortably, torn between blurting another insult and blurting an apology. In the end, he shoved his hands in his pockets and muttered, “Fine. Next time don’t trip over your own feet, Mimi.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him, but there was something uncertain in her stare – as if she hadn’t decided yet whether to hate him or not. 

From the terrace, Celeste and Narcissa exchanged an amused glance over the rims of their glasses. 

The seeds had been planted. 

* * *

The Zabini ballroom glittered with candlelight, every chandelier blazing as if the stars themselves had been captured and hung from the ceiling. Musicians played a lively waltz at the far end of the hall, the notes weaving through the hum of conversation and the clink of crystal. Tonight was no ordinary gathering. It was a send-off – one final glittering soiree before the children of England’s pure-blood families departed for their first year at Hogwarts. 

Hermione Zabini stood near the foot of the marble staircase, tugging self-consciously at the skirt of her dress. Celeste had insisted on emerald silk, the green threaded with silver embroidery that caught the light when she moved. Her curls, usually wild, had been coaxed into glossy ringlets that spilled down her back. Pansy Parkinson and little Astoria Greengrass hovered beside her, already whispering excitedly about who would be sorted where. 

“You look like a proper debutante,” Pansy declared with a dramatic sigh. 

Hermione rolled her eyes, cheeks flushed. “I’m only eleven.”

“You don’t look it,” Astoria said dreamily, tugging at Hermione’s sleeve. “You look like a princess.”

Across the ballroom, Draco Malfoy’s gaze lingered longer than he meant it to. He had arrived in sleep dress robes, hair perfectly combed, a smirk already in place. But the smirk faltered when his eyes found Hermione – radiant in green, curls tumbling like fire. His stomach gave a strange twist. 

She was still Mimi, the girl who stuck her tongue out at him in the gardens. He was not supposed to notice that she looked… pretty. He scowled and turned away, determined not to think about it. 

Beside him, Theodore Nott elbowed Blaise with a grin. “Your sister’s the belle of the ball, Zabini. Bellissima, really.” He winked at Hermione across the room. “Care to dance, bella?” He called out. 

Hermione flushed scarlet. 

Blaise bristled immediately. “She’s not dancing with you, Nott.”

Theo only laughed, enjoying the way Blaise’s ears went red. “Protecting, aren’t we? Afraid she’ll prefer me?”

Draco’s scowl deepened, though he masked it with a drawl. “You’re disgusting, Theo. Try your charms on someone else before Blaise hexes you.”

Theo chuckled, but his eyes lingered on Hermione. Draco clenched his jaw, hating the way his stomach twisted again. 

The music shifted, a new waltz beginning, and Eduardo Zabini swept across the floor toward his daughter. 

“Vieni qui, bambina mia,” he said warmly, bending low to kiss Hermione’s forehead. (Come here, my baby girl.) His eyes shone with pride. “I must have a dance with my piccola principessa, before any of these boys think to steal you away.”

Hermione’s face broke into a delighted smile as her father took her hand and led her onto the floor. Her emerald skirts swirled as he spun her expertly through the opening steps. 

Draco, watching from the sidelines, refused to admit – even to himself – that his chest ached. 

The moment Eduardo released Hermione from their father-daughter turn, Narcissa gilded forward like a queen surveying her court. One pale hand landed on Draco’s shoulder, her voice as smooth as silk. 

“Draco. Your turn.”

Draco stiffened. “Mother –”

“Now,” Narcissa said, leaving no room for argument. 

Hermione’s face twisted in dismay. “But muuuuum,” she whined, tugging at Celeste’s skirts. “Not with him!”

“Yes, with him,” Celeste replied, smoothing a curl from her daughter’s flushed cheek. “Go on, cara mia.”

Within moments they were nudged onto the floor, small hands reluctantly meeting as the orchestra struck up the next waltz. 

“I don’t want to,” Draco muttered, his scowl fierce. 

“Neither do I,” Hermione shot back, voice sharp as her emerald skirts swirled. “Serpente.” (Snake.)

“Don’t start that again –”

“Melma.” (Slime.)

Draco’s jaw tightened. “No fair! No secret language.”

Hermione’s grin was all teeth as she spun beneath his arm. “Sanguisuga.” (Leech.)

And yet, despite the venom, their feet never faltered. They matched one another perfectly, gliding across the marble floor with a grace well beyond their years. 

From the sidelines, Eduardo leaned toward Celeste, eyes narrowing but holding no mirth. “Cara mia, you are scheming with my principessa again…”

Narcissa’s smile was serene, watching their children sweep by, still hissing insults through clenched teeth. “Such a gorgeous pair though, Eddie.”

Eduardo, arms crossed as his cigar smoldered in one hand, gave a theatrical groan. “Madonne, leave them be. They’re children, not chess pieces.” He shook his head with mock severity at both women. “Always meddling. Plotting futures before they’ve even left the nursery.”

Celeste only sipped her champagne, unrepentant. “It never hurts to be prepared, tesoro mio.”

Lucius chuckled darkly, silver eyes fixed on the dancers. “She will certainly keep my son on his toes. And Salazar knows, he needs that.”

Eduardo rolled his eyes heavenward, muttering in Italian just loud enough for Celeste to hear, “Donne pazze.” (Crazy women.)

Celeste’s answering smile was smug, and on the ballroom floor Hermione and Draco continued to glide, bickering all the while – oblivious to the fact that their fates were already being stitched together behind their backs. 

*

The orchestra swelled into another waltz as Draco and Hermione parted, both muttering under their breath as they retreated from the dance floor. Draco stalked back to Theo, who was grinning like a kneazle with cream, while Hermione smoothed her skirts, cheeks flushed with irritation. 

Before she could escape to Pansy and Astoria, Blaise stepped in front of her, bowing with exaggerated formality. 

“My turn,” he declared. 

Hermione groaned. “Blaisey –”

“Yes,” he said firmly, already taking her hand. “By five weeks, Mimi, I am the eldest. So you have to do as I say.”

Rolling her eyes but smiling all the same, Hermione let him pull her onto the floor. Blaise’s steps were careful, more protective than elegant, but she followed his lead easily. 

As they moved in slow circles beneath the chandeliers, he bent his head close and slipped into their shared tongue. 

“Sei bellissima, sorellina,” he murmured, eyes soft. (You are beautiful, little sister.)

Hermione’s cheeks warmed, but her answering smile was radiant. “Ti voglio bene, fratellone.” (I love you, big brother.)

Blaise squeezed her hand. “E ti terrò sempre al sicuro.” (And I will always keep you safe.)

Her throat tightened with affection. 

But then Blaise’s eyes darted toward the edge of the room, where Draco and Theo were whispering together. His jaw hardened. 

“E Draco e Theo non ti avranno mai, Mimi.” (And Draco and Theo will never get to keep you, Mimi.)

Hermione snorted, wrinkling her nose. “That’s gross, Blaisey.”

He smirked, twirling her just enough to make her laugh. “Maybe. But it’s true.”

From the sidelines, Celeste dabbed her eyes dramatically, declaring to Narcissa that her children were perfection. Narcissa only smirked knowingly, her gaze lingering on the boy sulking in the corner and the girl glowing beneath the ballroom lights. 

The game had only just begun.

Chapter Text

Steam hissed around them, curling in thick white clouds that blurred the edges of Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. The scarlet train loomed, gleaming in the morning light, its whistle sharp enough to sting in Hermione’s chest. This was it. Their final year. 

Eduardo Zabini looked far too composed for a man on the verge of breaking. His arm rested firmly around his daughter’s shoulders, his grip possessive, as if he could anchor her to the platform and keep her from stepping onto the train at all. 

“My principessa,” he said softly, his accent thickening with emotion. “I blinked, and you are grown. How can this be the last time?”

Hermione – Mimi to her family – swallowed against the sudden lump in her throat. Her curls brushed his shoulder when she leaned into him. “It isn’t the last time, Papa. Just the last first day.”

But Eduardo’s eyes glistened all the same. He bent to kiss her hair. “Always my bambina. No matter what gowns or crowns you wear.”

Blaise, tall and elegant in his pressed robes, shifted his trunk higher onto the trolley. “Don’t worry, Papi. I’ll keep her safe.”

Eduardo fixed him with a look, though his voice trembled with pride. “You always do, Blaise.”

“I always will,” Blaise’s smile was calm, certain. 

Celeste, radiant in emerald and silver silk, dabbed at her eyes with a lace handkerchief before anyone could accuse her of tears. She cupped Hermione’s face, her rings cool against warm skin. “Say hello to Draco for me, cara mia.”

Hermione snorted, hefting her satchel higher. “Right after I hex his stupid hair purple.”

Celeste only arched a perfectly plucked brow, her lips curving with that secretive smile. “Do give him my regards, all the same.”

Eduardo groaned, muttering in Italian about donne pazze – crazy women – while Lucius Malfoy, standing just within earshot, chuckled low in his throat. 

The whistle shrieked, urgent and final. Hermione hugged Celeste tightly, then her father, her own eyes stinging now. Blaise leaned in close, lowering his voice into their shared tongue.

“E ora di andare, sorellina. Andiamo a trovare gli altri.” (It’s time to go, little sister. Let’s go find the others.)

Hermione nodded, blinking rapidly, and together the Zabini siblings hauled their trunks toward the train. The steam swallowed them whole, carrying them toward their final year at Hogwarts – and everything waiting there. 

*

The Zabini siblings slid open the polished door of the Slytherin compartment as though it already belonged to them. Inside, the gang was arrayed with practiced ease: Theo sprawled like a cat across one bench, Pansy tucked primly against the window with Astoria leaning on her shoulder, and Draco Malfoy sitting with perfect posture, arms folded, silver gaze as sharp as cut glass. 

“Finally,” Theo drawled, throwing his head back theatrically. “We thought you two had run off somewhere. I would have just died without Mimi’s radiance shining in my life this year.” 

Blaise gave him a slow, dangerous smile as he hefted Hermione’s trunk into the rack. “Careful, Nott. You’re talking about my sorellina.” (Little sister.)

Theo only smirked wider, but Hermione ignored him, brushing a curl from her cheek as her eye caught on Draco. 

He looked her up and down once, the faintest flicker of something unguarded in his gaze before he smothered it with a sneer. “Mimi.” The word fell flat from his lips, halfway between a greeting and an insult. 

Hermione’s answering smile was sharp enough to cut. “Serpente.”

Draco blinked. “What?”

“Oh, nothing,” she said sweetly, sliding onto the bench opposite him, Pansy immediately tugging her close for a hug. 

“It wasn’t nothing,” Draco pressed, narrowing his eyes. “What did you just call me?”

Hermione crossed her legs with deliberate poise, leaning into Pansy’s side. “Just a little nickname. Suits you perfectly.”

Theo snorted from the other side of the compartment. “If it was in Italian, Malfoy, you don’t want to know.”

Blaise lounged beside his sister, all lazy menace. “Perfettamente adatto,” he murmured, lips curving. (Perfectly fitting.)

Draco’s scowl deepened, a faint flush creeping up the back of his neck. “You lot and your secret language. One day I’ll learn it, and then we will see who’s laughing.”

Hermione tilted her head, curls spilling over her shoulder, her eyes glinting with amusement. “Oh, Draco. I’ll still be laughing.”

The air between them tightened, humming with the familiar electricity that had followed them since childhood. Theo kicked Blaise, grinning wickedly. Pansy, smirking into Hermione’s curls, murmured just loudly enough for Draco to hear:

“And so it begins.”

*

The train lurched into motion, steam giving way to the rhythmic clatter of wheels on track. The Slytherin compartment was a whirl of chatter and laughter – Theo flicking Bertie Bott’s beans into Blaise’s lap just to see him scowl, Astoria peering dreamily out the window, Pansy fussing with the ribbon in Hermione’s curls. 

Hermione swatted her hand away. “Pans, it’s fine.”

“It’s not,” Pansy huffed, tugging the ribbon tighter. “If we’re going back for our last year, you may as well look like the goddess you are.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “She looks the same as always. Unruly hair and far too much smugness.”

Hermione’s lips curved slowly. She leaned back against the seat, voice lilting with mischief. “Vipera velenosa.” (Venomous snake.)

Theo barked a laugh. “I have no idea what she just said, but I can guarantee she’s right.”

Draco bristled. “Shut it, Nott.”

Blaise, utterly at ease, stretched his long legs out and muttered, “Sometimes ignorance is bliss, Malfoy.”

Hermione grinned, winking at her brother. 

Before Draco could retort, the compartment door slid open with a bang.

“Well, well,” Ron Weasley said, leaning into the doorway, his Prefect’s badge gleaming proudly as if anyone cared. “Didn’t know Slytherin’s kept angels in their ranks.” His eyes dropped blatantly to Hermione’s neckline, and his grin turned oily. 

Harry was at his shoulder, less leering but no less bold. “Ignore him, Hermione,” he said with a crooked smile. “You look incredible. Want to come sit with us instead of these snakes?”

The atmosphere shifted in an instant. Blaise straightened, eyes darkening, but Hermione beat him to it. 

She smiled sweetly. “Tempting. But I think I’ll stay here with my actual friends. At least these snakes know how to read without moving their lips.”

Theo doubled over with laughter. Pansy clapped daintily. Astoria gasped. 

Ron’s ears went crimson. Harry chuckled under his breath, trying to tug Ron back. “We’ll see you at the feast, Hermione.”

“Not if I hex you first,” Blaise muttered in Italian, loud enough for his sister to hear. “Ti maledico se ti avvicini ancora a lei.” (I’ll curse you if you get near her again.)

Hermione hid a laugh behind her hand, replying softly. “Tranquillo, fratellone. Non sono interessata.” (Relax, big brother. I’m not interested.)

Draco, however, hadn’t relaxed one bit. His jaw was tight, his silver eyes narrowed on the retreating Gryffindors like he was memorizing every line of their backs for later hexing. 

“Pathetic,” he muttered under his breath. 

Hermione tilted her head, curls brushing her cheek. “What’s pathetic?”

“You fraternizing with lions,” Draco snapped, sharper than he meant to. “It’s embarrassing.”

She smirked, voice honeyed. “What’s embarrassing, Draco, is how jealous you sound.”

Theo whistled low. Blaise glared. Pansy grinned like it was Christmas. 

And Draco? He only scowled deeper, heat creeping up his neck as the train thundered on toward Hogwarts. 

*

The carriages rattled up to the castle, and by the time the gang swept into the Great Hall, conversation was already rippling through the student body. The Zabinis, the Malfoy heir, the Nott boy, the Parkinson girl – all tall, elegant, and sharp as blades. Even the flickering candlelight seemed to bend around them as they crossed the threshold, green and silver glinting in every fold of their robes. 

“Merlin, they look terrifying,” someone whispered from the Ravenclaw table. 

“They are terrifying,” a Gryffindor muttered back. 

Hermione pretended not to hear, chin lifted as Blaise steered her smoothly toward the Slytherin table. Pansy and Astoria fell in at her sides, laughing softly; Theo ambled just behind, all lazy grace and wicked eyes. Draco walked a pace ahead, pale hair gleaming like a banner, posture impossibly perfect. 

As soon as they sat, Theo leaned across Blaise with a grin. “Mimi, I’ve missed you. Summer wasn’t the same without your curls to distract me.”

Hermione arched a brow, reaching for the goblet at her place. “Distract you from what, Theo? The mirror?”

Pansy snorted into her napkin. Blaise, however, scowled, his shoulders tightening. “Find another girl to torment, Nott. My sister isn’t interested.”

“Oh, she’s interested,” Theo said smoothly, winking at Hermione. “She just hasn’t admitted it yet.”

Hermione rolled her eyes but allowed the corner of her mouth to twitch. “Sciocco.” (Idiot.)

Blaise translated under his breath, smirking despite himself. 

Before Theo could fire back, Draco’s voice cut cleanly through the noise. “Honestly, Theo. You sound desperate. It’s pathetic.”

Theo grinned wider. “Jealous, Malfoy?”

The table stilled. 

Hermione tilted her head toward Draco, her curls catching the candlelight, her eyes bright with challenge. “Don’t tell me you’ve missed me, Draco. I might start to think you care.”

He sneered, lips curving in practiced disdain. “Care? About you? Hardly. I just enjoy reminding you of your place.”

“My place,” Hermione said sweetly, “is at the top of the table. Don’t forget it.”

The exchange sparked like lightning, sharp and glittering, and the entire Hall seemed to hold its breath. 

Because it wasn’t just rivalry – it was theatre, a performance only they could give. And though neither would ever admit it, the air between them hummed with something dangerously alive. 

The Slytherin royalty had returned. 

*

The feast ended in a glitter of candlelight and clattering goblets. Students rose in a rush, laughter and chatter echoing through the vaulted ceiling as the prefects began herding their Houses towards the staircases. 

The Slytherins moved like a tide, green and silver banners rippling in their wake as they swept down into the dungeons. Hermione walked with Blaise on one side and Pansy on the other, Theo lounging just behind, Draco a few paces ahead.

“Allow me to escort you back to the common room, Mimi,” Theo purred, offering his arm with exaggerated flourish. 

Hermione didn’t even glance at it. “Theo, we’ve been living here for seven years. I’m fairly certain I remember where my bed is”

“Ah, yes,” Theo said with mock solemnity, keeping pace anyway. “But you’ve never seen mine. A travesty, really. One we could so easily put to rights tonight.”

Blaise stopped dead, turning to glare at him with murder in his eyes. “Over my dead body, Nott.”

Theo only smirked, unbothered, his gaze fixed on Hermione. “What do you say, principessa? A private tour?”

Hermione arched a brow, lips curving into a sharp smile. “What do I say? Imbecille.” (Idiot.)

It didn’t take anyone needing to know Italian to understand what she had just said. 

Pansy laughed out loud. Astoria gasped, covering her mouth. Blaise muttered something vicious in Italian that made Hermione snicker and Theo raise his hands in mock surrender. 

From ahead of them, Draco’s voice drifted back, low and disdainful. “Pathetic.”

Theo grinned, entirely unrepentant. “Jealous, Malfoy?”

Draco didn’t turn, but his shoulders stiffened. Hermione saw it, and her smile widened. 

They descended the last steps together, the emerald-lit shadows of the dungeons closing around them. And though the Slytherin common room door loomed just ahead, the tension between them all crackled like a storm waiting to break. 

And the year had only just begun. 

Chapter Text

The Great Hall glittered with morning light streaming through enchanted windows, but all eyes turned as soon as the Slytherins swept in. 

Hermione – Mimi – entered between Blaise and Pansy, the picture of effortless poise even in plain Hogwarts robes. Blaise towered at her side, ever the protective brother, his hand resting lightly at the small of her back as though warding off the entire school. Pansy leaned close on Hermione’s other side, whispering with a wicked grin. 

“It’s honestly unfair, Mimi,” Pansy murmured loudly enough to carry. “Only you could make these dreadful uniforms look sexy.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, but Theo, sitting further down the table, perked up immediately. 

“Sexy, you say?” he called, lounging across the bench with a grin. “I quite agree, Parkinson. She elevates the entire aesthetic of the Slytherin table. Don’t you think, Malfoy?”

Draco didn’t look up from buttering his toast, though his grip in the knife tightened. “I think Nott should learn to keep his eyes to himself.”

Theo only smirked, unbothered, and winked at Hermione, who arched a brow and reached for her goblet as though entirely immune. Blaise, however, muttered something dark in Italian under his breath that made Hermione hide her smile behind the rim of her cup. 

Before the tension could settle, another voice intruded. 

“Morning, Hermione,” Harry Potter said, sliding up behind her with Ron in tow, both of them adorning their Gryffindor red and gold. Harry’s smile was earnest, a little awkward, his hand rubbing the back of his neck. “There’s a quidditch match this weekend – Slytherin versus Gryffindor. You should come watch.”

Hermione tilted her head, amused. “Why?”

“Because,” Harry said, grinning now, “you’ll be my lucky charm. If you’re in the stands, I’ll never miss the snitch.”

A low murmur spread down the Gryffindor table, a mix of admiration and envy. 

From across their table, however, Draco’s fork clattered a little too sharply against his plate. 

Hermione’s lips curved, flicking toward him for just a second, before she turned back to Harry with deliberate sweetness. 

“Maybe I’ll come,” she said. “If only to see how quickly Slytherin wipes the floor with you.”

The Slytherin table erupted with laughter and applause. Harry flushed, grinning sheepishly, while Ron scowled and muttered something under his breath. 

Draco, still silent and brooding, watched Hermione as she sipped her pumpkin juice with that infuriating serenity of hers. 

She was goading him, knowing that he too, would be playing in the quidditch match. 

*

The Slytherins swept through the corridors like they owned them – emerald robes flowing, polished shoes striking stone, the crowd parting instinctively to let them pass. Blaise and Hermione walked shoulder-to-shoulder at the centre of their little court, Pansy and Astoria trailing just behind, Draco and Theo flanking like silent sentries. 

“Oi, Hermione!”

The voice came from behind, nasal and overeager. Ron Weasley jogged up, hair untamed, tie askew. He fell into step beside her, his face flushed from the effort. 

She rolled her eyes, she just couldn’t seem to get away from him and his spectacled friend no matter where she was headed. 

“Big year,” he said, puffing out his chest. “Last one. Maybe you and I should… you know. Make the most of it. What d’you say?”

Hermione stopped mid-stride, turning her head slowly, lashes lowering in mock sweetness. When she spoke, her voice was honey-smooth, almost purring. 

“Sei un buffone inutile con il cervello di una zucca vuota.” (You’re a useless clown with the brain of a hollow pumpkin.)

Ron’s ears turned pink, but he mistook her tone entirely. He grinned, swaggering away with a wink as if she’d agreed to marry him on the spot. 

Blaise chuckled low in his throat, shaking his head. “Brutale, sorellina. You’ll kill him with words alone.” (Brutal, little sister.)

Hermione smirked, her curls bouncing as she slipped back into Italian. “Meglio con le parole che con la mia bacchetta.” (Better with words than with my wand.)

Blaise barked a laugh, offering her his arm like a courtly escort. “Giusta osservazione.” (Fair point.)

Theo, of course, seized his opening, leaning close to Hermione’s other side. “So, I will take it that that show of language skills, bella, was your way of saying no to him? Meaning there must be room for someone special. Like me.”

“No.” Blaise said flatly, narrowing his eyes. 

Theo only grinned wider, shameless as ever. “Don’t be jealous, Zabini. There’s enough of her to go around and I’d rather enjoy –”

“Try finishing that sentence,” Blaise warned. 

Hermione rolled her eyes but hid a smile, flicking Theo’s sleeve with the tip of her finger. “Keep dreaming, Nott.”

Behind them, Draco’s jaw tightened. He kept his gaze forward, steps clipped, but the line of his shoulders was stiff with contained fury. Every word, every laugh between them scraped against his nerves like a blade. 

By the time they reached the dungeon stairs, the tension was crackling – Hermione radiant, Theo incorrigible, Blaise protective, and Draco simmer so hotly he might have set the flagstone alight. 

*

The dungeon was cool and damp, lantern-light flickering across rows of cauldrons. Slughorn bustled at the front, booming cheerfully about their “last glorious year” and the importance of refining delicate brews for N.E.W.Ts. His voice echoed off stone, warm and jovial, but no one was fooled – everyone knew the real challenge was surviving who you got paired with. 

“Ah, yes – Zabini, Blaise with Nott… Parkinson with Greengrass… Potter with Longbottom…” Slughorn’s list rambled on until he reached the names that made half the class go very still. “Malfoy with Zabini, Hermione.”

A ripple ran through the benches. Blaise’s quill snapped clean in half. Theo smirked like it was Christmas. 

Hermione slid onto the bench beside Draco with all the serenity of a queen forced to sit beside a viper. She smoothed her skirt and looked at him with polite disdain. “Try not to poison me, Draco. I’d hate to end my final year foaming at the mouth.”

Draco arched a pale brow, reaching for the ingredients tray. “Foaming at the mouth might improve your diction, Mimi. At least then I wouldn’t have to listen to you purr Italian insults all day.”

She smiled sweetly, slicing valerian root with expert precision. “Vipera velenosa.” (Venomous snake.)

Draco’s hand stilled on the silver knife. “One day, I’ll know exactly what you’re saying. And then –”

“ –you’ll still lose,” she interrupted, passing him the chopped roots with a look that dared him to refuse. 

Across the aisle, Theo leaned toward Blaise, whispering with relish. “They’re going to hex each other or snog each other right into the cauldron.”

Blaise didn’t look up from grinding his beetle shells. “If it’s the second, I’m hexing him anyway.”

Hermione sprinkled powdered moonstone into the cauldron with a graceful flick. The potion shimmered violet. “Do try to keep up, Draco. It’s not my fault you’re distracted.”

Draco’s smirk was tight, his silver eyes narrowed. “Distracted? By you? Don’t flatter yourself.” He stirred counterclockwise, but the movement was a fraction too sharp – betraying that very distraction. 

Hermione’s laugh was low, silken, and maddening. “Of course not. You’d never let anyone see if I got under your skin.”

Their eyes locked across the bubbling brew, the air between them taut as a bowstring. 

And in the back row, half the class was already whispering. The war between the two of them was far better theatre than any wizarding duel. 

The cauldron hissed as Draco added his cut roots too quickly. A puff of pale smoke curled upward, arid and sharp. 

Hermione wrinkled her nose. “Honestly, Draco, it’s counterclockwise and a slow addition. If you’d listened instead of staring at your reflection in the silverware, you’d know that.”

His head snapped toward her, silver eyes gleaming. “Don’t tell me how to stir, Mimi. I’ve been brewing potions since before you learned how to hold a wand.”

She tilted her head, curls spilling over one shoulder, voice like silk wrapped around a blade. “And yet here you are, sabotaging us both because your ego’s too fragile to take direction.”

Theo, from across the aisle, leaned back in his chair, still thoroughly amused by the carnage in front of him. “Someone needs to get me a quill so I can keep score.”

A few students snickered. Blaise glared at him, sharp as a curse. “Shut it, Theo.”

Draco leaned closer to Hermione, lowering his voice. “Careful, Mimi. Your claws are showing.”

“Better claws than cowardice,” she shot back, her lips curving. 

The cauldron bubbled furiously between them, glowing an alarming shade of crimson. Slughorn bustled over with a flap of his velvet robes. “Careful, careful! Merlin’s beard, we don’t want another incident like last year’s shrinking solution, do we?” He waved his wand, and the potion stilled, fading to a more acceptable lilac. “Work together, my dears. Harmony makes for stronger magic!”

“Yes, sir,” Hermione said sweetly, shooting Draco a sideways glance sharp enough to slice through parchment. 

Draco forced a thin smile. “Of course, Professor.”

Slughorn waddled off, humming, and the silence at their bench stretched tight. 

Hermione resumed slicing her next ingredient with precise, delicate strokes. “Serpente arrogante.” (Arrogant snake.)

Draco’s knuckles whitened on his quill. “You think whispering it in Italian makes it clever? You’re not half as witty as you think you are.”

Her smile was pure provocation. “No, Draco. I’m twice as witty. That’s what bothers you.”

Theo snorted so hard he nearly toppled his inkpot. “Sweet Salazar, just kiss her already before one of you sets the dungeon on fire.”

“Not in this lifetime,” Draco bit out. 

Hermione leaned in just enough that only he could hear, her voice a velvet purr. “Promise?”

Their eyes clashed again – silver and amber, heat and steel. And for one impossible second, it felt as though the entire dungeon had narrowed to just the two of them, their loathing pulsing with something hotter, sharper, and more dangerous than hate. 

The clang of the dismissal bell barely finished echoing before Hermione slammed her book shut and swept out of the dungeon, curls flying like a banner of war. 

Draco was at her heels in an instant. “You nearly ruined that potion.”

She spun in the stairwell, fire in her amber eyes “lo?” (Me?) The word cracked like a whip. “You can’t even follow a simple set of instructions without mangling them. I had to fix your mistake!”

His jaw clenched, eyes flashing. “My mistake? You wouldn’t know subtle brewing if it bit you, Mimi.”

“Velono ambulante!) she hissed, stabbing her finger toward his chest. (Walking poison!)

The corridor stilled as students filed past, slowing to watch. Sparks all but flew between them – wand hands twitching, breaths sharp. 

“Careful, Hermione,” Draco drawled, though the tightness in his voice betrayed him. “Hex me in the corridor and you’ll land yourself a month’s detention.”

“Worth it,” she spat, curls bouncing as she stepped closer. 

Theo leaned lazily against the wall, grinning like a man at the theatre. “Fuck, I think I’m in love. Look at her – fire in her eyes, hex on her tongue. Perfection.”

“Shut it, Theo,” Blaise snapped, moving swiftly between his sister and Draco before sparks truly flew. He pressed a steadying hand against Hermione’s arm, lowering his voice into their shared tongue. “Calmati, sorellina. Non vale la pena.” (Calm yourself, little sister. He’s not worth it.)

Hermione’s breath came fast, chest rising and falling, but her eyes softened a fraction as she flicked her gaze toward Blaise. “Solo perché me lo chiedi tu.” (Only because you ask me.)

Blaise nodded, satisfied, and turned his glare on Draco – a promise of violence shimmering just beneath the surface. 

Theo, utterly undeterred, straightened with a dazzling grin. “Still, if you ever tire of fighting him, principessa, my arms are always open. For dueling practice, naturally.”

Hermione snorted, unable to stop the ghost of a smile tugging her lips. 

Draco, however, said nothing. He only stared at her a beat too long, his silver eyes dark and unreadable, before brushing past with a sweep of his robes – retreating before the whole corridor could see the fury twisting in his chest into something else. 

The crowd of students began to disperse, buzzing with whispers. Hermione smoothed her sleeve, cheeks still flushed. Blaise looped his arm firmly through hers, steering her toward the stairs. 

The war was far from over. 

*

The Great Hall buzzed with its usual morning chaos – quills scratching, owls swooping, goblets clinking. At the Slytherin table, the gang had claimed their usual stretch of benches like a royal court. Blaise sat with his easy, languid grace, one arm casually resting along the back of Hermione’s seat. Pansy leaned into her side, murmuring gossip into her ear, while Theo sprawled opposite them, watching Hermione with that wolfish grin he wore so well. 

“You know,” Theo said loudly, buttering his toast with more flourish than necessary, “I think I’ve finally solved the mystery. The Sorting Hat didn’t put you in Slytherin for ambition, Mimi. It was because Salazar himself would have begged to sit next to you at supper.”

Hermione arched a brow, unimpressed. “Flattery gets you nowhere, Theo.”

“On the contrary,” Theo said, raising his goblet to her. “Flattery gets me a smile. And a smile from you, bella, is worth more than all the galleons of Gringotts.”

Blaise muttered something lethal in Italian, stabbing his sausage with unnecessary force. Hermione hid a laugh behind her hand. 

Before she could fire back, the Gryffindor table stirred. Ron Weasley, red-eared and overeager, stood and swaggered over, Harry trailing more quietly at his side. 

“Well, good morning,” Ron said, puffing his chest. “You look brilliant today, Hermione. Thought maybe you’d like to sit with us for a change. Gryffindors table’s warmer than this one, you know.”

Theo choked back laughter, and half the Slytherin table leaned in to watch. 

Hermione smiled sweetly, lashes lowering. “Solo un idiota potrebbe dire una cosa del genere.” (Only an idiot would say something like that.)

Ron blinked, clearly hearing only the velvet purr of her tone, as usual. His ears went pink. “Right. Exactly. That’s… that’s what I meant. See you at the game though, yeah?” He sauntered back toward his table with a grin, oblivious. 

Blaise snorted. “Brutale.”

Harry, however, lingered a moment longer, offering Hermione a smile far softer than Ron’s bluster. “Ignore him. But I meant what I said yesterday. Come to the match yeah? You’ll be my lucky charm.”

Draco’s knife clattered against his plate. The sound cut through the Hall, sharp as glass. 

Hermione tilted her head, pretending not to notice. “I’ll think about it, Harry. Perhaps I’ll even wear red to bring you luck.”

The Slytherin table erupted with laughter. Theo slapped the table, wheezing with mirth. 

Draco’s eyes narrowed into slits. He didn’t speak, he didn’t even look at her again – but his toast lay forgotten on his plate, shredded into angry little pieces by his silver knife. 

Chapter Text

The stands were alive with noise, banners of scarlet and green whipping in the late autumn wind. The Gryffindors were already roaring, the Slytherins answering back with hisses and chants that echoed across the pitch. 

Hermione settled elegantly into her seat flanked by Theo on one side and Pansy on the other, Astoria leaning forward with wide-eyed excitement. Theo sprawled shamelessly, his arm stretched along the back of Hermione’s seat as though he had reserved her for himself. 

“Best seat in the house,” he said with a grin, leaning close enough that his shoulder brushed hers. “Front row view of you, bella, and of Malfoy making a fool of himself in the air. Doesn’t get better than that.”

Pansy burst into laughter, hiding her smirk behind a gloved hand. 

Hermione arched a brow. “Theo, you couldn’t fly a broom if Salzar himself bribed you.”

“Why would I?” Theo replied smoothly. “Why chase a Quaffle when I can sit here and chase you?”

Astoria giggled. Pansy all but choked with delight.

High above them, the teams soared onto the pitch. Blaise, bat in hand, scanned the stands until he caught sight of his sister. Hermione cupped her hands around her mouth, her voice rising above the roar of the crowd. 

“Buona fortuna, fratellone!” (Good luck, big brother!)

Then, pointedly, “E non osare farti male, o me la pagherai.” (And don’t you dare get hurt, or you’ll pay for it.)

Blaise’ grin flashed white as he raised his bat in salute, the picture of a man adored by his sister and feared by his opponents. 

Draco swooped low on his broom, passing just close enough to shout, “Try not to fall asleep up there, Mimi – wouldn’t want you to drool on your friends.”

Hermione smirked up at him, her voice carrying sweet and sharp. “Try not to fall off your broom, Draco – wouldn’t want your hair to get mussed.”

The Slytherins in the stands erupted, hissing and laughing. 

Below, Harry circled his broom and glanced towards the stands. His eyes lingered on Hermione, the way the wind tugged at her curls, the tilt of her smile. He flew harder, sharper, as if to impress her. 

Theo noticed immediately, leaning closer to murmur against Hermione’s ear, “Potter’s looking at you like you’re his snitch, bella. Don’t worry. I’d never make you chase me that hard.”

His hand brushed her arm, casual but deliberate. Hermione rolled her eyes but didn’t shove him off, knowing Blaise wasn’t there to see. Pansy shrieked with laughter, nearly falling off her bench, egging Theo on with gleeful little nudges. “Honestly, Nott. You are lucky her brother is out of earshot.”

Draco’s broom swerved dangerously in midair, his gaze snapping toward the Slytherin stand. He saw Theo leaning in, saw Potter glancing too often at the Zabini princess, saw Hermione’s lips curve in that infuriating, knowing smile. 

Jealousy scorched though him, hot and choking. His grip in his broom tightened until his knuckles went white. 

And when a Bludger came screaming his way, he slammed it harder than he needed to, the crack of wood against iron like thunder rolling across the pitch. 

*

The whistle blew and the game exploded into motion – broomsticks slicing through the air, the Quaffle flashing red against a sky the colour of storm clouds. 

From the commentator’s box came Luna Lovegood’s dreamy voice, amplified to the entire stadium. 

“And here we are, watching Slytherin versus Gryffindor,” she said in a sing-song tone. “The outcome will almost certainly depend on which team manages not to fall off their brooms and die. Of course, statistically, Gryffindors are more prone to dramatic accidents.”

The Gryffindor stands erupted in laughter and outrage. 

Hermione smirked, cupping her hands to call, “Vai, Blaisey!” (Go, Blaisey!)

Blaise dove with a lethal grace, bat cracking against a Bludger that veered toward Draco. He sent it spiraling toward the Gryffindor chasers instead. Hermione clapped furiously, her Italian ringing out again: “Mostragli come si fa, fratellone!” (Show them how it’s done, big brother!)

Theo leaned closer, practically purring. “Shit, Mimi. If you shouted for me in Italian like that, I’d win every game in your honor.” His fingers brushed her wrist, bold as ever. 

“Hands off, Nott.” Hermione said coolly, but her cheeks betrayed a faint flush. 

Pansy nearly fell sideways laughing, fanning herself dramatically. “This is better than the game!”

High above, Draco was not laughing. His broom swerved dangerously as he snapped his gaze to the stands again. Theo’s arm was too close, Hermione’s smile too indulgent, Harry’s glances up at her far too frequent. 

“And there goes Potter,” Luna’s voice trilled through the stadium. “Chasing the Snitch, but not nearly as fast as he was Hermione Zabini’s attention a moment ago. Very distracting for a Seeker, I’d imagine.”

The stands roared with laughter and scandalised shrieks. Hermione’s face went hot. Harry’s ears blazed crimson. Ron, flying clumsily behind him, almost dropped the Quaffle in shock. 

Theo howled with delight. “She’s not wrong, Potter! Even Lovegood sees it!”

Hermione groaned, burying her face in her hands. 

Draco, teeth gritted, smashed a Bludger so hard in Harry’s direction that the Gryffindor Seeker had to barrel roll to avoid it.

“Malfoy’s looking very aggressive,” Luna continued serenely. “I’d say it’s less about his competitive streak and more about unresolved emotional tension. Possibly indigestion.”

The Slytherin stands howled with laughter. 

Hermione dropped her hands, eyes blazing as she shouted in Italian up at her brother. “Se ti fai male, ti spezzo le gambe!” (If you get hurt, I’ll break your legs!)

Blaise, dodging another Bludger, threw her a quick salute, grinning from ear to ear. 

But Draco – Draco was a storm. His swings grew sharper, his broom turns tighter, every strike against the Bludgers echoing like thunder. Jealousy coiled so thickly in his chest he could barely breathe.

When Theo leaned in again, whispering something shameless into Hermione’s ear and brushing her curls aside as if it were his right, Draco lost it. 

He slammed his broom into a brutal dive, cutting across the pitch at a reckless angle, colliding with Theo’s line of sight from the air to Hermione. The Bludger he struck screamed across the field, forcing Ron to duck and nearly unseating him. 

Gasps rippled through the stands. 

“Ah,” Luna said mildly, “and there’s Malfoy, attempting murder. Very stylish dive, though.”

The referee’s whistle shrilled. 

Hermione’s hands tightened white-knuckled around the railing as she met Draco’s furious silver gaze from the air. The whole stadium could see it – sparks flying, sharp and magnetic, the Slytherin prince and princess locked in a silent duel even in the middle of a war on broomsticks. 

And Luna, ever dreamy, concluded: “Slytherin royalty are clearly back, everyone. Whether they win the match or not hardly seems to matter.”

The wind howled, the roar of the crowd rising to fever pitch as scarlet and green streaked across the sky. The Snitch glimmered in the autumn sun, darting just out of reach of both Seekers. 

Harry leaned low over his broom, his eyes fixed, hand outstretched – and with a final lunge that had half the crowd screaming, his fingers closed around gold. 

The stadium erupted. Gryffindors leapt to their feet, waving banners and shouting themselves hoarse. Luna’ dreamy voice carried serenely over the din:

“And there’s Potter, catching the Snitch in a rather showy fashion. Personally, I think the Snitch let him win, but it’s very sweet that he’s pretending otherwise.”

Harry, flushed and triumphant, didn’t make his usual celebratory lap. Instead, he wheeled his broom toward the Slytherin stands. Gasps rippled as he slowed, hovering just before the emerald banners where Hermione sat. 

He held out the glittering prize, still struggling in his hand, and smiled at her. “For you,” he said simply. “My lucky charm.”

The Gryffindor stands exploded in cheers. 

Hermione blinked, momentarily stunned, then curled her lips into a sly smile as she accepted the little golden trinket. The Snitch fluttered weakly against her palm, the winds beating like a trapped bird. 

“Thank you, Harry,” she said, voice smooth as silk. 

Beside her, Theo whistled low, grinning like he’d just seen the best play of the match. “Well, well. A Snitch for a princess. That’s practically a proposal.”

Pansy dissolved into laughter once again, clutching Hermione’s arm to steady herself. 

But Blaise Zabini did not laugh. His jaw locked, eyes flashing dangerously as he half-rose from his broom. “What the hell does he think he’s doing?”

Draco didn’t speak at all. From his place in the air, pale hair whipping in the wind, his silver eyes burned down at the scene below. His grip on his broomstick was so tight his knuckles blanched bone-white. 

Harry Potter had handed Hermione Zabini the Snitch. In front of the entire school. 

And Draco Malfoy had never hated anyone more. 

*

The stands emptied in a noisy wave of scarlet and green, students pouring out into the crisp afternoon air. Gryffindors sang raucous victory songs. Slytherins muttered darkly about fouls and unfair calls. 

At the heart of it, the Zabini-Malfoy court swept down the steps, every eye following them. Hermione walked with effortless composure, the Snitch still fluttering faintly in her hand like a golden secret. 

Blaise stalked at her side, livid. “Che diavolo pensava di fare quel cretino? Devanti a tutti?” (What the hell was that idiot thinking? In front of everyone?)

Hermione tucked the Snitch neatly into her pocket, entirely too serene. “Non essere drammatico, fratellone.” (Don’t be dramatic, big brother.)

“Drammatico?” Blaise hissed. “Ti ha praticamente fatto una dichiarazione d’amore davanti alla scuola intera!” (Dramatic? He practically declared his love to you in front of the entire school!)

Theo walking backwards in front of them, grinned like a cat who caught the canary. “If you’re talking about that rather colourful display from Potter, Blaise, I thought it was rather romantic. Imagine – Harry Potter offering our Mimi the prize of the match. Very Gryffindor of him.” He winked at Hermione. “Though if you’re accepting trophies, principessa, I’d be happy to give you mine.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, though her lips twitched. “Theo, you don’t have a trophy.”

“Not yet,” he said, hand to his heart. “But for you, I’d win one.”

Pansy cackled, linking arms with Hermione. “Shit, this combined with the match dramatics is the best entertainment I think I’ll get all terms. Keep going, Nott, I want to see if Blaise hexes you.”

“Don’t encourage him,” Blaise growled. 

Through it all, Draco walked in taut silence on Hermione’s other side. His expression was carved from ice, every muscle in his jaw clenched, his eyes fixed forward. He hadn’t looked at Hermione once since Potter’s stunt – because if he did, he wasn’t certain he’d be able to stop himself from causing a scene. 

As they swept into the shadowed corridor leading to the dungeons, Hermione’s laughter at something Pansy said echoed off the stone. The sound curled hot under Draco’s skin. 

He didn’t join in. He didn’t say a word. 

But his hand twitched at his side, aching to rip that Snitch from her pocket and smash it into dust. 

* * *

The fire had burned low, green flames crackling faintly in the grate. The common room was deserted, all shadows and silence. Hermione lingered alone in an armchair, the Snitch balanced between her palms. Its wings twitched against her skin like a heartbeat. 

“Pathetic.”

The word came from the far end of the room, slicing the quiet. Draco stepped out from the stairwell, hair mussed from his hands, his face a perfect mask of disdain. 

Hermione arched a brow. “Good evening to you too.”

He stalked closer, movements taut, precise. “Still admitting Potter’s charity, I see.”

Her lips quirked. “Is that what you call a victory gift?”

“I call it a performance,” he said coldly, dropping into the armchair opposite hers. “And you – sitting there like some prize for him to claim – you let him make a fool of you.”

Hermione’s eyes flashed. “I didn’t let him do anything. He offered, I accepted. That’s all.”

Draco leaned forward, voice sharpening. “That’ all? You let him parade you in front of the whole school. Do you enjoy being Gryffindor’s latest game?”

“Better a game than a pawn,” she shot back, rising from her chair. “And if memory serves, you’ve spent most of your life letting your father parade you like a prized hound. So don’t lecture me.”

Draco was on his feet before he could think better of it, standing so close their breaths mingled. “Watch your tongue, Mimi.”

She tilted her chin, defiance blazing. “Or what? You’ll scowl me into silence? Threaten me with your father’s cane? You don’t scare me, Draco Malfoy. You never have.”

His jaw clenched, every muscle tight. “You should be scared. Because one day, you’re going to push me too far.”

Hermione laughed, low and dangerous, curls tumbling forward as she leaned in. “And one day, you’re going to admit you don’t hate me nearly as much as you pretend.”

The air cackled. Their eyes locked – silver, molten amber. His hands twitched at his sides, aching to grab her, shake her, kiss her until she stopped smirking like she already knew the truth. 

“Fuck, you’re infuriating,” he snarled. 

“Velono ambulante,” she purred back. (Walking poison.)

His breath caught. His next words slipped free before he could stop them, rough and possessive. “I don’t like sharing what’s mine.”

Silence. 

Hermione’s eyes widened – then narrowed, slow and sharp, her lips curled into a smile like a blade. “Yours?” she echoed, voice dripping with mockery. “You arrogant, entitled –”

“Go on say it,” he cut across her, voice low, strained. “Say you’re not mine.”

Hermione stepped even closer, so close her curls brushed his shoulder, her breath warm on his lips. “Gladly. I’m not yours. And I never will be.”

For one reckless, impossible second, the distance between them threatened to vanish. The tension coiled tight, begging to snap. 

But Hermione spun away with a sharp laugh, curls flying, and started up the stairs. “Goodnight, Draco.”

He stood frozen, fists clenched, chest heaving – and stared at the empty staircase long after she’d gone. 

The Snitch fluttered weakly on the arm of her abandoned chair. He wanted to smash it. He wanted to pocket it. He wanted to throw it back at Potter’s face. 

Mostly, he wanted her. 

And it made him furious. 

* * *

The Great Hall glowed golden with morning light, chatter rising above the clatter of cutlery and owl wings. The Gryffindors were still singing their victory songs, voices hoarse from the night before. 

Hermione swept into the Hall on Blaise’s arm, curls gleaming, Snitch glinting like jewellery from the chain she’d lopped it onto and clipped at her collar. It fluttered faintly, wings twitching, a mocking reminder of Potter’s spectacle. 

Theo let out a whistle as she slid onto the bench beside him. “Fucking hell, principessa, wearing Gryffindor gold with Slytherin green? You’re practically begging for me to ruin you.”

Hermione smirked, helping herself to pumpkin juice. “Theo, you couldn’t ruin me if I gave you directions.”

Pansy laughed so hard she nearly spit her tea. “Gods, marry her already, Nott, or I might have to beat you to it.”

Across the table, Draco’s spoon clattered against his porridge with enough force to draw a few curious glances. He didn’t lift his head. 

Blaise muttered under his breath in Italian, stabbing his eggs. “Quello stupido Grifondoro le da uno spuntino e lei lo indossa come un trofeo.” (That stupid Gryffindor gives her a trinket and she wears it like a trophy.)

Hermione leaned close, her voice a soothing purr. “Smettila di fare il nonno, fratellone. Non e niente.” (Stop acting like a grandfather, big brother. It’s nothing.)

“Nothing?” Blaise snapped, his dark eyes narrowing. “Hermione, he practically proposed to you in front of the whole school.” 

Theo clutched his chest, grinning. “Oh, I like that. Mrs. Potter. Has a nice tragic ring to it, don’t you think?”

“Not happening,” Hermione said flatly, buttering her toast. 

At that exact moment, Harry arrived, sliding onto the bench beside her with a hopeful smile. “Morning, Hermione. Did you sleep well?” His eyes flicked to the Snitch pinned at her collar, and he grinned, boyish and proud. “Looks good on you.”

Hermione smiled back, polite and inscrutable. “Thank you, Harry.”

Draco’s chair screeched against the floor as he stood abruptly, fists clenched at his sides. For a moment, it looked like he might say something – something dangerous, something that would expose far too much. 

But he only gathered his books, spine rigid, and strode from the Hall without a word. 

Theo smirked, leaning back lazily. “Well. Someone’s not a morning person.”

Blaise scowled after Draco, then at Harry, then finally at Hermione. “This is going to be a disaster,” he muttered in Italian. 

Hermione only sipped her juice, curls tumbling down her shoulders, her amber eyes glowing with a secret satisfaction she’d never admit aloud.

Chapter Text

The morning mist still clung to the grass when the Slytherins and Gryffindors trudged down to the paddock. Hagrid’s booming voice carried across the field, introducing their lesson with all the subtlety of a troll. 

“Nifflers today! Cheeky little buggers – like shiny things. Don’t let ‘em near yer pockets unless yeh want ter lose every galleon yeh’ve got.”

A collection of small, furry creatures snuffled around in the dirt, their snouts twitching eagerly at every glimmer. 

Hermione crouched gracefully, hand outstretched. Within seconds, a Niffler had bounded over, burrowing against her palm with delighted squeaks. She laughed, soft and low, stroking its fur. 

“Of course,” Draco muttered from where he leaned on the paddock fence. “Even magpie rodents can’t resist you.”

She glanced up, smirking. “Jealous, Draco?”

His eyes flicked over the Niffler nuzzling her like she was made of starlight – then over her. His jaw tightened. “Hardly.”

Across the paddock, Harry was attempting to coax one with a coin, while Ron tripped over his own feet. Theo and Pansy had collapsed against the fence, watching Hermione with undisguised amusement. Blaise lingered close, expression protective and sour all at once. 

It was then that one of the Nifflers squeaked and launched itself at Hermione’s collar. There was a frantic flutter, a flash of gold, and in seconds the Snitch was gone, clutched gleefully in tiny paws as the creature scurried back to its burrow. 

“Oi!” Harry yelped, half-laughing, half-horrified. 

Hermione blinked once, then brushed her hands off on her robes, utterly unbothered. “Well, there you go.”

Draco, however, smirked like Christmas had come early. “Looks like Potter’s little love token found its rightful place – in the dirt where it belongs.”

Theo doubled over in laughter, Pansy fanned herself with delight, and Blaise muttered furiously in Italian about Potter contaminating his sister with Gryffindor trash. 

Hermione only shrugged, wiping Niffler pawprints from her sleeve. “I couldn’t care less.”

That seemed to catch Draco off guard. His smirk faltered, reforming into a scowl. He stepped closer, lowering his voice so only she could hear. “If you didn’t care, then why the hell did you wear it at breakfast? Parading it in front of everyone?”

Her amber eyes gleamed as she met his glare. “Because,” she said sweetly, lips curving, “I liked watching you squirm.”

The words landed like fire between them. Draco’s breath caught, his jaw tightening as though to bite back the thousand responses burning his tongue. 

Before he could find one, Hagrid’s booming voice interrupted. “Right, class! Bing yer Nifflers back this way! Don’t worry if they nicked somethin’, they always cough it up sooner or later.”

Hermione rose smoothly, dusting off her robes, and swept past Draco with a smirk curling at her lips. 

He watched her go, silver eyes narrowed, every nerve in his body alight. 

*

The class was dismissed in a rattle of laughter and squeaking Nifflers. Students drifted back toward the castle, Harry still sulking about his stolen Snitch, Ron whining about muddy robes. 

Blaise, however, was muttering darkly in Italian, his fury coiling hotter with every step. Hermione laid a calming hand on his sleeve. 

“Fratellone, calmati. Non e niente.” (Big brother, calm down. It’s nothing.)

But he shook her off, jaw tight. His eyes had been fixed not on Harry – but on Draco. 

He strode across the path, catching Draco just as he was about to sweep past. His hand clamped onto Draco’s arm, dragging him out of the earshot of the others. 

“So che cos’e questo,” Blaise hissed, voice low and deadly. (I know what this is.)

Draco scowled, yanking slightly against his grip. “Zabini, if you’re going to spew at me in your mother tongue, don’t expect me to play along. I speak French and German. Not Italian.”

“Fine.” Blaise leaned in, voice razor-sharp as he switched back to English. “I said I know what this is. You don’t hate her at all. You’ve been staring at her like a starving man since we got back from Summer. You want her, don’t you? You’re ogling my fucking sister?”

The colour drained from Draco’s face, his aristocratic mask faltering for just a heartbeat. “You’re mad.”

“Don’t play dumb with me,” Blaise snarled, shoving him lightly back against the stone wall. “I see it. Every time she laughs. Every time Potter or Theo get too close. You burn. You’re worse than they are. You might be my best mate, but if you think I’ll let you put your filthy hands on her –”

“I don’t want her!” Draco snapped, voice too loud, too brittle. His silver eyes flashed, betraying exactly the opposite. “She’s insufferable. Infuriating. Vain and sharp-tongued and –”

“And you’re obsessed with her,” Blaise finished flatly, his dark eyes narrowing. “Merda, Draco. You’re not even denying it properly.”

Draco swallowed hard, throat tight, pulse hammering. For once, words abandoned him. 

Blaise leaned in close, his voice a lethal whisper. “Stay away from her. Because if you hurt her, Malfoy – if you even think about it – I’ll make sure your perfect little world comes crashing down.”

With that, he shoved off and stalked back toward Hermione, slipping easily into Italian as if nothing had happened. 

Draco stayed rooted to the spot, pale and furious, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. 

For the first time in years, he wasn’t certain he could keep the mask on much longer. 

* * *

The afternoon shadows stretched long across the dungeon corridors, cool air humming with the distant drip of pipes. Hermione moved lightly down the hall, curls bouncing as she adjusted her bag on her shoulder. 

Behind her, footsteps echoed. She didn’t have to turn to know who it was. 

“Still brooding, Malfoy?” she called over her shoulder, voice lilting, mocking. 

Draco’s stride lengthened until he caught up, his robes billowing. His face was marble, but his eyes – his eyes were fire. “Not brooding. Just enduring your shrill voice echoing through every corridor.”

Hermione laughed, low and wicked, not the least bit cowed. “Enduring? Please. You’d miss me if I stopped.”

“I’d throw a party,” he snapped, glaring straight ahead. 

She slowed, forcing him to match her pace. “Then why do you keep staring? Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

His jaw locked, silver eyes narrowing to slits. “You think far too highly of yourself, principessa.”

“Do I?” she purred, tilting her head. “Because Blaise seems to think otherwise. He’s been pacing like a guard dog all morning. Makes a girl wonder what the real threat is.”

Draco stopped dead, the space between them suddenly electric. His voice dropped low, dangerous. “Stay out of things you don’t understand.”

Her smile sharpened, all fire and amber light. “Try me.”

For a moment, the silence was thick enough to choke on, his glare locked with her smirk. The tension coiled tight, balanced on a knife’s edge between rage and something hotter, heavier. 

Finally, Draco broke away with a sharp scoff, striding off in the opposite direction. “One day, Zabini,” he threw over his shoulder, voice tight, “that clever mouth of yours is going to get you into trouble.”

“Looking forward to it,” she called after him sweetly. 

And she meant it. 

*

The clatter of wings filled the Great Hall as owls swooped in, scattering feathers and parchment across tables already groaning with breakfast. Hermione looked up just as a glossy black owl dropped a heavy cream envelope directly onto her plate, nearly toppling her goblet of juice. 

Her face softened instantly. “From Papi, she murmured, fingers already breaking the seal. 

Blaise rolled his eyes and reached for the coffeepot. “Of course it is. He writes to you twice a week like you’re still six years old.”

Hermione smiled as she unfolded the parchment, her father’s familiar bold script looping across the page in rich Italian. She pressed it to her lips briefly, then began to read silently. 

Blaise leaned closer, curiosity getting the better of him. “Well? What does il re of the Zabini estate have to say this morning? Don’t keep us all in suspense, principessa.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes playfully. “Nosy.”

“Sibling privilege,” Blaise replied smoothly, plucking the letter straight from her hand before she could protest. He cleared his throat and, with exaggerated grandeur, read aloud:

“Mia adorata principessa,” (My beloved princess) Blaise translated, his voice dripping with mockery. 

“The villa feels too quiet without your laughter echoing through its halls. Even the roses in the courtyard seem lonelier. Remember, no one is permitted to call you beautiful before I do, not even your brother –”

Blaise broke off, glaring. “Really?”

Hermione grinned, unrepentant. “Keep reading.”

Blaise sighed and continued.

“ – I trust Hogwarts is treating you well, though I doubt they appreciate the treasure they have in you. Study hard, shine brighter than the rest, and remember that you are always your father’s stella piu luminosa. (brightest star) If you need anything, anything at all, send word, and it will be yours. Con tutto l’amore del mio cuore, tuo Papi.” (With all the love of my heart, your Papi.)

Blaise slapped the letter back onto her plate. “Disgusting.”

Hermione beamed, tucking it safely into her pocket. “You’re just jealous.”

“Jealous?” Blaise snorted. “Of being smothered in syrup? Pass.”

Across the table, two owls swooped in next, one sleek and pale, the other imperious. They dropped folded vellum missives into Blaise’s and Draco’s hands, both sealed with entwined Zabini-Malfoy crests. 

Blaise opened his with a resigned groan. Draco’s pale fingers unfolded his more quickly, his eyes scanning the words. Within moments, both boys wore identical expressions of disbelief. 

Blaise gave a theatrical sigh. “Well. Mother has news.”

Draco’s scowl was thunderous. “Bloody brilliant.”

Hermione arched a brown reaching for toast. “What now?”

Blaise read aloud, his tone droll: “Dearest children, it would be simply delightful if this Yule were spent together in Italy. Narcissa longs for a Christmas in the sun, and Celeste assures me the villa is at its finest in winter light. We expect you all, naturally. Affectionately, your devoted mothers.”

Pansy clapped her hands. “Oh, divine! Italian sun, Italian wine – how chic.”

Draco slapped his letter onto the table, voice dripping in venom. “Fucking fantastic.”

Theo smirked. “What’s wrong, Malfoy? Afraid of a little holiday romance? Italy’s famous for it. Just imagine – the vineyards, the moonlight, the mistletoe…” He sent Hermione a wolfish grin. “Don’t worry, principessa. I’ll keep you warm.”

Blaise kicked him under the table so hard Theo yelped. Hermione only hid her smile behind her goblet, curls falling to shield her expression. 

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering darkly about ‘interfering mothers’.

Chapter Text

The station was loud with steam and chatter, students tumbling out of compartments into the arms of waiting parents. Owls hooted from their cages. Trunks rattled across the platform. 

Hermione and Blaise stepped down from the train together, side by side as always. Before they could even look for their luggage, a deep, booming voice carried across the crowd. 

“Principessa mia!” 

Hermione lit up, slipping her arm from Blaise’s to rush straight into her father’s embrace. Eduardo Zabini swept her off the ground as though she were still a little girl, spinning her once before settling her back on her feet. 

“You’ve grown even lovelier, stella mia,” he declared proudly in Italian, cupping her face in his broad hands. “Hogwarts can’t possibly deserve you.”

“Papi,” Hermione laughed, her amber eyes sparkling. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“Never,” he insisted, pressing a kiss to her forehead. 

Blaise rolled his eyes but hugged his father all the same, clapping him on the back. “You’re going to smother her to death one of these days.”

“I’ll smother you both if I please,” came Celeste Zabini’s amused voice as she swept forward. Her dark hair gleamed in the winter light, her elegance commanding attention as much as her husband’s booming presence. She wrapped both children into her arms, kissing their cheeks in turn. “Tesoro, (treasure) you’ve grown thinner – are you eating properly? Blaise, have you been watching her?”

“Sempre, Mama,” Blaise assured, though his grin betrayed his amusement. (Always, mama.)

Draco and his parents approached just then, Narcissa regal in fur, Lucius immaculate as always. 

Hermione slipped effortlessly from daughter to debutante, her every movement graceful. She dipped her head with a polite smile. “Mr. Malfoy, Mrs. Malfoy – it’s a pleasure to see you both again. You’re looking well.”

Narcissa’s face softened instantly, touched. “My dear girl, you look radiant.” She brushed an invisible curl from Hermione’s shoulder with motherly fondness. “That green suits you perfectly.”

Lucius inclined his head, eyes cool but intrigued. “Miss Zabini. You’ve grown into your grace.”

Hermione’s smile never faltered. “Thank you, sir.”

Draco, standing just behind them, made a sound that was half a scoff, half a sigh. He didn’t bother to disguise his eye roll. 

Hermione caught it, of course. She always did. Her lips curved ever so slightly, satisfaction flashing in her amber gaze. 

Theo’s voice rang out from behind them, carrying like a trumpet blast: “Well, if it isn’t the royal court of Slytherin reunited. Italy won’t know what’s hit it.”

“Shut up, Theo,” Blaise muttered. 

But Draco said nothing, his eyes fixed on Hermione just a beat longer than he should have, before he turned away sharply, jaw tight. 

*

The carriage wept up the long cypress-lined drive, sunlight glittering off the white stone of Villa Zabini. Terraces dripped with bourgainvillea, fountains sparkled in the courtyards, and the house-elves darted gracefully through the archways, their uniforms crisp as any butler’s.

The moment Hermione stepped out, three of the elves hurried forward, their large eyes shining. 

“Signorina!” (Miss!) they chorused in high-pitched Italian, bowing so low their ears brushed the tiles.

Hermione crouched at once, taking each of their hands in turn and greeting them in fluent Italian. “Cara miei, quanto mi siete mancati!” (My dears, how I’ve missed you!) She kissed one on the crown of its head, sending the creature into squeaking bliss. 

“They’re not supposed to adore you more than they adore Mama,” Baise muttered, though his smile gave him away. 

Hermione only grinned, tucking her curls back. “I’m going for a swim before supper.”

“Of course you are,” Blaise sighed. 

Later, the boys sprawled across the terrace overlooking the pool, tumblers of firewhisky catching the golden light. Theo was stretched out like a cat, Blaise lounged with effortless entitlement, and Draco sat in a cool shadow, glass balanced on his knee. 

Then Hermione appeared. 

She strolled from the villa in a deep green bikini, curls tumbling free, her skin warm gold in the late sun. She moved with unconscious ease, each step a quiet defiance of gravity. 

Theo nearly dropped his glass. “Sweet fucking Circe.” His voice carried, dramatic and shameless. “I think I’m in love.”

He elbowed Draco, grinning wide. “Come on, Malfoy, tell me I’m wrong. Look at her – tell me she’s not the most beautiful witch you’ve ever seen.”

Draco stiffened, eyes fixed stubbornly in his drink. But after a long, dangerous pause, his jaw flexed – and he gave the smallest, most reluctant nod. “Fine. She is.”

Theo’s grin split his face. 

Blaise froze. Then he surged forward and smacked them both round the back of their heads, hard. “Cretini! (Idiots!)” he snapped, scowling furiously. “That’s my baby sister you’re ogling.”

Hermione, already halfway down the steps into the pool, twisted back with a wicked grin. “By five weeks, Blaisey! We’re basically the same age.”

“That doesn’t count!” Blaise thundered, glaring between Draco’s rigid silence and Theo’s wheezing laughter. 

Theo clutched his stomach, nearly choking on his whisky. Draco drained his in one swallow, pale ears betraying him, and refused to look anywhere near the pool again. 

* * *

The villa’s sunroom glowed with golden afternoon light, the glass walls looking out over lemon groves and fountains. A table was laid with the sort of perfection only Celeste Zabini and Narcissa Malfoy could achieve: delicate china, gleaming silver, sugared fruits, and an assortment of petit fours so artfully arranged they looked like jewels. 

Hermione entered with Blaise at her side, tugging off her sunhat, still glowing from her swim. Draco was already seated stiffly at the far end, posture a lesson in aristocratic misery.

“Ah, there you are,” Celeste sang, rising to greet them. She kissed Hermione’s cheeks, then Blaise’s, before sweeping Hermione toward the table. “Sit, sit, tesoro. We’ve saved you a place.”

A place, as it turned out, directly beside Draco. 

Hermione froze. Draco’s lips curved into the faintest sneer. “Oh, joy.”

“Perfect,” Narcissa said serenely, ignoring the tension radiating off of her son. “It’s been far too long since the two of you shared company properly.”

Draco scoffed. “Mother, we see each other every day at school.”

She ignored him. 

Hermione sank into her chair with a tight smile, muttering under her breath in Italian. “Serpente odioso.” (Loathsome snake.)

Draco leaned closer, voice silk and venom. “I heard that.”

“You were meant to.”

Celeste poured tea as though nothing were amiss and she couldn’t hear her daughter’s colourful Italian. “Look at them, Cissy,” she crooned. “Such poise. Such elegance. Truly, the finest of their generation.”

Narcissa smiled warmly at Hermione, patting her hand. “Your manners, my dear, are impeccable. So refreshing at your age.”

Hermione returned the smile sweetly though her foot shifted under the table – and Draco hissed as she stomped squarely on his boot. 

“Indeed,” Lucius drawled from the corner, sipping wine. “The Zabini girl has grace. She’ll certainly keep a husband in line, one day.”

Draco choked on his tea. Hermione smiled so brightly it could have lit the villa. 

“Draco has excellent manners as well, as if I would have allowed anything but,” Narcissa added firmly, as if daring him to prove her wrong. “Don’t you, darling?”

His silver eyes glared knives at Hermione. “Impeccable.”

Celeste sighed with delight, raising her glass to Narcissa. “To our children. The picture of refinement.”

Hermione sipped her tea serenely, muttering once more in Italian under her breath. “Che torture.” (What torture.)

Draco ground his teeth, knuckles white around his teacup. 

And their mothers only smiled, victorious, as if the twenty-year plan was going precisely as intended. 

Celeste refilled Narcissa’s cup with a graceful flick of her wrist, her eyes gleaming. “Now, about this evening’s gala,” she began casually, as though they hadn’t spent all week planning every detail. “It is tradition, of course, for our young gentlemen to make the proper introductions on the floor.”

Narcissa inclined her head, serene as ever. “Naturally. Blaise, Theo, Draco – each of you will dance with Hermione. It would be most improper otherwise.”

Hermione choked slightly on her sugared fruit. Blaise’s dark eyes narrowed at once. “Va bene,” (Fine) he said smoothly, “but Theo will keep his hands to himself.”

Theo, lounging at the end of the table, smirked. “What hands? I’m a perfect gentleman.”

Hermione arched a brow, cutting across sweetly. “What? No threats for Draco?”

All eyes slid to Draco. He set his teacup down with surgical precision, his sneer practiced. “I’m more likely to hex her. If she doesn’t get to me first.”

Hermione’s lips curved. “So true.”

Celeste only sighed dreamily, undeterred. “Even so. Just look at them, Cissy. Such a handsome pairing.”

“Yes,” Narcissa agreed softly, her eyes lingering on them both with something warmer than calculation. “Quite perfect.”

Both Draco and Hermione grimaced simultaneously, Hermione muttering under her breath: 

“I’d sooner marry the Niffler.”

Theo snorted into his teacup, and nearly toppled his chair. 

Blaise leaned back, smirking. “Funny, Mimi, I thought you’d be Mrs. Potter by now.”

Hermione’s eyes blazed. “Vaffanculo, Blaise!” (Fuck off, Blaise!)

Draco tilted his head, intrigued. “What did she say?”

“Nothing you need to hear,” Blaise replied smoothly, smirking. 

At that moment, Eduardo strode in through the archway, tall and imposing in his summer robes, his voice booming like a clap of thunder. “That had better not be my princess’s distress I can feel.”

Hermione leapt to her feet, glowing. “Papi!”

Eduardo crossed to her, kissing her curls, his eyes narrowing dangerously at the table of young men. “Who upset you? Tell me, principessa. Daddy will hex them into next week.”

“No one, Papi,” Hermione laughed, looping her arms through his. “They’re only teasing.”

Blaise muttered darkly in Italian. Theo tried not to choke on his biscuit. Draco kept his face a perfect mask – save for the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth, betraying amusement he’d never admit. 

The mothers exchanged a knowing look over the rim of their teacups, entirely satisfied. 

* * *

The Zabini ballroom glowed beneath a thousand floating candles, chandeliers dripping crystal light across marble floors. The orchestra swelled with witch strings as the first couples began to circle the room. 

And then Hermione entered. 

Dripping in gold, her gown shimmered like sunlight on water, catching every gleam of the candlelight. The soft fabric clung and flowed in all the right places, her warm Italian-toned skin radiant beneath its glow. Her curls, tamed only barely, framed her face in a halo that made her look other-worldly– an ethereal vision. 

A hush rippled through the crowd. 

Eduardo Zabini beamed like a king. He crossed the marble floor, bowing with exaggerated flourish before holding out his hands. “Principessa mia,” he said warmly, “you will grant your old father the first dance, si?”

Hermione’s eyes sparkled as she placed her hand in his. “Always, Papi.”

They glided into the waltz, Eduardo’s frame proud, protective, guiding her effortlessly. “Be patient with your mother, stellina,” (little star) he murmured in Italian, low enough that only she could hear. “Let Celeste have her fantasies. But you will not be married off – ever – unless you wish it. You’ll always be my princess.”

Hermione’s smile softened, heart swelling. “I would never dare burst her bubble. I love her too much. And besides…” she glanced toward her mother, glowing on the edge of the floor, “it makes her happy.”

Eduardo kissed her forehead mid-turn, chest swelling with pride. 

As the music shifted, Blaise appeared, bowing neatly to his father before turning to his sister. “Con permesso, Papi. Allow me.” (With permission, Papi.)

Eduardo relinquished Hermione’s hand with a proud smile. “A father’s pride,” he declared, his voice carrying over the music, “to see his handsome son and stunning daughter together – and not clawing at each other’s throats like most siblings.”

Hermione laughed as Blaise swept her expertly into the dance, his movements elegant and sure. “Papi does have a flair for the dramatics.”

Blaise grinned. “You love it. Besides, you deserve the spectacle.” His eyes softened for a moment. “You look beautiful, Mimi. Truly.”

She squeezed his hand fondly. “Love you, Blaisey.”

From the sidelines, Theo wolf-whistled obnoxiously. Pansy smacked his arm. Celeste beamed at her two children she had poured her heart and soul into raising. 

And at the edge of the crowd, Draco Malfoy watched in silence, his jaw tight, and every line of his body coiled. 

*

The orchestra swelled into the next waltz, and before Hermione could slip back to her seat, Narcissa’s voice carried clear as a bell:

“Draco, darling,” Narcissa said sweetly, “your turn with Miss Zabini, don’t you think?”

Hermione’s head snapped toward her mother. Celeste was already beaming like she’d arranged the stars themselves. 

Draco’s jaw tightened. “Mother,” he said flatly. 

“Draco,” Narcissa returned, her smile sharpening. 

There was no escape. With the air of a condemned man, Draco strode forward and extended his hand. “Come along, Principessa. Let’s give them their spectacle.”

Hermione’s amber eyes narrowed, but she took his hand, deliberately firm. “Try not to trip over your ego, Malfoy.”

“Worried I’ll outshine you?” he murmured as he pulled her into hold.

“As if that’s possible.”

The orchestra swelled. They moved together with practiced perfection, their bodies falling into rhythm as though they’d never stopped. Step, turn, spin – the waltz unfolded flawlessly, gilded in candlelight. 

“You’re still muttering that bloody secret tongue, aren’t you?” Draco said lowly, leaning close enough that his breath brushed her cheek. 

Hermione smirked. “Sempre, Serpente.” (Always, Serpent.)

“I hate it,” he said. 

“You hate that you can’t understand it.”

Draco’s lips twitched despite himself. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you enjoyed tormenting me.”

“Oh, I do,” she purred. 

He spun her sharply, their hands clasping tighter than necessary as they came together again. The contact was electric, both of them too aware of the warmth between them. 

“You’ve gotten better,” Draco admitted grudgingly after a long silence. 

“At dancing?” Hermione’s brow arched, teasing. 

“At everything,” he said, voice clipped. 

Her breath caught for a fraction of a second before she covered it with a smile. “And you’re still insufferable.”

Draco leaned in, his voice velvet and venom. “Tell me again how you’d rather marry a Niffler, Principessa. I’ll remember it next time you’re glaring at me across the common room.”

She laughed – a genuine, soft sound that slipped out before she could stop it. Draco froze for a heartbeat, startled. 

“That laugh shouldn’t suit you,” he said quietly. 

“Yet you’re staring,” she countered. 

His silver eyes glittered as he dipped her low in a flawless arc, holding her just a fraction longer than propriety allowed. “Maybe I like watching you prove me wrong.”

The moment stretched – dangerous, precarious, something shifting just beneath the words. 

But the music ended, and they broke apart too quickly. 

Hermione swept into the perfect curtsey. “Thank you for the torture.”

Draco bowed, sharp and not entirely mocking. “Always a pleasure.”

They turned away, but both carried the ghost of that dance long after the orchestra struck up again. 

*

From their table at the edge of the ballroom, the elder Zabinis and Malfoys observed the golden pair sweeping across the dance floor. Hermione’s gown shimmered like molten sunlight, Draco’s poise cut from marble. Together, they were a vision. 

Celeste sighed, positively glowing. “Just look, Cissy. Are they not the most perfect pairing you’ve ever seen?”

Narcissa’s eyes softened, her smile small but certain. “They are. She challenges him, and he –” her gaze sharpened, catching the flicker in her son’s silver eyes – “adores her, whether he admits it or not. Their eyes do not lie.”

Lucius raised a brow, sipping his wine with thinly veiled amusement. “Careful, darling. You’ll be imagining the grandchildren next.”

Celeste gasped and clasped her hands together with a dreamy little sigh. “Imagine the grandchildren, Cissy!”

“Merlin, above,” Eduardo groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

At that moment, Blaise strode past the table, having just relinquished Hermione to another partner. He stopped dead, glaring at his mother. “Did I just hear the word grandchildren?”

“Indeed you did,” Lucius said, lips twitching. 

“No,” Blaise declared flatly, dark eyes flashing. “No one touches her. Ever. End of discussion.”

“Finalmente!” Eduardo said, throwing a hand in the air as though in divine agreement. (Finally!) “On this at least, my son and I are united. No one touches my principessa.”

And then, of course, Theo appeared like a stormcloud of mischief, bowing to Celeste with theatrical flourish. “If Malfoy is too much of an idiot to keep her, signora, you’ll find me only too eager to see your blessing for Mimi to become Lady Nott.”

The words hung in the air like a lit fuse. 

Blaise’s head whipped around, his voice cracking like a whip in rapid Italian. “Sul mio cadavere, Theo!” (Over my dead body, Theo!)

Eduardo slammed his glass down in solidarity. “Esattamente!” (Exactly!)

Theo, utterly unbothered, just grinned. 

Celeste, Narcissa, and Lucius all burst into laughter, elegant and merciless, their glasses raised in shared delight at the chaos their meddling had unleashed. 

Blaise muttered another string of furious Italian under his breath, Hermione’s laugh carrying across the ballroom as if she knew exactly what trouble they were all brewing. 

*

The orchestra shifted into a lively waltz, and before Blaise could intercept, Theo swept into the floor with a dramatic bow that nearly knocked into a passing tray of champagne. 

“Principessa,” he purred, extending his hand. “Your faithful suitor awaits.”

Hermione rolled her eyes but placed her hand in his, lips twitching despite herself. “You are insufferable, Nott.”

“And yet, here we are,” Theo shot back cheerfully, pulling her into hold. His hand slid just a fraction lower on her waist than propriety allowed. 

“Theodore,” she hissed, snapping it higher. 

He laughed, shameless, and within moments it was a game: each time she guided his hand back up, he let it drift lower again, until she swatted him outright. 

“Theodore!” she berated him in rapid-fire Italian, lashes flashing. 

Theo only sighed dreamily. “Say it again, Mimi. Doesn’t matter what you’re saying. I just love the sound of it.”

Her exasperated laugh broke through, warm and genuine, and Theo’s grin widened, utterly unrepentant.

Around the floor, guests chuckled at their antics, the golden girl sparring with the shameless rake. 

At the parents’ table, Blaise’s jaw had turned to stone. He muttered a string of lethal Italian curses that made Eduardo chuckle into his wine. 

And across the room, Draco Malfoy stood rigid as a statue, fists curled tight at his sides. His silver eyes tracked every laugh, every brush of Theo’s hand against Hermione’s golden gown. 

Something twisted low in his chest – hot, furious, unfamiliar. He couldn’t name it, didn’t dare. But he felt it burn like fire in his veins. 

And as Theo spun Hermione out with flourish, proclaiming loudly for all the room to hear, “One day you’ll be Lady Nott, my dear, and the entire wizarding world will envy me –” 

Hermione barked out a scandalised laugh and smacked him on the arm, muttering another string of sharp Italian that made the crown roar. 

Draco nearly combusted. 

*

The gala was still roaring inside – laughter, strings, glasses clinking. But outside, the gardens stretched in silver and shadow, bathed in moonlight. 

Hermione slipped out through the glass doors, the night air cool against her flushed skin. She leaned against a marble balustrade, breathing in the scent of roses and lemon trees. Finally, peace. 

Until she heard familiar footsteps behind her.

“Following me, Malfoy?” she asked without turning, her tone edged but knowing. 

Draco’s voice was cool, clipped. “You shouldn’t wander off alone.”

Hermione turned, golden skirts whispering. He was standing a few feet away, hands shoved into his pockets, his jaw set in that infuriating line she knew well. 

Her eyes narrowed. “You can’t sit there quietly sulking every time someone else offers me their hand, Draco.”

His gaze flickered, sharp as a blade. “I wasn’t sulking.”

“Oh no?” She stepped closer, chin tilted in challenge. “You glared so hard at Theo I thought he’d burst into flames.”

Draco’s lip curled. “Theo barely deserves to breathe the same air as you, let alone drag you around a dance floor.”

The words came out before he could stop them. Possessive. Dangerous. True. 

Hermione stilled, amber eyes catching silver in the moonlight. “Careful, Malfoy. Someone might think you actually care.”

The silence stretched, taut as a bowstring. Draco’s throat worked, his fists tightening in his pockets. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Please,” she whispered, stepping close enough that the skirts of her gown brushed his boots. “You rattled. Admit it.”

His eyes burned into hers, all sharp edges and something softer, something he reused to name. For a moment, the world held still. 

And then, with a breath that sounded like surrender and defeat in one, Draco said, low and fierce:

“Maybe I just don’t like watching what’s mine slip through other people’s fingers.”

Hermione’s breath caught, her pulse leaping. 

But before she could answer, a voice called from the ballroom, breaking the spell. 

She stepped back, mask snapping into place. “So dramatic, Malfoy. You really should stop saying things you don’t mean.”

Draco’s smirk was brittle, his eyes too bright. “And you should stop pretending you don’t understand them.”

She swept past him, skirts brushing his leg, and disappeared back inside. 

Draco stayed in the moonlight, fists clenched, chest tight, knowing something had cracked wide open between them – and there was no going back. 

Chapter Text

The Zabini villa glittered in festive splendour. Sunlight spilled through tall windows, gleaming across garlands of enchanted poinsettias and gold-ribbones wreaths. Piles of lavishly wrapped gifts lay beneath a towering evergreen trimmed in silver and emerald. 

Hermione curled cross-legged on the rug in her silk dressing gown, her curls wild from sleep, her lap piled with velvet boxes and tissue paper. Blaise lounged nearby with an expression of smug amusement as their parents handed out yet another round of extravagant parcels. 

“Don’t pout, principessa,” Eduardo teased, watching his daughter tear open another gilded box. “You love being spoiled.”

Hermione shot him a grin, eyes sparkling. “Always, Papi.”

Celeste glowed as she pressed another package into Draco’s hands, while Narcissa passed Blaise a heavy-looking case. Theo already had his nose buried in a set of imported broom manuals, muttering excitedly under his breath. 

The room buzzed with laughter and affection – until a small, square box slid across the carpet to land neatly in Hermione’s lap. 

She looked up, startled. Draco sat a few feet away, posture immaculate even in his casual holiday robe, face schooled into cool disinterest. 

“What’s this?” she asked, brow arched. 

“A present,” Draco replied flatly. “Try not to faint.”

Blaise’s eyes narrowed immediately. “From you?”

“Don’t sound so offended,” Draco drawled. “I do have some manners.”

Hermione untied the ribbon, curiosity piqued. Inside lay a slender silver chain with a pendant – an elegant serpent twined delicately around a green gem. Refined, subtle, and undeniably beautiful. 

She blinked, stunned for a moment. 

Draco cleared his throat, eyes flicking away. “If you’re going to wear something around your neck, it should at least be tasteful. Not a bloody Quidditch trinket.”

The memory of the Snitch Harry had given her at the match flashed between them. Hermione’s lips curved, wickedly amused. 

“So this is you rescuing me from future poor taste?” she teased, fastening the chain around her throat. 

Draco’s eyes lingered on the pendant resting against her collarbone before he jerked his gaze away. “Someone had to.” 

Celeste’s hand flew to her heart, whispering something delighted into Narcissa’s ear. The two mothers exchanged a look of triumph that went entirely unnoticed by their children. 

Blaise, however, noticed. His jaw tightened. “Careful, Malfoy.”

“Relax,” Draco muttered, lifting his teacup as though this were nothing at all. “It’s just jewellery.”

But Hermione, fingers brushing the serpent pendant, couldn’t shake the weight of it. Because Draco Malfoy had chosen it for her. 

And it felt anything but “just jewellery.”

*

The Zabini dining hall glittered with candlelight, its long mahogany table stretched to accommodate the combined families and their guests. Platters of roasted pheasant, enchanted bowls of pasta that never emptied, and towers of sugared pastries filled every inch of polished wood. 

Hermione swept in a moment after Blaise, her gown a masterpiece in emerald silk and gold-thread embroidery. It clung where it should, floated where it pleased, and with her hair tumbling in loose curls around her shoulders, she looked radiant – elegant and utterly at ease in her own skin. 

Draco froze with his wine halfway to his lips. 

The necklace. 

The serpent pendant glimmered against her collarbone, catching the light as though it had been made for that very moment. She hadn’t taken it off. Not once. And the sight of it – of her wearing his gift – sent something dark and possessive curling low in his chest. 

He forced his gaze back to his plate, jaw tight. It’s nothing. It’s a necklace. You only wanted to save her from Potter’s tasteless nonsense in the future.

And yet, when Theo leaned in to kiss Hermione’s knuckles in greeting, Draco’s fork bent beneath his grip. 

Celeste beamed as her daughter settled gracefully beside her, fussing over the drape of her gown. “Belissima,” she declared proudly. “Look at you, my darling girl. Green and gold – perfect. A true vision.”

“Perfect,” Narcissa echoed smoothly from across the table, her smile secretive. Her eyes flicked once, knowingly, to Draco. 

Draco bristled, stabbing a piece of pheasant far too viciously. 

Eduardo, raising his glass, cut across the hum of conversation. “To family,” he toasted warmly, his gaze settling fondly on Hermione. “My principessa. My son. My wife. And to dear friends who are as close as blood.”

“Salute!” the table echoed. 

Hermione glowed under the attention, laughing as Blaise nudged her shoulder. Theo seized the moment to wax lyrical about her “unmatched radiance,” earning himself a sharp kick beneath the table from Blaise and a string of inventive Italian curses. 

Through it all, Draco’s eyes returned again and again to the glittering pendant resting against golden skin. Each time, his pulse jumped. Each time, he hated himself for it. 

And each time, the thought whispered louder in the back of his mind:

She’s wearing it because I gave it to her.

*

Later that evening, the villa had settled into a hazy hum of firewhisky and laughter, the glow of Christmas still heavy in the air. Music drifted faintly from the salon, mingling with the rustle of the lemon trees outside. 

Hermione stepped onto the terrace, the night air cool and fragrant. She wrapped her shawl loosely around her shoulders, tilting her face to the stars. 

“Out here scheming, principessa?” 

She startled, turning to find Draco leaning against the balustrade, a picture of languid grace in his dark coat. His tone was lighter than usual, though the silver of his eyes caught the moonlight sharply. 

“I could ask you the same,” she retorted, but without her usual bite. “What are you doing out here?”

He hesitated, then offered his arm with a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Taking you for a walk, apparently. Don’t faint.”

Her lips twitched despite herself. With a long-suffering sigh, she slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow. “Christmas must have softened you.”

They strolled the manicured paths in companionable silence, the marble fountains gleaming under enchanted starlight. For once, there were no insults hurled, no claws bared – only the strange quiet of two people trying very hard not to fight. 

At length, Draco said softly, “You look… different tonight.”

Hermione blinked. “Different?”

His mouth curved, almost wry. “Beautiful. Even for you.”

She stopped walking, staring up at him with wide amber eyes. “Did you just – compliment me?”

“Don’t get used to it.”

She laughed, the sound like bells in the night, and shook her head. “Well, shit.” Then quieter: “Thank you, by the way. For the necklace. It really is beautiful.”

His throat worked. He looked away quickly, pretending to study the marble fountain. “Well. Someone had to rescue you from any further attempts of Potter’s tackiness.”

She rolled her eyes but her smile lingered. After a moment, she slipped her hand into her pocket and drew out a small, slim box wrapped in silver paper. 

“What’s this?” Draco asked, eyeing it warily. 

“A gift,” Hermione said simply, holding it out. “Did you think you’d be the only one with good manners?”

For once, Draco Malfoy looked genuinely unsettled. He reached out, took the box slowly, and turned it over in his hands as though it might explode. 

Hermione tilted her head, curls spilling over her shoulder, watching him with that maddening little smile. “Go on, open it.”

Draco turned the silver-wrapped box over in his hands, his expression carefully blank. With a flick of his fingers, he tore away the paper and lifted the lid. 

Inside lay a set of cufflinks – sleek silver, each inlaid with a delicate green stone that glimmered faintly under the moonlight. Exquisitely crafted, understated but unmistakably fine. His crest was etched in miniature on one, the Zabini crest on the other, the two entwined with a serpent motif. Similar to her necklace. 

For a moment, Draco just stared. The cufflinks caught the starlight and shimmered like something alive. 

“They’ll suit you,” Hermione said lightly, though there was warmth in her eyes she didn’t quite disguise. “And since you’re tragically hopeless without a touch of style –”

“I’m hopeless?” Draco managed, his voice sounding a shade too rough. 

She smirked, and tapped the small ivory tag still tied to the box. “Don’t forget to read the note.”

Draco flipped it over. Two words, inked in her elegant script:

Serpente velenoso. 

He blinked. 

She smiled sweetly. “It suits you. Better than Draco, don’t you think?”

His jaw clenched. “Are you ever going to tell me what these little Italian insults mean when you mutter them at me?”

“No,” she said cheerfully, the gold of her gown glinting as she turned on her heel. “Where would be the fun in that?”

He slipped the cufflinks back into their case with care he tried not to show, staring after her with an expression that was far too complicated for his liking. 

From the villa terrace above, two pairs of elegant eyes watched their children strolling in the moonlit gardens. 

Celeste lifted her glass toward Narcissa, her smile smug. “To brilliance.”

Narcissa’s lips curved as she clinked her flute in return. “To patience finally rewarded.”

The women drank, their laughter drifting softly into the night, as their children walked on – blissfully unaware of just how tightly fate’s threads were being pulled around them. 

*

The Zabini villa was alive with warmth that evening, the scent of cinnamon and pine clinging to the air. Enchanted mistletoe hung in strategic corners of the grand salon, its white berries glowing faintly as though eager for mischief. 

Theo, naturally, was on the hunt. 

“Come now, principessa,” he crooned, sweeping into Hermione’s space with exaggerated gallantry. “Tradition demands it. Mistletoe doesn’t hang itself, you know.”

Hermione arched a brow, utterly unimpressed, though her smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “You’re shameless.”

“Hopelessly,” he agreed cheerfully, making a grab for her wrist. 

Before he could drag her under the dangling greenery, Blaise intercepted like a shield, his scowl thunderous. “Back off.”

Theo held up both hands, grinning like a devil. “Protective, are we, Blaisey?”

“Try murderous.”

Blaise muttered something vicious in Italian and steered Theo firmly away, though the shameless boy still winked at her over his friend’s shoulder. 

Hermione shook her head, curls bouncing, eyes glowing with mirth as she leaned against the mantle. She was radiant, bathed in candlelight, utterly unaware of the pale eyes fixed in her from across the room. 

Draco stood with a glass of firewhisky, posture deceptively casual, gaze locked on her. The curve of her smile. The way her pendant caught the light. The sound of her laugh, threaded through the carols. 

“Enjoying the view, son?”

Draco nearly dropped his glass. He turned sharply to find Lucius at his shoulder, silver gaze calm, voice pitched low. 

“I wasn’t –”

Lucius silenced him with a raised brow. “Mimi is a fine young woman.”

Draco scowled. “So everyone keeps saying.”

“Not everyone has eyes as keen as yours.” Lucius sipped his wine, unbothered. “You watch her more carefully than anyone else in the room.”

Draco stiffened, throat tight. 

Lucius let the silence stretch before speaking again, his tone softer now, almost reflective. “Do you know… I loathed your mother when we were young.”

Draco blinked, startled. “What?”

“It’s true.” Lucius’s lips curved faintly, though not in mockery. “We were rivals. Opposites in every sense. I thought her sharp tongue was insufferable, her wit a challenge I did not need. And she thought me… well, she thought me a pompous ass.”

Draco choked on a laugh. “Accurate.”

Lucius’s chuckle was quiet, fond. “Perhaps. But fate has an odd way of revealing itself. What began in disdain became something… inevitable. And I can tell you this, Draco – I have never seen a clearer truth than the one I found in her. And I would never, not for a moment, choose differently.”

Draco stared, floored. He had never, ever heard his father speak this way. Yet there it was: affection, devotion, reverence. He realised with a jolt that he had never seen two people more disgustingly in love than his parents. 

Lucius’s gaze drifted back to Hermione, still laughing as Blaise dragged Theo away from the mistletoe. “A rare jewel will always attract treasure hunters. But sometimes, the treasure chooses its own guardian long before either realises it.”

Draco swallowed hard, words caught somewhere between a protest and a confession. 

Lucius placed a steadying hand on his son’s shoulder, his expression unreadable but his voice sure. “Do not ignore what is already yours, Draco. Before someone else decides they are worthy of it.”

And with that, he moved away, leaving Draco rooted to the spot, and his glass trembling faintly in his hand.

Chapter Text

The Great Hall bustled with the sleepy chaos of the first breakfast back. Robes were still rumpled from travel, owls swooped in overhead with letters from anxious parents, and steam curled from platters piled high with eggs, sausages, and toast. 

Mimi swept into the Slytherin section of the hall, Blaise on one arm and Pansy immediately latching onto the other with a squeal. 

“There you are, darling! I thought I might die without you!” Pansy declared dramatically, crushing Mimi into a hug. “One family gala was not nearly enough time spent with you. Italy, your mother’s soirees, your extra guests – tell me everything.”

Mimi laughed, smoothing her curls. “Pans, it was Christmas. There’s nothing to tell except overeating and Theo being Theo.”

“I knew he’d be unbearable! He was a menace at the gala.” Pansy crowed, already reaching for a croissant. “But don’t distract me – I want details.” Her gaze flicked lower, and in an instant her sharp eyes locked onto the delicate silver chain glittering at Mimi’s throat. 

“Ohhh,” she gasped, fingers flying to snatch at the pendant before Mimi could react. “What is this?”

Mimi flushed faintly as Pansy tilted the serpent into the light, green gem winking smugly. 

“New,” Mimi said quickly, plucking it back with as much composure as she could muster. “A gift.”

“A gift?” Pansy’s voice rang out like a bell. “From who? Don’t you dare hold out on me, darling –”

Across the table, Draco set his fork down with a sharp clink. 

Theo leaned over, grinning like the devil. “Well it definitely wasn’t Potter this time was it, Mimi?” 

Blaise muttered a curse in Italian, eyes narrowing at Theo and Draco. 

Mimi, ever composed, only smirked as she buttered her toast. “Some secrets aren’t meant for sharing, Pans. You’ll just have to live with the suspense.” And she threw a very pointed glare towards Theo and her brother that said, don’t you dare.

Pansy pouted, but her eyes danced with intrigue. “Oh, you wicked tease.”

Draco sat rigid, his jaw tight, trying and failing to look like he wasn’t listening to every word. His gaze kept flicking to the glittering serpent curled proudly around Mimi’s throat. 

And when she caught him staring, her lips curved – not in sweetness, but in smug, deliberate challenge. 

* * *

The chill of the dungeons seeped into the air as the seventh-years settled into their familiar seats. Cauldrons clattered, quills scratched, and Professor Slughorn waddled about humming cheerfully, blissfully oblivious to the small battlefield that was brewing at his front table. 

Mimi swept into her seat beside Draco, curls bouncing as she laid out her pristine notes. She muttered something in Italian under her breath as she uncorked a vial of moonstone, her lips curling around the syllables like a secret. 

Draco stiffened, quill pausing mid-stroke. He would never admit it – gods help him, he hated to admit it – but the way her voice wrapped around those words… it was bloody enchanting. 

“Care to share with the rest of the class?” he drawled, forcing his expression into cool disdain. 

“No,” she replied sweetly, not looking up. “Not everything I say is meant for your ears, Malfoy.”

He leaned closer, lowering his voice so only he could hear. “You’re aware it sounds like you’re plotting my murder every time you mutter like that, right?”

Her lips twitched. “If I were plotting, I’d hardly warn you, would I? Serpente velonoso.” (Venomous snake.)

He narrowed his eyes. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re predictable,” she shot back, her quill scratching elegantly across the parchment. 

They worked in silence for a few moments – or at least, as silent as one could be with the simmer of their potion filling the air. Every so often, Draco caught himself watching her hands as she measured with precision, the tilt of her head when she bent over the cauldron. Each time, he forced his eyes away with a scowl. 

When he reached for the aconite, her hand darted out at the same time. Their fingers brushed, electric. 

She smirked. “Steady on, Malfoy. You’ll make people think you enjoy working with me.”

His mouth curved despite himself, sharp and sly. “Don’t flatter yourself. You’re merely tolerable at best.”

“Perhaps,” she murmured, pouring a steady stream of ground root into their brew, “but you’d be lost without me.”

Their eyes met over the rising steam, and for a heartbeat too long, neither of them looked away. 

“Fucking hell, get a room,” Theo muttered loudly from behind them, earning a chorus of snickers from half the table. 

Mimi flicked her wand behind her without breaking eye contact, sending a harmless puff of green smoke in Theo’s direction. 

Draco smirked. “You’re wicked.”

She arched a brow. “And you’re only just realising?”

*

The dungeon was cool, damp, and humming with activity, but for Draco and Mimi, the rest of the room hardly existed. Their table was a battlefield. 

Mimi leaned in close to sprinkle crushed valerian root into the simmering cauldron. The faint scent of her perfume – something bright and floral – curled toward Draco like smoke. He grit his teeth, refusing to notice. 

“You’re heavy-handed,” he murmured. 

She tilted her head, curls brushing her cheek. “And you’re unbearable uptight.”

“Precision matters.”

“So does instinct.” She stirred counter-clockwise, and when his hand reached to correct her wrist, she slapped it lightly away. “Don’t touch me, Malfoy.”

He smirked, too sharp to hide the way his pulse had jumped. “Then stop doing it wrong.”

Her eyes glittered as she murmured something rapid in Italian under her breath – sharp syllables dripping like honey. 

Draco scowled. “There you go again, cursing me.”

“Not cursing.” She leaned closer, lips curved in a secret smile. “Describing.”

His eyes flicked down to her mouth before he could stop himself. The cauldron hissed as if in protest. 

Slughorn’s booming laugh echoed from across the room, covering the quiet charge between them. 

“You think you’re clever,” Draco said at last, voice pitched low. 

“I am clever,” she purred back. “And you’re distracted.”

The stirrer in his hand stilled. For one heartbeat, two, the silence between them was deafening. Their shoulders brushed, her curls tickled the edge of his sleeve, and his knuckles tightened white against the ladle. 

“Steady there, Draco,” she murmured, the words a caress wrapped in steel. “Your potion isn’t the only thing about to boil over.”

Draco inhaled sharply, a muscle ticking in his jaw. He turned back to the cauldron with deliberate force, refusing to look at her – because if he did, the whole fragile balance between them would shatter. 

Behind them, Theo made a strangled choking sound. “Shit, if this tension gets any thicker, you’ll both end up shagging on the table.”

Mimi flicked her wand once again toward Theo, this time sending a sharp snap of sparks toward him without turning her head. 

Draco smirked – but it was tight, dangerous, and his hand lingered far too close to hers on the edge of the cauldron. 

* * *

The stone corridors buzzed with the shuffle of students between classes, voices echoing off the walls. Mimi walked gracefully among the tide, sunlight still clinging to her skin like a secret. 

“Zabini!” 

Ron came loping up, his grin wide and clumsy. Harry was at his side, cooler but no less transparent. 

“Good Christmas?” Harry asked, his gaze flicking – not subtly – over her sun-kissed complexion. “Looks like Italy treated you well.”

“Golden, actually,” Ron added. Flushing when she arched a brow. “I mean – your skin. You, uh, you look… nice.”

Mimi smiled sweetly, though her eyes sparkled with mischief. “Grazie, gentlemen. Italy is my home after all, but I assure you, the sun does most of the work.”

Ron practically tripped over himself to laugh. “Right, yeah, the sun. Of course.”

They flanked her as she walked, both vying for scraps of her attention. Harry leaned closer, dropping his voice. “Bet your brother didn’t like that. You showing up looking like you’ve just stepped out of –”

“ –a bloody painting,” Ron finished, tripping again over his own words. 

Ahead, Blaise and Draco had slowed their pace, watching. Blaise’s expression darkened like thunder, and when Mimi laughed lightly at one of Ron’s comments, he muttered a vicious string of Italian. 

“Easy,” Draco said, though his own jaw was tight. “You’ll snap your teeth at this rate.”

Blaise’s glare cut to his sister, then to Potter and Weasley buzzing around her like flies. “She’s mine to protect. Always.”

Mimi caught the words as she drew level with them, her eyes flashing. “Sempre a proteggermi, Blaisey?” (Always protecting me, Blaisey?) She switched back to English, sharp but affectionate. “I can fend for myself, you know. I don’t need two overgrown guard dogs.”

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t agree,” Blaise said flatly. 

Draco’s lips curled in reluctant amusement. “Honestly. Zabini, I’d almost say you were worse than her shadow.”

“I am her shadow,” Blaise snapped back. “And you’ll kindly remember that, Malfoy.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, though there was fondness hidden underneath her exasperation. “Really, you’re all insufferable. I’m not a porcelain doll.”

“You’re mine to protect. Doll or not.” Blaise countered smoothly, slipping an arm around her shoulders as if to punctuate the point. 

Her sigh was long and dramatic, but she didn’t shake him off. Ron and Harry exchanged bewildered glances, skulking off quietly, thoroughly out of their depth. 

Draco, however, was far from bewildered. His eyes lingered on the pendant at her throat – his gift – and the faint curl of possessiveness tightened low in his chest. 

*

Their next lesson was Defense. And Draco was still watching Potter and Weasley like a hawk. 

The Defense classroom smelled faintly of parchment and chalk, desks lined in neat rows. Professor Vance had barely begun outlining the practical drill when Harry leaned across the aisle, a hopeful glint in his eyes.

“Zabini,” he said. “Want to partner up?”

Before Mimi could answer, Draco’s voice cut sharp as steel. “She’s with me.”

The room stilled. Harry blinked, brows lifting. “Excuse me?”

Draco rose from his seat without hesitation, positioning himself at her side with a calculated, territorial ease. “I don’t repeat myself, Potter. She’s already got a partner.”

Mimi shot him a look hot enough to scorch. “I can decide for myself, Malfoy.”

Draco’s mouth twisted. “You’ve got terrible judgement.”

Her eyes narrowed, sparks practically flying. “And you’ve got a control problem.”

They squared off in the middle of the aisle, the rest of the class holding their collective breath. Harry glanced between them, awkwardly retreating as if he’d stumbled into a duel. 

Professor Vance cleared her throat. “Is there a problem?”

“No problem,” Draco said crisply. “Except Potter thinking he can –”

“Except Malfoy thinking he owns me,” Mimi snapped over him. 

The professor tried again, but their voices rose, volleying sharper by the second. 

“You’d let him cast spells at you?” Draco demanded, pale eyes flashing. 

“I’d let anyone cast spells at me, it’s the point of the bloody class!”

“You don’t know what could happen –”

“Don’t you dare imply I’m weak –”

“You’re reckless –”

“You’re insufferable –”

Their words ricocheted, heat sparking between them, until the professor finally slammed her wand against the desk. A loud bang silenced the room. 

“Enough!” she barked. “Zabini, Malfoy – if you can’t control yourselves in my class, you can do so in detention. Tonight. Both of you.”

A ripple of laughter and whispers shot through the room. Pansy covered a grin with her hand, Theo practically wheezed with delight, and Blaise muttered a curse so venomous it made even Harry blink. 

Mimi crossed her arms, chin lifted in defiance. “Perfect.”

Draco’s jaw ticked, but a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Perfect.”

Their eyes locked, the challenge between them undeniable. 

And somewhere deep down, beneath the fury and the sparks, they both knew – detention would be dangerous. 

*

The moment Professor Vance dismissed the class, Mimi swept toward the door, robes flaring behind her. Harry was quick to follow, determination written across his face. 

“Zabini – Hermione – wait up –”

He didn’t get far. Blaise was suddenly there, stepping into Harry’s path like a wall of green silk and dark scowl. 

Harry faltered. “I just wanted –”

“Non ti azzardare a seguirla, Potter,” Blaise snapped, voice low and sharp, Italian rolling off his tongue like knives. (Don’t you dare follow her, Potter.)

Harry blinked, lost. “What?”

Behind Blaise, Theo leaned lazily against the stone archway, a wolfish grin on his face. “Oh, this is fun. He only does that when he’s really mad, Potter.”

Harry’s jaw tightened. “I just wanted to talk –”

“Mia sorella, non la tua conquista,” Blaise cut over him, eyes blazing. (She’s my sister, not your conquest.)

He leaned closer, voice like a curse. “Tieniti la tua lurida bocca e i tuoi occhi sporchi lontani da lei.”

(Keep your filthy mouth and your dirty eyes away from her.)

Harry flushed, fists clenching, though he still didn’t understand. “Speak English if you’ve got a problem with me.”

Theo chuckled darkly. “Translation? I’m pretty sure he’s telling you to stay the fuck away from Mimi. Though, my own Italian is a little rusty.”

Harry bristled. “She can make her own choices.”

Blaise’s gaze sharpened to a lethal calm. “Non quando si tratta di spazzatura come te.” (Not when it comes to trash like you.)

The tension crackled, the hallway buzzing with the awareness of Slytherin and Gryffindor royalty squaring off. 

Before it could snap, Mimi’s voice rang out, cool and cutting. “Blaisey!” 

She stood a few steps ahead, arms folded, expression sharp as her heels clicked against the stone. “I told you I can fend for myself.”

Blaise didn’t look at her, his gaze still fixed on Harry. “And I told you I’ll protect you whether you like it or not.”

Theo smirked at the trio, muttering, “Shit, this is better than the Prophet.”

Mimi huffed, sweeping past them all with a toss of her curls. “You’re all ridiculous.”

But though her words dripped with exasperation, the warmth in her eyes as she glanced at her brother’s furious posture told a different story. 

Chapter Text

The Slytherin common room buzzed as the fire cast green shadows over the stone walls. Conversation lulled, however, when Draco and Mimi swept past, side by side. Neither looked at the other, but the tension radiating between them was a force of its own. Sparks seemed to crackle in their wake, enough to make even the first-years glance nervously out of their path. 

Theo leaned forward on the arm of the sofa, eyes bright with mischief as the pair disappeared through the archway. “Well, well. Off to serve detention together. Anyone want to take bets on how long before they finally snog?”

Pansy clapped her hands together, practically bouncing in her seat. “Oh, yes! I say… half an hour. All that simmering rage has to go somewhere.”

Theo smirked. “Generous. I give it fifteen minutes. They’ll start bickering, then he’ll pin her against a desk –”

“Basta!” (Enough!) Blaise snapped, surging upright so suddenly that both of them startled. His glare could have cut steel. “There will be no betting. No talk. No… fantasies about my sister being touched by anyone.”

Theo, utterly unbothered, arched a brow. “Come now, Blaisey, it’s only harmless speculation.”

“Harmless?” Blaise spat the word like venom. “My sorellina is not fodder for your bloody betting pool. Keep her name out of your filthy mouth, Nott.”

Pansy leaned back with a dramatic sigh, though her eyes glittered with suppressed laughter. “Honestly, Blaise, you’re so possessive. It’s not as if we were talking about her marrying him.”

Blaise’s jaw clenched. “Over my dead body.”

Theo chuckled low, tilting his head toward the door where Draco and Mimi had vanished. “I don’t know, mate. Malfoy’s looking more and more like a dead man walking.”

Blaise cursed savagely in Italian, pacing away before he did something regrettable. 

Pansy smirked behind her hand, eyes dancing. “You’re right. Fifteen minutes, tops.”

* * *

The classroom was cold and echoing, shadows stretching long across the stone floor. A single lantern burned on the professor’s desk, throwing a golden glow over the stern face of Professor Vance. 

She looked from Draco to Mimi – both standing rigid, arms crossed, eyes already sparking like flint. 

“If you both insist on carrying your tension and hatred into every classroom,” Vance said, voice clipped, “then you can sort it out here.”

Her wand tapped against her palm once, sharply. “One hour. I will be locking the door and silencing the room.”

Mimi arched a brow. “You want us locked in together?”

“Exactly,” Vance replied, unbothered by her sharp tone. “I expect you to get it all out, so the next time you’re in my class, you’ll be able to keep those sharp tongues at bay. And not disturb the lesson.”

Draco’s lips curved into a slow, dangerous smirk. “Careful what you wish for, Professor.”

Vance ignored him. With a flick of her wand, the heavy oak door sealed shut behind her, a shimmer of magic sealing the edges. The sound of the castle beyond was snuffed out. 

“An hour,” she repeated just before she left. “When I return, I expect civility.”

The silence that followed was thick. Charged. The air itself seemed to vibrate. 

Draco leaned back against a desk, arms folded, pale eyes glinting in the lantern light. “Well,” he drawled. “Looks like we’ve been given permission.”

Mimi’s laugh was sharp, incredulous. “Permission? To what – hex each other senseless?” 

“To settle this.” His voice dropped low, dangerous and deliberate. “Properly.”

Her chin lifted, curls falling like a crown around her shoulders. “I’m not afraid of you, Malfoy.”

His smirk deepened, though his pulse hammered. “Funny. I was about to say the same thing.”

The lantern flame guttered, shadows crawling higher on the walls. Between them, the distance shrank – not from movement, but from sheer gravity. 

Before long, the silence of the locked classroom shattered like glass. 

“Fine. You want to settle this… then let’s settle. You think you can order me around?” Mimi hissed, stalking forward, curls bouncing with each sharp step. “That you get to dictate who I partner with, who I talk to, who I look at?”

Draco straightened from the desk, pale eyes flaring. “You’d rather I let Potter drape himself all over you like some lovesick cur? Or Weasley slobbering at your heels?”

Her laugh was low and venomous. “Better them than a pompous snake who thinks the sun rises and sets on his command!” 

Something dangerous flicked across his face. “Care, principessa. Your tongue might be sharp, but I’ve learned how to bleed without flinching when it comes to you.”

“Serpente velenoso,” she spat, the Italian wrapping around her voice like silk and steel. (Venomous snake.)

Draco’s jaw ticked. “You and your bloody language. Always hiding behind it.”

“Not hiding,” she snapped. “Just saying what everyone already knows.”

The words landed too close. Too sharp. He moved before he realized it, stepping into her space, forcing her back. The lantern flame guttered as his shadow swallowed hers. 

“You think I don’t see it?” he demanded, his voice low and rough. “Every smirk, every careless laugh, every time you let them circle you like vultures –”

“They’re friends!” she shot back, retreating until her spine brushed stone. 

“They’re scavengers. And you’re too blind to see it.”

“Blind?” Her breath caught as he leaned in, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off of him. “Last I checked, Malfoy, you hated me.”

His lips curled, bitter and burning. “Then you really are fucking blind. You really have no idea, do you?”

She tipped her chin up, eyes blazing. “I know you loathe me.”

His hand slammed against the wall beside her head. “Loathe you?” His voice dropped to a growl, breath hot against her skin. “You’re mine, Mimi.”

Her eyes widened, outrage flashing. “Yours? Since fucking when, Malfoy?”

His chest heaved, every line of him coiled and raw. “Since always.”

The words rang out between them, rough and unpolished, scraped from somewhere deep he hadn’t dared to touch before. 

Her lips parted, furious retort trembling at the edge –

But Draco didn’t let it fall. 

With a sound that was part curse, part confession, he crashed his mouth against hers, claiming with teeth and fire what he had just declared aloud. 

She shoved at him, nails digging into his chest – whether to push him away or anchor him closer, she couldn’t tell. His other hand caught her wrist, pinning it to the wall as he deepened the kiss, all rage and hunger and years of denial unravelling at once. 

“Mine,” he bit out against her lips, again and again, as though the word itself was a spell he could weave into her bones. 

Her answering growl vibrated against his mouth. “You have no right –”

His forehead pressed to hers, breath ragged. “Every right. Since always.”

And then he kissed her again, until the lantern flame itself seemed to gutter with the heat of them. 

That first kiss cracked something open. The second… obliterated it. 

Mimi twisted against him, her free hand sliding up into his hair, gripping tight as though she could punish him for the audacity of claiming her and yet couldn’t stop herself from yanking him closer. Draco groaned into her mouth, the sound rough and unrestrained, pressing her harder into the wall, his body caging hers with no space left between them. 

His teeth caught her lower lip, biting just enough to sting, and her gasp broke the last thread of restraint he might have had. The kiss turned feral – mouths clashing, tongues tangling, every insult they had ever spat at each other burning down into raw need. 

Her nails raked over his shoulders, down his back, and he shuddered, the sound vibrating in his throat like a growl. “Mimi…” is voice cracked, hoarse, reverent and possessive all at once.

“Bastardo,” she hissed against his mouth, but she was kissing him back with equal desperation, her hand fisting in his shirt like she meant to tear it. 

“Mine,” he growled again, biting along the curve of her jaw, down to her throat. 

Her head tipped back against the stone, eyes fluttering shut, breath coming in sharp gasps. And yet her words were blades, even through the tremble of them. “You – don’t – own me.”

He pressed his forehead to hers, chest heaving. “No? Then why does it feel like I always have?”

That undid her. Her lips crashed back into his, devouring, punishing, needing. His hands threaded into her curls, tugging hard, making her gasp into his mouth. She bit him in retaliation, teeth sinking into his bottom lip, drawing a groan from deep in his chest. 

It was reckless. Consuming. Too much. 

By the time they wrenched apart, both of them were shaking, breaths harsh and ragged. Her lips were swollen, his jaw marked with faint crescents from her nails, and the air between them still crackled with the aftershock. 

“That –” Mimi’s voice broke, raw. She swallowed hard. “That was a mistake.”

Draco’s chest rose and fell like he’d run a marathon. His eyes burned silver in the low light, but he forced the words out anyway. “Never again.”

They stared at each other, panting, every inch of them still leaning toward the other despite the vow that trembled in the air. 

“Never again,” Mimi repeated, though her voice shook. 

The lantern hissed, shadows dancing across the walls as though mocking them. 

It was, of course, a lie. 

*

They didn’t speak. 

Not when Professor Vance returned, unlocking the food with a flick of her wand. Not when she gave them both a long, assessing look, as though he could smell the charge still burning in the air, and dismissed them curtly. 

“See to it you’ve… cleared the air,” she said dryly, before sweeping away. 

Mimi stormed past Draco, chin high, curls wild, lips still flushed. He fell into step beside her, silent, his jaw locked. 

The walk back to the dungeons was a war of silence. Every footstep echoed like thunder. Their shoulders brushed once, accidentally, and both stiffened as though it burned. 

By the time they reached the darkened hallway leading toward the common room, the silence was suffocating. The air was thick with it, the tension clawing at both of their throats. 

And then it snapped. 

Draco’s hand shot out, catching her wrist, spinning her back. Is eyes were molten silver in the dim torchlight. 

“Malfoy –” she started, furious – 

But he crushed his mouth to hers before she could finish, dragging her against him with a force that made her gasp. This kiss wasn’t tentative, or even desperate. It was punishing. 

Her teeth clashed against his, her fists pounding once at his chest before curling into his shirt, holding on even as she shoved back with equal fury. 

“I hate you,” she growled against his lips, biting him hard enough to taste copper. 

“Good,” he snarled, kissing her deeper, rougher, hand fisting in her curls to tilt her head back. “Because I hate you more.”

She gasped, nails dragging down his throat, voice a broken whisper. “Then why – why can’t you stop –”

“Because you’re mine,” he bit out, devouring her mouth again. 

She tore away just enough to snap, “Not yours. Never yours –” before his lips caught hers once more, swallowing the lie whole. 

Every insult between them became another kiss, every denial another desperate press of mouth to mouth, until they were both trembling in the shadows, clinging to each other as though hate itself had turned into the only thing keeping them standing. 

When they finally ripped apart, both gasping, both trembling, her eyes glittered with fury and something darker. 

“This –” she panted, her lips red, her breath shaking. “This is still a mistake.”

Draco’s voice was raw, shredded. “Then we’ll keep making it.”

* * *

The common room quieted the instant Draco and Mimi entered. 

Theo’s quill stilled mid-scratch, his eyes narrowing with interest. Pansy’s gaze swept over them in one sharp, assessing glance. She noticed everything – Mimi’s swollen lips, the faint flush beneath Draco’s collar, the way both carried themselves taut and restless, like bowstrings drawn too tight. 

Blaise, lounging in the armchair nearest the fire, sat forward at once. His sharp eyes flicked between his best friend and his sister, his jaw tightening as though he could smell the storm still clinging to them. 

No one said anything. But the air shifted – heavy, charged, bristling with questions no one dared to voice. 

Draco, cool mask in place, strode past without a word, throwing himself into a chair with studied indifference. Mimi, chin high, curls disheveled, swept straight for the girls’ corridor. 

Theo broke the silence first. “Well,” he drawled, voice lazy but eyes sharp with amusement, “I take it the detention was… productive?”

Neither answered. 

Pansy’s lips curved into a knowing smirk. “Judging by the look of them, I’d say very.”

Draco’s glare could have frozen fire. Mimi didn’t spare them a glance. 

“Mimi,” Blaise said lowly, rising as his sister stalked past him. “Wait. Tell me what happened.”

For the first time in their entire lives, she didn’t slow. Didn’t soften. Didn’t let him in. 

Her hand caught the door to the girls’ corridor and slammed it shut, the echo reverberating like a thunderclap in the stunned silence. 

Blaise froze, staring at the closed door as though he couldn’t quite believe it. His sister had never, not once, shut him out. 

Theo whistled low. “Ouch.”

Blaise’s eyes burned dark, murderous as he turned on Draco. “What. Did. You. Do.”

Draco’s smirk was a razor blade, brittle at the edges. “Why don’t you ask your principessa?”

Blaise cursed in Italian, the words harsh and furious, before storming toward the dormitories. 

The tension left behind was suffocating. Everyone knew something had happened – but only Draco and Mimi knew what.

Blaise sat with his back against the cool stone wall, long legs stretched out across the corridor outside the girls’ dormitory. The fire in the common room had burned low, most Slytherins already asleep. Still, he hadn’t moved. 

His knuckles tapped lightly against the oak door. “Principessa, parlami.” (Princess, talk to me.)

Silence. 

He sighed, leaning his head back. 

“Non mi hai mai escluso prima. Non quando ti sei sbucciata le ginocchia a sei anni, non quando ti sei rotta il polso a dodici, non quando hai pianto la prima volta che siamo partiti per Hogwarts. Mai.”

(You’ve never shut me out before. Not when you skinned your knees at six, not when you broke your wrist at twelve, not when you cried the first time left for Hogwarts. Never.)

The wood stayed still. 

“Per favore, Mimi. Dimmi almeno che stai bene.” (Please, Mimi. At least tell me you’re all right.)

A long pause. Then her muffled voice came, soft through the door. 

“Sto bene, fratellone.”

(I’m fine, big brother.)

His eyes slipped shut, tension easing just slightly. “Balle. Hai sbattuto una porta in faccia a tuo fratello.” (Bullshit. You slammed the door in your brother’s face.)

Another pause. Then:

“Non capiresti.”

(You wouldn’t understand.)

“Prova.”

(Try me.)

Her words came halting, frayed. 

“Lo odio. E lui odia me. Non è stato niente, Blaisey. Solo… frustrazione accumulata che è uscita nel modo sbagliato.”

(I hate him. And he hates me. It was nothing, Blaisey. Just… pent-up frustration manifesting in the wrong way.)

“Mimi…” he said softly. 

The silence was still heavy, but softer now. Blaise stayed there until her footsteps drifted away from the door. Only then did he rise, muttering under his breath:

“Maledizione, Malfoy.”

(Damn you, Malfoy.)

* * *

Draco Malfoy couldn’t sleep. 

He’d thrown himself onto his bed the moment he escaped Blaise’s dark glare in the common room, but now he lay staring at the canopy above, heart hammering as though he’d run a bloody marathon instead of sat though a detention. 

It wasn’t the detention he was obsessing over. It was her. 

Mimi Zabini. 

Her wild curls were still tangled in his hands, phantom-soft and maddening. Her lips still burned against his, swollen and sweet and defiant. The taste of her clung to him like sin – honey and fire, rage and desire, all mixed into something he couldn’t spit out no matter how many times he cursed into the dark. 

“Fuck,” he hissed, draggingoth hands through his hair.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. For seven years they had played their game – sharp tongues, clever insults, the endless battle for dominance. That was safe. That was normal. 

But tonight? Tonight he’d said it out loud. Mine.

The word echoed in his skull, a drumbeat he couldn’t silence. Worse, it hadn’t felt wrong. It had felt inevitable. 

Draco sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, elbows braced on his knees. His breath was ragged. 

She thought he hated her. Of course she did. He’d spent years convincing her of it, convinced himself of it. It was easier that way – easier to pretend she was just another thorn in his side, another rival in Slytherin silk. 

But she wasn’t. She never had been. 

And now he had a new problem, one he couldn’t even begin to solve:

How the hell was he supposed to convince Hermione fucking Zabini that he didn’t hate her?

That every cutting remark, every glare across the common room, every insult that left his lips had been nothing but a flimsy disguise for something that burned far deeper?

Draco pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, groaning low. 

Gods help him. She drove him insane. And yet, somehow, impossibly – She was the only thing in the world he wanted. 

Chapter Text

The classroom buzzed with seventh-year tension, wands flashing, objects flying at uneven arcs across the room. 

“Concetration!” Professor Flitwick squeaked, hopping on his pile of books. “Intent as much as wandwork!” 

Mimi’s wrist flicked with casual elegance – her brass candlestick soared the full length of the room and landed neatly in her palm. She twirled it once, set it back down with a musical clink, and sat as if she hadn’t just shown half the class up. 

Beside her, Draco slouched in his chair, quill scratching against parchment. He didn’t look at her, but his voice carried just enough to sting. “Show-off.”

Her curls bounced as she tilted her head, lips curved like a dagger. “You’re just jealous, serpente.”

His hand stilled, jaw tightening. That word again. He still didn’t know its meaning – only that it burned every time she used it. “One of these days,” he muttered darkly, “you’ll tell me what that means.”

“One of these days,” she said sweetly, leaning closer, “when you deserve it.”

The rest of class blurred into a haze of snapping remarks and sharp glances. They didn’t notice Flitwick dismissing them until the scrape of chairs and souffle of feet emptied the room. Blaise shot his sister a wink before heading out with Theo; Pansy tugged on Mimi’s sleeve, but she waved her off with a murmured, “I’ll come later.”

When the door clicked shut, the silence pressed in. 

Draco gathered his books slowly, deliberately. He didn’t look at her – until her hand brushed his reaching for the same quill. 

Her breath caught. 

His silver eyes met hers, storm-dark, and something in his chest snapped. In two strides he had her caged against the desk, mouth crashing down onto hers. 

It was furious, biting – his teeth tugging her lip, her gasp swallowed in the clash. She shoved at his shoulder once, then curled her hand into his robes, yanking him closer, answering the kiss with equal fire. 

When he tore back, breathless, his hand was still tangled in her curls. “Mine,” he growled, voice wrecked.

Her heart slammed against her ribs. She shoved him back, chest heaving, cheeks flushed. “Mistake,” she spat, grabbing her bag with shaking hands. 

She stalked for the door, tossing her final words in Italian over her shoulder: “Errore terribile.” (A terrible mistake.)

Draco stood rooted, his lips swollen, pulse thundering – and he couldn’t help the ghost of a smirk. 

Because mistake or not – he knew it wouldn’t be the last. Not even close. 

* * *

The paddock was alive with chaos – half a dozen Nifflers darting about, Hagrid bellowing at students to mind their jewellery, Theo was already down on his knees trying to barter with one over his watch chain. 

Mimi knelt gracefully in the grass, coaxing a Niffler out of its burrow with a silver coin balanced delicately in her palm. Her voice was soft, melodic, every Italian lilt rolling off of her tongue like a lullaby. 

The creature adored her instantly, tiny claws scrabbling into her hand as if she were spun of moonlight and treasure itself. 

“And still the vermin worship you.” Draco muttered under his breath, arms folded as he stood nearby. 

She didn’t look up, only smirked. “It’s called talento, Malfoy. Something you wouldn’t recognize if it bit you.”

“Tal – what?” He snapped, annoyed by the foreign word. “You and your bloody secret language –”

She finally flicked her gaze up, brown eyes sparkling wickedly. “I forget. Poor baby Draco doesn’t understand.”

He clenched his jaw so hard it ached. “One of these days, Mimi, I’m going to wring that smug little tongue out of you.”

She rose smoothly to her feet, brushing grass from her skirt, stepping close enough that her perfume hit him – citrus and smoke. “Promises, promises.”

A commotion erupted on the other side of the paddock – Theo yelped as a Niffler darted up his robes, Blaise cursed in rapid-fire Italian, Pansy shrieked with laughter. All eyes turned toward the spectacle. 

Except theirs. 

Draco caught her wrist before she could turn away, dragging her sharply behind the shelter of an ancient oak. 

“Let go,” she hissed, yanking at his grip. 

“Not until you stop –” His words broke off, fury and hunger colliding in his chest until there was only one way out. 

His mouth slammed onto hers. 

It was the Charms classroom all over again – raw, unrestrained. Teeth clashing, hands tangling into her curls, her back pressed hard against the bark as she kissed him back with just as much venom. She bit his lip, he groaned into her mouth, their breaths ragged, furious, desperate 

Her nails dug into his shoulders as though she wanted to claw him away and drag him closer all at once. 

He pulled back just enough to rasp against her lips, “Say it’s a mistake again, Mimi.”

She glared up at him, cheeks flushed, lips swollen. “Un errore terribile.” (A terrible mistake.)

And then she yanked him down and kissed him harder. 

* * *

The library was quiet but for the scratch of quills and the occasional rustle of parchment. Arithmancy texts were strewn across the table, Theo yawning dramatically while Pansy jabbed him with her quill to stay awake. Blaise had his nose buried in calculations, muttering to himself in Italian. 

Mimi rose, smoothing her skirt. “I need the Liber Numerorum. The one in the restricted section.”

“I’ll come with you,” Blaise said instantly. 

She gave him a look – fond, exasperated, the kind only a sister could manage. “Rilassati, Blaisey. Non mi mangeranno i libri.” (Relax, Blaisey. The books won’t eat me.)

He scowled, but returned to his notes. 

Draco waited two beats before slipping from his chair, silent as shadow. 

She was already among the tall stacks, trailing fingers along spines, curls glowing in the candlelight. He leaned against the shelf behind her, voice low. “You really shouldn’t wander off alone, principessa.”

Her head whipped around, eyes flashing. “And since when do you care what I do?”

“Since always,” he shot back before he could stop himself. 

She scoffed, turning back to the shelves. “You really are mad.”

“Mad?” He stepped closer, close enough that his breath stirred her curls. “No. Obsessed, maybe.”

Her laugh was sharp, meant to cut – but it faltered when he caged her against the shelves, one hand braced above her head. “Tell me to stop,” he murmured. 

Her chin lifted in defiance. “Non hai il diritto.” 

“Well, if you’re going to use a language I don’t understand, I’ll assume you said something encouraging.”

She hissed. “I said, you have no right!”

Draco’s silver eyes burned. “I have every right.”

And then his mouth crashed onto hers once more. 

It was furious, as they always seem to be, teeth and heat, her back thudding against the books as his hand dove into her hair. This time she gave up the fight a lot quicker, moaning into his mouth. She kissed him back with fire, tugging him down by his tie, gasping into his mouth. He groaned when she bit him, swallowing her insults between kisses. 

Her leg brushed his as she tried to shove him off and pull him closer. The whole library could have come crashing down and he wouldn’t have noticed. 

He wasn’t sure she would either. 

“Mimi?” Blaise voice carried from the main tables. 

They tore apart, panting, flushed, lips swollen. Her hand flew to straighten her hair. Draco caught her wrist, yes fierce, and whispered against her mouth, “Worth every curse you throw at me.”

This time, she had no retort. No biting comeback or insult she could throw at him. 

Instead, she just slipped past him, gliding out into the light with the book in hand – as if she hadn’t just set his world on fire. 

* * *

The castle was quiet in the small hours, torches guttering low, stone corridors echoing with nothing but the soft tread of slippered feet. Mimi slipped through them like smoke, her green dressing gown clutched around her. She needed air – space – anything to clear her head of the kisses she couldn’t stop craving from the one boy she swore she loathed. 

The Astronomy Tower loomed above, cold and still beneath the stars. She stepped out into the night, breathing in the winter air until her lungs ached. The sky was breathtaking, vast and endless – and for a moment she let herself imagine she was alone. But she could feel him. 

“Why the fuck are you everywhere I go?”

She spun, curls whipping to find Draco leaning against the stone balustrade, pale hair glinting silver in the moonlight. His smirk was faint, tired, but still infuriating. 

“I could ask you the same,” he drawled. 

She stomped closer, stabbing a finger to his chest. “I came here to be alone, Malfoy.”

“You’re terrible at that,” he murmured, catching her wrist before she could pull away. His touch was warm, his gaze unreadable. 

Her throat went dry. “I still hate you.”

He stepped closer, until the cold stone at her back pressed against her spine. His voice dropped, low and rough. “I never hated you.”

Her breath caught. “Liar.”

His mouth hovered just above hers, his eyes storm-bright. “Do I look like I’m lying?”

The air between them snapped, tight and trembling. Slowly, dangerously, his hand slid into her curls, tilting her face up to his. This kiss wasn’t furious, wasn’t desperate – it was slow, devastating. His lips brushed hers once, twice, as though he were testing the shape of her, memorizing it. 

She shivered, every nerve alight. Her hands rose to his chest, not to push him away, but to cling – trembling with how wrong it was, with how terrifyingly right it felt. 

When he finally deepened the kiss, she whimpered against his mouth, and that broke them both. It grew heated, but never lost that edge of softness – a danger neither of them knew how to face. 

She tore away at last, lips swollen, eyes wide with something like fear. “This – this is wrong.”

Draco’s forehead dropped to hers, his chest heaving. “Then why does it feel like the only thing that’s right?”

She shoved him back, shaking, angry with herself. “Don’t you dare.”

And before he could say another word, she fled, the echo of her footsteps vanishing down the stairwell – leaving Draco gripping the cold stone, shaking with the knowledge that the fire between them had shifted. 

This was no longer just hate. 

It was something infinitely more dangerous. 

* * *

The Slytherin table glittered with silver platters and steaming goblets, the low hum of conversation running up and down its length. Mimi swept in at Blaise’s side, Pansy glued to her arm, her hair shining like polished bronze under the enchanted ceiling’s morning light. She sat down with her usual regal poise, slicing an orange as though the Great Hall itself belonged to her. 

Draco was already seated across the table. He didn’t look at her. Not directly. But his jaw was set too tightly, his fork stabbing eggs as if they’d committed personal treason. 

“Someone woke up on the wrong side of the Manor,” Theo drawled cheerfully, plopping himself down beside Mimi. His arm slid lazily across the back of her bench. “Good morning, bella mia. Did you dream of me?”

Mimi rolled her eyes, lips twitching. “Only in my worst nightmares, Nott.”

Theo clutched his chest dramatically. “Cruel. And here I thought I’d escort you to class, carry your books, maybe declare my undying devotion at your feet –”

“You’ve already done that,” Pansy snorted. 

Theo only grinned wider, leaning close enough that his shoulder brushed Mimi’s. “Then maybe I’ll just kiss her and make it official.”

The scrape of metal against china cut through the air. Every head turned. Draco’s knife had carved straight through his toast with unnecessary violence. His gaze flicked up, sharp as glass, locking on Theo’s arm behind Mimi. 

Theo froze, grin faltering just enough to notice. 

“Careful, Nott,” Draco said smoothly, though the ice in his voice could have frosted the table. “Touch something that isn’t yours, and you might lose your hand for it.”

Theo raised his brows, clearly amused. “Not yours either, Malfoy.”

Mimi stiffened. Her fork clattered against her plate, and she shot Draco a look that could have incinerated him. “Merda arrogante.” (Arrogant shit.)

“English, principessa,” Draco shot back silkily, though the muscle ticking in his jaw betrayed him. 

Blaise’s eyes flicked between them, narrowing. Pansy mouthed, oh, Merlin, under her breath. 

The rest of breakfast passed in thick silence, broken only by Theo’s occasional smirk and Draco’s increasingly lethal glare. 

By the time they rose to head for class, one thing was certain to everyone in the hall:

Something had happened. 

And whatever it was, Draco Malfoy now looked at Hermione Zabini like she was already his. 

Chapter Text

The day bled long and tense, every corridor thrumming with the sting of sharp words and sharper glances. At breakfast Draco and Mimi had bristled like cats; by Transfiguration, they were snapping daggers at each other across their desks. Potions was worse – their insults practically boiled over the cauldrons, thick enough to set the air smoking. 

By dinner, everyone in their circle knew something was off. Pansy muttered to Theo that she could feel the sparks from three tables away. Theo only grinned and said he was tempted to get popcorn. 

But Blaise Zabini wasn’t grinning. 

He was waiting. 

And when Daco tried to slip away after dinner, he was yanked into an empty classroom by the arm, shoved against the door with surprising force. 

“Almost certain I warned you,” Blaise hissed, eyes burning, “to stay away from her.”

Draco stilled. His heartbeat thundered. 

“But no,” Blaise continued, voice rising. “You couldn’t. Could you? Whatever the fuck happened in that detention – don’t think I didn’t notice. Don’t think I didn’t notice my sister shutting me out. For the first time in our lives, Malfoy. Me. She shut me out!” 

“Blaise –” Draco tried, low, warning. 

But Blaise wasn’t finished. He shoved Draco again, his fury spilling like acid. “You think I don’t see it? You think I don’t see the way you look at her now? Like she’s – like she’s –”

“Blaise.”

“Don’t you dare –”

“Blaise, for fuck’s sake!” Draco snapped, the leash breaking. His voice cracked like a whip, raw and desperate. “I’m in love with your sister!” 

Silence detonated in the room. 

The words hung there, jagged, shattering the air between them. It was the first time he’d said it. The first time he’d let it crawl past his own denial. 

Draco’s chest heaved, his fists clenched at his sides. He pressed his head back against the door, voice wrecked. “I’m in love with her. And I hate her. Both. Do you understand? I hate her, Blaise. She drives me insane. She tears me apart. And I –” His voice faltered, broke. “And I can’t fucking stop.”

Blaise’s breath came harsh and uneven, his fists curling at his sides as if he might take a swing. Draco didn’t move, didn’t defend himself, didn’t sneer. He just stood there, his chest rising and falling, his silver eyes raw in a way Blaise had never seen before. 

For a long, crackling moment, silence stretched. 

And then Blaise swore viciously under his breath, dragging both hands over his face. “Merda.”

He dropped them slowly, staring at Draco like he was trying to reconcile years of friendship with the confession just thrown in his face. His voice came rough, low. “You’re fucking serious.”

Draco swallowed hard but said nothing. His silence was answer enough. 

Blaise barked out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “You love her. You actually fucking love her.” He turned, pacing a step away before spinning back, fury still etched into every line of him. “But don’t think that means I like it. Don’t think for a second that I accept it without complaint. Because I don’t.”

His voice sharpened, venom and devotion twined together. “And I swear to fucking Salazar, Malfoy – if you hurt her, if you so much as make her shed one single tear –” He stepped closer, eyes burning, voice trembling with the weight of promise. “I’ll tear you apart myself. She’s my baby sister. Mine.”

Draco stiffened, but Blaise pressed on, low and lethal. “And let’s make something crystal fucking clear: anything you get from her, is because she offers it – her time, her trust, her touch –” He jabbed a finger into Draco’s chest. “And because I allow it. Do you understand me?”

Draco’s jaw worked, rage and shame warring beneath his skin. He forced out a single, bitten word: “Understood.”

Blaise glared another long moment, nostrils flaring, before finally turning on his heel and storming out, the door slamming behind him. 

Draco stayed where he was, back against the door, staring at nothing. For the first time in his life, he’d admitted it. Out loud. 

And for the first time, the word love felt like both salvation and a curse. 

*

Draco had just managed to slip free of the empty classroom, convinced Blaise’s wrath was behind him, when another hand clamped down on his wrist. Smaller, sharper. 

“Mimi –”

“Shut up,” she snapped, yanking him down the corridor. 

Draco stumbled a step, then caught his stride, smirking despite the sharpness in her grip. “If you wanted me all to yourself, principessam you could’ve asked nicely.”

She said nothing, jaw tight, curls flying as she dragged him through the castle. 

“Or not nicely,” he continued, relentlessly. “I’d take you either way, honestly.”

Still nothing. Not a word. 

He leaned closer, dropping his voice. “Silent treatment suits you. Though I do rather prefer the sound of your insults in that wicked tongue of yours.”

Her nails dug into his wrist, but her silence held. 

And Draco, to his horror, found he didn’t care. He wasn’t even listening to his own taunts anymore. All he could focus on was the heat of her hand in his. The way it fit. The way it felt like he’d been waiting years just for this touch, no matter how angry it was. 

By the time she shoved open the doors to the grounds and hauled him towards the Black Lake, his smirk had slipped into something quieter, more dangerous. 

The moon painted the water in silver. Stars shivered on the surface. She let go of him at last, whirling on her heel, eyes ablaze. 

“You,” she spat, voice shaking with fury, “are absolutely insufferable. Hot and cold, cruel and – fuck, Draco! One moment you hate me, the next you’re ready to hex anyone who so much as looks at me. Theo, Harry, Ron – you snarl at all of them like a jealous beast. And then you act like nothing happened. Like I’m imagining it. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Her chest rose and fell, curls wild, her fury raw in the moonlight. 

Draco stepped closer, teeth bared, fire meeting fire. “What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with you? You flirt, you smile, you let them circle you like flies and expect me not to notice? Not to burn?”

Her mouth dropped open, but before she could reply, he added, low and lethal: “Your brother knows now, by the way.”

That stopped her. “What?”

Draco swallowed hard, forcing the words out like blades. “I told him. Told him how I feel.” His voice cracked. “About you.”

The fury in her eyes flickered, faltered. For the first time in seven years, Hermione Zabini had no clever retort ready. 

Silence stretched between them, heavy with truth. 

And then, with a sharp breath, she stepped forward and kissed him. 

Not like before. Not a clash of teeth or a violent claim. But soft. Reverent. Her fingers slid into his hair, her lips moving against his with something dangerously close to tenderness. 

Draco froze, undone, the entire world narrowing to the feel of her mouth on his – not angry, not furious, but choosing him. 

When she finally pulled back, her eyes searched his, breath trembling. “That,” she whispered, “was not a mistake.”

Draco’s heart lurched painfully in his chest. For once, he had no words at all. 

*

The corridors were quiet by the time Mimi crept back inside, moonlight still tangled in her curls. She was trying to slip unnoticed down to the dungeons when – 

“Aha.”

Mimi froze. 

Pansy stepped out from behind a suit of armour, arms crossed, expression smug and entirely too knowing. “Well, well, well. Look who’s sneaking back from the lake at this ungodly hour.”

Mimi tried for nonchalance, smoothing her hair, lifting her chin. “I went for a walk.”

Pansy arched a brow. “A walk.”

“Yes. Alone.”

“Alone?” Pansy’s lips curled. “Funny. Because your lips look decidedly not alone, darling. Smudged. Kiss-swollen, even.”

Heat raced up Mimi’s neck. “Oh, fuck off, Pans.”

“Mm-mm.” Pansy looped her arm through Mimi’s, tugging her along firmly. “No. You’re not wriggling out of this one. I’ve been patient – patient, Hermione Zabini – but enough is enough.”

“Pans –”

“Don’t Pans me. You’ve been snappish, distracted, glowing one moment and snarling the next. If you don’t talk about whatever’s chewing you up soon, you’re going to combust. So.” She stopped, planting her hands on her hips, eyes glittering. “Fess. Up. Now. Before I go and swipe Slughorn’s veritaserum.”

Mimi bit her lip, torn between laughing and screaming. 

Pansy tapped her foot. “Was it Theo? Because if it was, I’ll hex him for touching without permission. Was it Potter? Weasley? Gods, tell me it wasn’t Weasley –”

“Pansy!” Mimi hissed, horrified. 

“Oh my Gods.” Pansy’s jaw dropped, eyes narrowing to slits. “It’s Malfoy, isn’t it?”

Mimi’s silence was answer enough. 

Pansy let out a delighted shriek, clapping her hands over her mouth before it could echo through the hall. “I fucking knew it! The sparks, the tension – you two have been practically shagging each other with your eyes since September.”

Mimi groaned, covering her face. “You are insufferable.”

Pansy grinned like a Kneazle with cream. “Insufferably right. Now spill every detail before I combust.”

“It was a mistake,” Mimi blurted, cheeks flaming. “It doesn’t matter. He hates me.”

That stopped Pansy cold. The grin fell from her face, replaced by something gentler. She turned on her heel, cupping Mimi’s chin until their eyes met. 

“Mimi,” she said softly, with none of her usual sharpness. “You are not a mistake.”

Mimi’s throat tightened. “He – he’s hated me forever. He only kissed me because – because –”

“No.” Pansy shook her head firmly. “He doesn’t hate you. He never had. Shit, we’ve all been friends since we were kids. He’s teased you, tormented you, driven you mad – because he couldn’t stay away. No because he hated you. Because he couldn’t help himself.”

Mimi blinked, wide-eyed, lips trembling. 

Pansy gave a wry, affectionate smile. “Trust me, darling. I’ve watched him watch you. If you think that boy hates you, then you’re as blind as a bat in daylight.”

Mimi dropped to the floor outside the dungeons entrance, her fingers twisting together. Pansy hadn’t moved since, perched beside her, a soft but stubborn presence. 

Finally with a groan, Mimi blurted, “I hate him.”

Pansy’s lips quirked. “Mm. Yes, I’ve heard.” 

“No, really. He’s arrogant, he’s impossible, he thinks he can order me about like I’m his property –”

“And yet,” Pansy cut in smoothly, “you kissed him.”

Mimi’s face went hot. “He kissed me first.”

“And then?” Pansy tilted her head knowingly. 

Mimi groaned again, covering her face with both hands. “And then I kissed him back.”

“There it is,” Pansy said brightly, prying Mimi’s hands away so she could see her blush. “So maybe you don’t hate him as much as you’d like me to believe.”

Mimi glared. “I do hate him. He’s cruel, he’s infuriating, he’s… he’s Draco Malfoy for Salazar’s sake!”

Her voice cracked. She dropped her gaze, whispering, “But I… I think I might…”

Pansy leaned closer, eyes sharp but warm. “Might what?”

The words tumbled out before she could stop them. “I think I might love him too.”

Silence. The kind that pressed and ached. 

Finally, Mimi dropped her head to the side to rest on Pansy’s shoulder. “What a fucking mess.”

Pansy grinned, resting her head on top of Mimi’s. “Darling, it’s the best kind of mess. The fun kind. The dramatic, romantic, scandalous kind. Honestly, I wouldn’t expect anything less of you two.”

Mimi lifted her head, shooting her a look somewhere between desperation and disbelief. “I hate him and I love him. How do I survive that?”

Pansy smirked, tucking a curl behind Mimi’s ear with surprising gentleness. “One kiss at a time, principessa. One kiss at a time.”

* * *

Draco was pacing the common room long after everyone else had gone to bed, jaw tight, mind unravelling. He hadn’t meant to say it to Blaise. He hadn’t meant to say it at all. But the words had spilled out of him like poison and relief all at once. 

I’m in love with your sister.

And now he couldn’t stop replaying them. Couldn’t stop thinking of her lips on his, her fire in his blood, the way she’d kissed him at the lake not with hate but with something softer, something he hadn’t dared dream of. 

“Malfoy.”

Draco turned sharply. Theo had somehow appeared, slouched in the armchair nearest the fire, watching him with his usual smirk. “You’ve been stomping around for twenty minutes like a caged hippogriff. Care to share with the class?”

“Go to bed, Nott,” Daco muttered. 

Theo didn’t move. Just leaned back, hands behind his head. “This wouldn’t happen to have anything to do with our very own principessa, would it?”

Draco froze. Too long. 

Theo’s grin widened. “Oh, fuck me, it does. You do like her.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t like her.”

Theo snorted. “Right. And I’m Head Boy.”

Draco snapped, “I love her, all right?”

The words rang out, sharp and startling, Draco realized with a jolt how godsdammed easily they fell out of his mouth now. 

Theo’s smirk faltered. He sat up straighter, for once taking him seriously. “Fuck.”

Draco raked a hand through his hair, muttering, “And I hate her. She makes me insane. She’s – She’s Mimi, she’s impossible –”

Theo let out a low whistle. “Fucking hell, Malfoy. You’re a glutton for punishment, you know. Your life will never be peaceful with that girl. She’s a force man, a hurricane in silk.”

Draco finally dropped into the chair opposite him, burying his face in his hands. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

Theo studied him for a long moment, then sighed. “All right. I’ll back off the flirting. Promise.”

Draco looked up sharply, suspicious.

Theo smirked again, though softer this time. “Don’t get me wrong, I love winding Blaise up, and Mimi’s reaction is half the fun. But if you’re serious – and it looked like you bloody well are – I’ll lay off. She’s your woman.”

Something inside Draco clenched tight at those words. Your woman. 

His. 

Salazar help him, he wanted that more than he’d ever wanted anything. 

Chapter Text

The Slytherin common room was buzzing after dinner, firelight throwing shadows across emerald walls. Pansy was perched elegantly on the arm of a sofa, filing her nails, eyes flicking toward Mimi and Draco across the room. 

Mimi sat with Blaise at the table, quill scratching across parchment, curls falling over her shoulder. Draco lounged on the opposite side, looking utterly disinterested – except for the way his gaze kept darting up, tracking every tilt of her head. 

Pansy smirked. 

Theo dropped into the seat beside her, draping an arm over the back of the sofa like he owned the pace. “You’re staring, Parkinson.”

“Observing,” she corrected sweetly. 

Theo followed her line of sight, then snorted. “Oh, you mean those two hopeless bastards.” 

Her grin widened. “Exactly.”

He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Funny thing – you’ll never believe what Draco admitted to me last night.”

Pansy whipped her head around, eyes gleaming. “You tell me yours, I’ll tell you mine.”

Theo chuckled. “Ladies first.”

Pansy closed her nail file with a snap. “Fine. Mimi confessed she hates him… and also loves him. Practically combusted saying it out loud.”

Theo whistled low. “Shit. He said the exact same fucking thing.”

For a moment, they just stared at each other – then both burst into wicked laughter. 

“Oh, this is too good,” Pansy said, clutching her side. “They’re both in agony, pretending to hate each other while pining like tragic heroes.”

Theo smirked, leaning back. “We should help them along, don’t you think?”

Her eyes glittered. “Operation: Hopeless Bastards in Love?”

He stuck out his hand, solemn as a vow. “Operation: Hopeless Bastards in Love.”

She shook it firmly, sealing the deal. 

Across the room, Draco shot Theo a suspicious glare for laughing so loudly. Mimi glanced up too, brow furrowed. 

Theo and Pansy only smiled wider. 

*

The classroom was already buzzing when the Slytherins filed in for Charms. Seats filled quickly, partners sliding into their usual places out of habit. 

Mimi headed for her desk with Blaise at her side, only to freeze. 

“Theodore,” she said flatly, “you’re in my seat.”

Theo leaned back in the chair, stretching his long legs across the floor with a smirk. “Nope. Already settled. Today I have the immense pleasure of Pansy’s company.”

Pansy gave a slow, feline smile from the other side of the desk. “And I’m delighted about it.”

Mimi narrowed her eyes. “There where am I supposed to –”

Theo gestured grandly at the empty chair across the room. “You’ll have to take my seat.”

Mimi followed his gaze. Straight to Draco. Who was sitting with arms crossed, pale brows drawn tight, glaring at Theo like he wanted to hex him on the spot. 

“Fottutamente inferno,” she hissed under her breath. (Fucking hell.)

Blaise frowned. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” she snapped, though her ears were hot. 

Theo just grinned, utterly unrepentant. Mimi marched across the classroom, skirts swishing, and dropped into the empty chair beside Draco like it was a guillotine. 

Draco didn’t look at her. “Don’t act too comfortable, will you?”

“Oh, believe me,” she muttered, yanking her books from her bag, “comfort is the last thing on my mind.”

From across the room, Theo and Pansy exchanged a satisfied glance and shared a discreet high-five under the desk. 

Operation: Hopeless Bastards in Love was underway. 

Professor Flitwick squeaked for attention, clapping his tiny hands. “Today we’ll be practicing Switching Spells. A useful charm, if a little tricky. Partners, prepare your wands.”

Mimi turned, intending to offer a quick sharp retort but stopped short – Draco was already watching her. Those pale eyes gleamed, cool and assessing, but there was a tension in his jaw that betrayed him. 

“Well, partner,” she said sweetly, “try not to embarrass yourself.”

He smirked. “You first, principessa.”

Her wand flicked, sharp and precise. The quill on Draco’s desk instantly swapped with the inkwell on hers. 

“Flawless,” she said smugly. 

“Not bad,” he admitted, drawl thick with feigned boredom. “Watch and learn.”

With a lazy swish of his wand, their parchment swapped places – then swapped back again before Flitwick could blink.

Mimi bristled. “Show off.”

“Jealous?”

“In your dreams, Serpente.”

His lips twitched at the Italian, as they always did when she taunted him in a tongue he couldn’t parse. “One of these days,” he murmured low, “you’ll tell me what all those little insults mean.”

“One of these days,” she purred back, “you’ll finally deserve to know.”

Their eyes caught, sparks crackling in the air between them. For a breathless moment, the entire classroom faded. 

“Mister Malfoy! Miss Zabini!” Flitwick’s squeaky reprimand cut through the tension. “Do try to focus on the spellwork, not each other.”

Mimi jerked her gaze away, cheeks hot. Draco shifted stiffly, forcing his quill upright on the desk with unnecessary precision. 

Across the room, Theo and Pansy smothered their laughter in their sleeves. 

*

By the time the Slytherins then shuffled into Transfiguration, Mimi was suspicious. She spotted Theo sprawled at Blaise’s desk, Pansy primly perched beside him with an angelic smile that fooled absolutely no one. 

Her eyes narrowed. “Again?”

Theo grinned. “What can I say? Parkinson is delightful company.”

“You’re insufferable,” Mimi snapped.

He tipped his head toward the empty chair beside Draco, who was sitting stiff and silent at the far desk, quill tapping impatiently against his parchment. 

“Go on, principessa,” Theo purred. “Your seat’s waiting.”

Mimi muttered darkly in Italian – “Maledizione su di te, Theodore.” (A curse on you, Theodore.)

Pansy bit her lip to hide her grin at her friends’ venomous tone. “Now, now, darling. Don’t be dramatic.”

Draco didn’t look up as she stalked over and dropped into the chair beside him. “If you’re trying to start a war, Nott, congratulations,” she hissed. 

“You and I don’t need anyone’s help to start a war, “ Draco murmured back, lips curling faintly. 

That was all the spark Pansy needed. “Oh, did you hear that? Draco sounds positively charmed by you, Mimi.”

“Charmed?” Mimi shot back, voice saccharine and sharp. “Only if you mean like a boggart.”

Draco’s head whipped toward her, eyes flashing. “Better a boggart than a banshee.”

“Banshee?” she repeated dangerously. “Careful, serpente.”

Tho clapped a hand over his heart, looking delighted. “Shit me, this is better than dueling club.”

That’s when Blaise’s chair scraped back hard enough to make everyone jump. He stood, hands braced on the desk, glaring at Theo and Pansy with venom in his dark eyes. 

“Enough,” Blaise snapped, voice quiet but no less lethal. 

Theo blinked innocently. “What? We’re only –”

“You’re encouraging him,” Blaise cut in, gesturing sharply at Draco. “And her.” His jaw clenched. “Do you two idiots think this is funny? Playing games with my sister’s life?”

Mimu flushed, torn between irritation and guilt. “Blaisey –”

“No.” He switched to Italian, voice softer but still furious: “Non sei un gioco, sorellina. Se tutto quello che ho.” (You’re not a game, little sister. You’re everything I have.)

Mimi’s anger fizzled. She reached out to squeeze his wrist. “Lo so, fratellone. Lo so.” (I know, big brother. I know.)

Theo and Pansy exchanged a glance, suddenly less smug. 

Draco, though silent, sat rigid beside her, fist clenched under the desk. Every part of him wanted to snarl back that she wasn’t a game – not to him – but his tongue felt like lead. 

Professor McGonagall swept in before the tension could ignite further, and everyone scrambled for their books. But the atmosphere was charged, the air heavy with words unsaid. 

Theo leaned toward Pansy, whispering, “Operation: Hopeless Bastards in Love just got bloody dangerous.”

Pansy’s smirk returned, sharp and conspiratorial. “Oh, darling. That only makes it more fun.”

*

Mimi should have known better than to trust Theo and Pansy when they offered to “help carry her books to the study room.” The moment she stepped inside the empty classroom, the door slammed shut behind her. 

The latch clicked. The tell-tale snick of a Locking Charm.

“What the –” She spun around, curls whipping over her shoulder, just in time to see Theo’s smug face peering through the glass pane in the door. Pansy leaned into frame beside him, grinning like a cat with cream. 

“Let us out, Theodore.” Mimi barked, already drawing her wand. 

“Oh no, darling,” Pansy sing-songed through the wood. “You’ll thank us later.”

Theo cupped his hands to shout: “We’ll let you back out at the end of free period. Plenty of time to… work through your differences.”

“Vaffanculo!” (Fuck you!) Mimi snapped in furious Italian, banging the door with her fist. 

“Ta-ta!” Pansy chirped sweetly, then both voices drifted away with the sound of retreating footsteps – and giggles. 

The silence that followed was deafening. 

Mimi turned slowly. Draco was leaning against the far desk, arms crossed, expression caught between irritation and amusement. 

“Don’t say it,” she warned. 

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” he drawled. A smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “But if I were…”

“Draco.”

“...I’d say this is the most thoughtful thing Nott’s ever done.”

Her glare could have incinerated him. “Do you enjoy tormenting me this much?”

He tilted his head, pale hair falling into his eyes. “More than you know.”

Her wand hand twitched. “One more word and I hex you so badly your own mother won’t recognise you.”

He pushed off the desk, closing the space between them in a few long strides. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh, wouldn’t I?”

They stood so close now the air between them vibrated with tension. Her pulse hammered in her throat. His jaw was tight eyes gleaming with that sharp mix of anger and hunger he never managed to hide around her anymore. 

“Why do you always have to push me?” she demanded, voice low, ragged with more than rage.

“Because it’s the only way you ever see me,” he shot back, teeth clenched. 

For a heartbeat, neither moved. Then, like magnets snapping together, the heat broke them – Draco’s hand shot out, catching her wrist, yanking her forward. Their mouths collided in a brutal, searing kiss, all teeth and fury. 

Mimi gasped against him, nails clawing into his shoulders, kissing him back like she wanted to consume him and kill him at once. 

When they broke apart, breathless, she shoved his chest. “I still hate you.”

His eyes burned into hers, voice rough. “No, you don’t.”

Her laugh was sharp, unsteady. “You’re delusional.”

“And you’re mine,” he growled before his mouth found hers again, claiming, desperate, unstoppable. 

Outside, down the corridor, Pansy and Theo high-fived with wicked delight. 

The kisses didn’t stop. 

They only deepened. Desperation blurred the edges of everything. Draco’s hands slid up her spine, tangling in the wild halo of her curls; Mimi’s fingers clawed down his back, clutching his shirt like she wanted to shred it from him. His teeth caught her lower lip and she gasped into his mouth, breath shaky, a tiny whimper she would die before admitting to aloud. 

He pressed her back against the desk, caging her in. Her legs hit the wood and instinctively she parted them just enough for him to step between. The contact was scorching, dangerous, addictive.

And then – her tongue loosened, spilling words against his ear, hot and breathless: “Sei velono e ti voglio ancora…” (You’re venom and I still want you…”

Draco froze, lips hovering a breath from hers. “What was that?”

Her face flamed. She shook her head quickly. “Nothing.”

“No,” he pressed, eyes narrowing. “That didn’t sound like an insult.”

“It wasn’t,” she whispered, hating herself for the admission. 

For a heartbeat, silence. Then Draco’s lips curved into the faintest, most dangerous smirk she’d ever seen. His voice was rough, hoarse with need. 

“Teach me.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Teach me something. In Italian. Something just for us.” He leaned closer, forehead almost touching hers, every word heavy with command and plea at once. “So I at least have something I can throw back at you on occasion.”

Her breath caught. This was dangerous territory – an intimacy beyond stolen kisses and sharp words. 

“You’d only misuse it.”

He smiled wickedly. “Isn’t that the point?”

She hesitated, lips parted, chest heaving against his. He was still waiting, eyes bright, hungry, hopeful.

Finally, she relented, voice soft as velvet. “Mio.”

He blinked. “Meaning?”

Her blush deepened. “Mine.”

The word hit him like fire to oil. His hand fisted in her curls, dragging her mouth back to his in a kiss that was no longer angry but reverent, desperate, claiming. 

She melted into him, whispering the word again between kisses – “Mio, mio…” – and he groaned like it was undoing him. 

The door gave a soft click, the locking charm dissolving at last. But neither of them moved. Theo’s muffled laugh echoed from the corridor: “Time’s up, lovebirds!”

Mimi leaned back against the desk, chest still rising and falling unevenly, eyes darting everywhere except him. Her lips were swollen, her hair an even wilder halo than usual, and Draco felt his self-control disintegrating by the second. 

Then softly – almost too softly – she whispered:

“Non sei mai stato il mio errore… sei sempre stato il mio segreto.”

Draco’s breath hitched. He knew enough now to catch the word that mattered. The one she taught him moments ago. Mio. Mine. 

“What did you say?” His voice was rough, jagged with hope and hunger. 

Her cheeks burned as she translated, gaze locked stubbornly on the floor. “You’ve never been my mistake… you’ve always been my secret.”

For the first time in his life, Draco Malfoy forgot how to breathe. 

Mimi swallowed, gathering herself, and pushed off the desk. She straightened her blouse with trembling hands, chin lifting in defiance. Without another word, she walked toward the door and laid her palm against the handle. 

But before she could turn it, his hand shot out. Fingers wrapped around her wrist. He tugged her back, spun her, pressed her into the wood with a force that was almost desperate. 

“Just one more,” he whispered hoarsely, his lips ghosting over hers. “One more kiss. One more touch. Just one more, Mimi… mio.”

Her eyes fluttered shut. 

And then he kissed her again, slower this time, reverent and aching, nothing like the furious collisions from before. His hands cupped her face as though she might shatter; her fingers clung to his robes like she’d never let go.

By the time they finally broke apart, the door handle was cold against her back, and the secret they swore would stay buried had already begun to consume them whole. 

*

The door swung open, and Theo and Pansy were waiting just as promised. 

Theo leaned against the wall, arms folded, grinning like Christmas had come early. “Well, well, well. How productive was detention 2.0?”

Pansy’s smirk was razor-sharp. “You both look flushed. What exactly have you been doing in there?”

Mimi shoved past them, muttering something blistering in Italian that Theo laughing until he wheezed. Draco followed, silent, his mind still drowning in the taste of her lips. 

By the time they reached the common room, Blaise was waiting – dark-eyed, pacing, arms folded across his chest. The moment his gaze landed on them, Mimi froze. 

“Where the fuck have you all been?!” Blaise’s voice was low, dangerous. “And I looked everywhere so don’t anyone insult me by feigning innocence.”

“Blaisey, smettila – non e come pensi,” Mimi shot back, her hands flying up in sharp Italian gestures. (Stop it – it’s not what you think.)

“Cazzate!” Blaise snapped, stepping closer. “Ho sentito abbastanza. Lui ti tocca e tu parli come se fosse tuo. Mio dio, Mimi!” (Bullshit! I’ve heard enough. He touches you and you talk like he’es yours. My god, Mimi!)

Her chin lifted stubbornly. “E allora? Non puoi controllarmi per sempre!” (And so what? You can’t control me forever!)

Their voices rang off the stone walls, rapid-fire Italian ricocheting like spells in a duel. 

Theo leaned toward Pansy, whispering out the side of his mouth, “If they weren’t siblings, this might be the most erotic thing I’ve ever seen.”

Pansy nodded, eyes bright with wicked glee. “Ditto. It’s practically foreplay.”

Draco couldn’t hear them. Couldn’t hear anything but the rhythm of Mimi’s fury. The musical cadence of her Italian tongue – sharp, fiery, beautiful – set his blood on fire. She was incandescent, every word a spark. 

And may the founders help him… he’d never seen anything more breathtaking in his life. 

“Mimi, tu non capisci!” Blaise’s voice cracked, raw with emotion. “Sei la mia sorellina. Ti ho protetta da quando eravamo bambini. Non posso lasciarti andare tra le mani di qualcuno come lui.”

(Mimi, you don’t understand! You’re my little sister. I’ve protected you since we were children. I can’t let you fall into the hands of someone like him.)

Her eyes flashed, fury sparking. “Qualcuno come lui? Blaise, non osare. Draco non e… non e…” She broke off, biting her lip, hating the truth bubbling under her skin. 

(Someone like him? Blaise, don’t you dare. Draco isn’t… he isn’t…)

Blaise threw his hands in the air. “Allora dimmelo! Cos’e lui per te, Mimi? Perché non sopporto di vederti ridotta in pezzi.”

(Then tell me! What is he to you, Mimi? Because I can’t stand to see you torn apart.)

Her voice softened, sharp edges blunting, though the words still burned. “Non sono un pezzo fragile, Blaisey. Posso prendermi cura di me stessa. Ma tu… tu sei sempre lì, come se stessi aspettando che io cada.”

(I am not fragile, Blaisey. I can take care of myself. But you… you’re always there, like you’re waiting for me to fall.)

He froze. The fight drained from him in an instant. His jaw tightened as he blinked hard, shoulders sagging. “Non sto aspettando che tu cada, Mimi. Sto pregando che tu non cada mai.”

(I’m not waiting for you to fall, Mimi. I’m praying that you never do.)

Silence wrapped around them both. For a long moment, they just stared – brother and sister, two halves of the same fire. 

Mimi’s chest ached. She stepped forward and pressed her forehead to his, voice breaking into a whisper. “Ti voglio bene, fratello maggiore. Ma questa e una cosa che devo capire da sola.” 

(I love you, big brother. But this is one thing that I have to figure out on my own.)

Blaise’s arms folded around her shoulders, fierce and trembling all at once. “Ti amo anch’io, sorellina. Non voglio solo vederti ferita. Questo e tutto.” 

(I love you too, little sister. I just don’t want to see you hurt. That’s all.)

Behind them, Theo muttered, “Well, there goes all the eroticism,” earning a sharp smack from Pansy. 

But Draco – Draco couldn’t move. His chest was tight, his throat dry, watching Mimi glow even in her fury, in her vulnerability, in her love. 

Chapter Text

Draco’s boots echoed dully on the polished marble as he paced the length of the study, hands clasped tight behind his back. He’d been home less than a day, and already the Manor walls pressed in around him. 

It wasn’t the silence that unsettled him – it was absence. The absence of a sharp tongue in Italian. The absence of curls that caught the firelight. The absence of a witch who had stormed into every corner of his life and left no space untouched. 

Mimi Zabini. 

He scowled at the thought, furious with himself. Missing her? As though she hadn’t made his life a living hell since the age of six. As though she wasn’t the most infuriating, distracting, impossible witch he had ever known. 

And yet… he missed her. 

A crack announced the arrival of one of the Manor’s elves. The tiny creature wrung its hands nervously, bowing low. 

“Master Draco, your presence is requested in the reception room. By your parents. Please, sir, they ask you to look… presentable.”

Draco sighed. “Of course they do.”

He tugged at the cuffs of his shirt, frowning at his own reflection in the glass of the window. For a moment he hesitated, then reached for the small velvet box on his desk. Inside gleamed the cufflinks Mimi had given him for Christmas. 

With steady fingers, he slid them into place. 

There. Presentable. 

He told himself it was only because they were tasteful. Only because they suited him. Not because they were hers. Not because he needed some sliver of her close, pressed against his skin. 

The lie sat bitter on his tongue as he straightened his collar and headed for the reception room. 

*

The reception room gleamed with Malfoy precision: silver tea service laid out, crystal catching the afternoon light, a table set with more cups than usual. Draco slowed as he stepped inside, brow furrowing. 

“Sit,” Lucius ordered lightly, though before Draco could take a seat, his father’s hand shot out, tugging at his collar and smoothing it into place with meticulous care. 

Draco jerked back. “What the hell is going on?”

Narcissa, all cool composure and starched grace, folded her napkin in her lap. “We are expecting guests, darling. They’ll be with us through Easter. You will behave. No snide remarks, no sulking, and do stop slouching, love.”

“Guests?” Draco echoed, incredulous. “For Easter?”

But before he could demand more, the Floo roared to life, green flame spilling across the grate. 

One by one they stepped out: Eduardo Zabini in a tailored jacket that spoke of casual power; Celeste elegant and smiling as though she already owned the room; Blaise, tall and sharp-eyed, his hand brushing the soot from his robes. 

And then – her. 

Mimi.

She stepped lightly from the flames, curls falling around her shoulders, her body wrapped in a royal blue summer dress that clung in all the right places. Gold caught at her ears and wrist, shimmering against her sun-kissed skin. His pendant sitting proudly at her neck. 

Draco forgot how to breathe. His mind, normally sharp as steel, blanked. The cufflinks at his wrist felt suddenly too tight, too obvious, as though she would look at them and know he was pining. 

Narcissa rose gracefully. “Celeste, Eduardo – welcome. We are so pleased you’ve come. You must let us make this holiday utterly restful.”

Celeste kissed both her cheeks, a soft hum of approval escaping her when her eyes flicked to Draco. “Narcissa, he’s grown into such a fine young man. I think you may be even taller than you were at Christmas, Draco. Always so impeccable.”

Draco inclined his head stiffly, jaw tight. He didn’t trust himself to speak – not when Mimi’s gaze flickered his way, her lips curving into that maddening almost-smile. 

Gods, she was going to ruin him in his own home.

Lucius and Eduardo shared a long-suffering look that only old friends could perfect before excusing themself for “business” in the study, leaving the reception room behind. 

Narcissa and Celeste wasted no time in sweeping their charges toward the tea table, voices honey-sweet with their delight. Draco, resigned to his duty as host, poured with flawless grace, offering cups with the precision of long practice. 

“Thank you, Draco” Celeste said warmly, her eyes positively shining. “Such a remarkable gentleman. Eduardo and I could not be more impressed.”

Mimi rolled her eyes, the movement quick and unmistakable. Yet it lacked her usual bite – more mischief than venom, and when her lashes flicked up she almost smiled over the rim of her teacup. Almost. 

Draco’s chest tightened. Don’t smile at me like that, Principessa.

Blaise, lounging back in his chair, cut through the hum of pleasantries. “Well then, Malfoy, a round of one-on-one Quidditch tomorrow? I need to stretch my legs.”

Draco’s lips curved into a smirk. “Try not to embarrass yourself in front of your sister, Zabini.”

“Va’ al diavolo,” (Get lost,) Blaise muttered under his breath, earning a snort from Mimi and a suspicious glance from Narcissa. 

As though she hadn’t noticed, Narcissa reached forward, clasping Mimi’s hand delicately. “You must allow me to take you into town, darling. There’s a fundraiser for the St. Mungo’s Easter drive this weekend, and I simply insist you accompany me shopping. We’ll find something exquisite for you to wear. Won’t that be lovely?”

Celeste clapped her hands softly in delight. “Perfect! The two of you together will cause a stir, as always.”

Mimi’s brows arched, caught between exasperation and amusement. “Shopping with Aunt Cissa? How could I refuse?” she said smoothly, though her gaze darted to Draco, lips quirking in a way that made his blood run hotter.

It was going to be a very long Easter.

* * *

The next day the Zabinis and Malfoys spilled out onto the rolling grounds behind the Manor, wands flicking to release the brooms. The late afternoon sun stretched gold across the lawn, warming the crisp spring air. 

Blaise swung a leg over his broom with easy confidence. “Ready to get shown up in your own garden, Malfoy?”

Draco smirked, mounting his sleek Nimbus with practiced grace. “Please. You’ll be lucky if you even touch the Quaffle before I’ve scored ten times over.”

Eduardo and Lucius settled into chairs along the terrace with drinks, already wagering galleons. Celeste and Narcissa had their parasols raised, chatting idly but both watching with too much interest for it to be casual. 

Mimi leaned against the balustrade, curls spilling over her shoulder, chin propped in one hand. She claimed she was only there because Blaise demanded an audience – but her eyes betrayed her, following Draco as he soared into the air. 

He really was good. Fast, precise, every movement sharp and sure. The way the wind tugged his blond hair back, the concentration carved into his face, the power in his thighs –

“Sorellina…” Blaise swooped past, giving her a pointed glare. “Stop staring at him like that.”

“I wasn’t,” she shot back quickly, heat rising in her cheeks.

“Liar,” Blaise muttered, though he twisted midair to intercept Draco’s shot, grinning triumphantly when he caught the Quaffle against his chest. 

Draco cursed under his breath and wheeled around, eyes flashing as they locked with Mimi’s. He’d seen it. That look. 

Her lips twitched, betraying her even as she crossed her arms. She refused to look away first. 

From the terrace, Lucius sipped his wine with a knowing hum. “See how evenly matched they are? Two sides of the same coin.”

Eduardo chuckled darkly. “I’ll allow the comparison, old friend. But if he ever so much as bumps into my principessa, it won’t be a coin he’s flipping – it’ll be his life.”

Draco threw himself back into the game with renewed ferocity, every catch, every goal burning with something sharper than rivalry, and Mimi, despite herself, couldn’t stop watching. 

*

After the match wound down – Blaise and Draco both flushed, panting, neither willing to admit the other had the upper hand – Eduardo rose from his chair with a clap of his hands. 

“Principessa,” he called, beckoning his daughter. “Walk with your papa.”

Mimi’s face softened instantly. She set aside her teacup and slipped her arm through his without hesitation, leaning her head briefly against his shoulder. She had always been a daddy’s girl; no one could make her laugh or feel as safe as Eduardo Zabini. 

They strolled through the gardens, the air sweet with early blooms and the trickle of fountains filling the silence between them. 

Eduardo finally broke it, his tone deceptively casual. “So. Tell me of school. Tell me of friends… and tell me of boys.”

Mimi flushed scarlet. “Papa!”

“What?” Eduardo asked, all innocence, though the gleam in his dark eyes betrayed his amusement. “You are seventeen. Beautiful. Clever. If no one has tried to court you, then Hogwarts is full of fools.”

Her blush deepened. “I don’t – there’s nothing –”

He squeezed her hand. “Mia cara, listen to me. You will always lead with your heart, and that is a gift. But remember this – your heart is priceless. No man will ever truly deserve it. Still, there may be a few I would deem… worthy to try.”

She tilted her head, suspicious. “A few?”

“A very small list,” Eduardo assured her. “And young Master Draco is on it.”

Her eyes widened, lips parting to protest – but no words came. 

Eduardo chuckled softly. “I see. You are not entirely offended by the idea anymore, are you?”

Mimi’s blush betrayed her again, and she turned her face away, curls hiding her expression. 

Eduardo kissed her temple, his voice low and gentle. “That is all I needed to know. Remember, principessa – whatever happens, you are always my jewel. And any man who holds you in his arms had better hold you as though you are the treasure of his life.”

Her throat tightened. “Always your baby girl,” she whispered.

“Always,” he promised. 

*

Dinner that evening was a grand affair, candlelight flickering across polished silver and crystal, the air humming with familial warmth – and the undercurrent of schemes no doubt brewing. 

Narcisa dabbled at her lips with her napkin before speaking in that calm, measured tone that always silenced a room. “Tomorrow, I shall be taking Mimi into town. The fundraiser for St. Mungo’s is coming swiftly, and we will need something exquisite for her to wear. Celeste, will you join us?”

Celeste sighed regretfully, lifting her glass. “Ah, my dear, I wish I could. But I have prior engagements in Florence tomorrow. Business with the estate that cannot wait.”

Eduardo turned immediately to Narcissa, brow arched in mock severity. “Then you will be responsible for my most prized possession, Mrs. Malfoy. Keep my principessa safe.”

Mimi groaned softly. “Papa…”

Narcissa smiled with feline poise. “You have my word, Eduardo. I will guard her as though she were my own daughter.”

Then she shifted her gaze to her son. “Draco, darling, you will accompany us.”

Draco, caught mid-sip, nearly choked. “I – what?”

“You will carry the parcels,” Narcissa said smoothly, eyes glittering. “And it will be good practice. Every gentleman should know how to escort a lady properly while she shops.”

Celeste’s smile was dazzling. “A splendid idea.”

Blaise leaned forward immediately. “I’ll go with them –”

“No.” Celeste cut him off, her tone warm but firm. “You are coming with me, Blaise.”

He froze. “But Mama –”

“No arguments.” Celeste arched a brow in a way that brooked no resistance. “Your father and I require your assistance tomorrow. Let Draco do his duty.”

Draco sat stiff-backed, feeling as though the rug had just been pulled from under him. His mother had planned this. He could see it in her eyes. 

Across the table, Mimi hid her smile behind her goblet. For once, she didn’t look the least bit offended by the prospect of being ‘escorted’ by him. 

And that stirred more feelings than Draco was prepared to admit. 

Chapter Text

Diagon Alley shimmered in early spring light, its cobblestones bustling with witches and wizards already preparing for the Easter festivities. Shop windows glitter with displays of gowns and jewels, all whispering of grandeur and expectation. 

Narcissa Malfoy was in her element, pale gloved hand gesturing gracefully as she moved along the street, head held high. Behind her, Draco and Mimi trailed, the picture of reluctant escorts. 

Narcissa’s voice cut sharp through the hum of the crowd. “Draco, that is not the way I raised you. Do escort Lady Zabini the way she deserves.”

Draco groaned softly, his ears pinking, but he obeyed. With a long-suffering sigh, he extended his arm. “Principessa,” he drawled, mocking, “do grace me with your hand.”

Mimi arched a brow, curls bouncing as she tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow. “You’re only doing this because your mother threatened to hex you if you didn’t.”

“You wound me, madam,” he muttered, though his lips twitched as though hiding a smile. 

Satisfied, Narcissa glided ahead, giving them the illusion of privacy. 

Draco cleared his throat, determined to at least appear civil. “Did you sleep well in the guest wing?”

Mimi smirked. “Quite. The Zabini estate has finer mattresses, but it will do.”

His jaw ticked. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re predictable. Breakfast was lovely, by the way. Do you always demand your eggs be folded into a perfect crescent?”

“They weren’t folded properly,” Draco said stiffly. “There’s a standard, Hermione –”

“Mimi,” she corrected sharply, eyes flashing. 

He glanced sideways, startled by the insistence, where usually she would scold him for using the family nickname, and then inclined his head with rare deference. “Mimi.”

The name lingered between them, softer than it had any right to be. 

She smirked to cover the sudden flutter in her chest. “Better. Now, tell me, Malfoy… are you going to endure this outing like a good little lord, or will I have to drag you by the cufflinks your mother so carefully fastened for you?”

He fought the smile threatening his lips. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh, wouldn’t I?”

Their sparring was sharper than flirtation, gentler than war, and though neither of them would admit it, it was becoming dangerously fun. 

They strolled a few steps in silence, Narcissa’s graceful figure gliding ahead like a queen among her subjects. The street was busy enough to drown most conversation, but Draco leaned just slightly closer, his arm tightening beneath Mimi’s hand. 

“You know,” he murmured, voice pitched low, “for all your venom… you still haven’t managed to rid me of the taste of your lips.”

Mimi’s breath caught, her head snapping toward him, eyes wide. “What –”

His expression was infuriatingly calm, his pale eyes gleaming with restrained mischief. “Nothing,” he said smoothly, as though he hadn’t just shattered the fragile air between them. “Merely an observation.”

Her nails dug lightly into his sleeve, subtle punishment hidden by the elegant curve of her hand resting on his arm. “You’re insufferable,” she whispered back, voice tight. 

His lips curved into the faintest, most dangerous smirk. “So you’ve told me. Many times.”

Ahead, Narcissa paused at the door of an opulent boutique, clearly deciding this would be their first stop. She didn’t glance back – didn’t need to, for she knew perfectly well what she’d set in motion. 

Mimi turned her face away, cheeks hot, curls tumbling to shield her expression. She wanted to retort, to bite back the way she always did, but her words failed her. 

Because the worst of it was – her lips remembered his too. 

*

The bell above the door tinkled sweetly as they entered, Narcissa sweeping forward like a queen into her throne room. The shopkeeper practically tripped over himself to bow and usher them inside. Rows of gowns shimmered on enchanted racks, fabrics shifting colours under the light, enchanted mirrors whispering encouragement. 

“Something for the Easter fundraiser,” Narcissa announced smoothly. “Something elegant, but appropriate for a young lady of standing.”

“Of course, Madam Malfoy.” The shopkeeper beamed, already bustling. 

Mimi sighed, tugging her hand from Draco’s arm. “Do you think she realizes I can choose my own dress?”

“Not with taste, you can’t,” Draco drawled, leaning lazily against a gilded pillar. 

She glared at him, fire sparking in her dark eyes. “Says the boy whose wardrobe is fifty shades of black.”

“Black is classic,” he retorted, smirk tugging at his lips. “Besides, no colour could compete with –” He stopped himself abruptly, teeth clenching as he looked away. 

“With what?” she pressed, narrowing her eyes. 

“Nothing.” His voice was sharp. Too sharp. 

Narcissa, who had been flicking through gowns, smiled knowingly. “Mimi, why don’t you take this one to the fitting room? I’ll speak with the tailor about some adjustments.”

She handed over a gown of emerald silk with delicate gold beading, the exact shade to make Mimi’s curls and eyes blaze. 

Draco’s stomach twisted. Of course she would pick Slytherin colours.

With an arched brow, Mimi swept into the fitting room. 

Minutes passed. Draco tried very hard to look disinterested, inspecting his cufflinks, the ceiling, even the enchanted mannequin in the corner. Anything but the thought of her behind the curtain. 

Then the fabric swished. 

When she stepped out, Draco nearly collapsed. 

The gown clung like water, draped over her frame in dangerous elegance. Gold caught in the curls at her collarbone, emerald pooling around her like sin itself. She looked – Merlin she looked like she’d been sculpted to destroy him. 

“Well?” she asked, chin lifted, a smirk playing at her lips. 

He swallowed, hard. “It’s… fine.”

Her brow arched higher. “Fine?”

“You’ve looked worse.”

Her laugh was low, rich, curling around him like smoke. “You’re a terrible liar, Malfoy.”

“Better than wearing Gryffindor’s snitch around your neck,” he shot back, desperate to deflect. But his gaze had already betrayed him, lingering far too long at her neckline, at the way the emerald kissed her skin. 

From the counter, Narcissa’s voice rang out, all too casual. “I think I’ll just step outside for a moment and let you two… decide.”

The bell chimed as the door shut behind her, leaving them in thick, charged silence. 

Mimi smirked, turning slightly so the gown’s skirts flared. “You’re staring, Draco.”

He straightened, scowl tugging at his lips. “You wish.”

But she only laughed, the sound soft, dangerous and knowing. 

*

Mimi vanished back into the fitting room, emerald skirts whispering against the floor as she disappeared behind the curtain. Draco stayed where he was, jaw clenched, hands shoved deep in his pockets. He was fine. Entirely fine. 

Except… the curtain didn’t quite close all the way. 

He hadn’t meant to look. Truly. But in that sliver of space he caught the pale expanse of her bare back, curls spilling down like dark silk. His throat went dry, blood roaring in his ears. He turned at once, spine rigid, fixing his gaze on a rack of midnight-blue gowns as though they were the most fascinating things he had ever seen. 

Behind him, fabric rustled, followed by a sly voice. 

“Ungentlemanly to peek, Malfoy.”

“I didn’t,” he snapped, a beat too quickly. 

“Oh? Then why are your ears red?”

He spun, glare sharp, but she was already stepping out in her casual robes again, cheeks faintly flushed, eyes glinting with wicked amusement. 

“You’re so insufferable,” he muttered. 

“Mm, that word gets thrown around a lot apparently. And you’re staring again.” She smirked, lips curving in triumph. 

“Salazar save me,” he groaned. “You never stop talking.”

“Perhaps if you stopped glaring and kissed me instead –”

She didn’t finish. 

Because he had already moved, closing the distance in two long strides, backing her against the panelled wall near the fitting room. His hands braced beside her shoulders, breath hot against her ear. 

“You drive me insane,” he ground out. 

“Good,” she whispered, chin tilting up in challenge. 

And then their mouths collided, all heat and hunger, the taste of her as maddening as it had been in detention, and every single kiss afterwards. His hand tangled briefly in her curls, hers fisted in his shirt. A low, desperate sound vibrated between them before she shoved him back with both palms, breathless, eyes wide. 

“This is a mistake.” She whispered against his jaw. 

He smirked, and his pulse thundered. “The best one I’ve ever made.” 

The bell above the door tinkled once more. Narcissa swept back in, calm and poised as ever, though Draco’s blood ran cold. Had she –?

“Children,” she said lightly, her eyes sharp as a hawk’s. “Have we decided on the gown?”

Mimi hastily stepped aside, smoothing her curls, schooling her expression into perfect poise. Draco shoved his hand in his pockets, fighting to appear as though his heart wasn’t still pounding out of his chest.

Neither dared look at her directly. Both prayed she hadn’t seen. 

But the small, secret smile playing at Narcissa’s lips suggested otherwise. 

* * *

The carriage wheels crunched over gravel as they returned to Malfoy Manor. Mimi had kept her chin high the entire ride, gaze fixed firmly on the window, refusing to let herself sneak even one glance at the boy beside her. Draco, meanwhile, sat rigid, cufflinks glinting in the fading sunlight, hands fisted in his lap. Narcissa sat opposite them, serene and far too smug, as though every breath confirmed hers and Celeste’s twenty-year plan. 

When they stepped into the foyer, it was strangely quiet. No complaining from Blaise, no voices carrying from Lucius and Eduardo in the study. 

“How fortunate,” Narcissa murmured, smoothing her gloves as she handed them to an elf. “It would seem the others aren’t back yet. I’ve last-minute arrangements to finish for the fundraiser, but Draco –” she turned, gaze sharp – “do be a gentleman and keep Lady Zabini safe. Perhaps escort her into the gardens. The decorators should be nearly finished.”

Mimi smiled sweetly, though her eyes flared with amusement. Draco inclined his head, biting down the retort poised on his tongue. 

“Yes, Mother.”

Narcissa swept away, leaving only the two of them in the echoing silence.

They stood there for a beat, the weight of the afternoon pressing thick between them. Then, wordlessly, they stepped out into the twilight garden. Torches flickered in the hedges, strings of silver lanterns swaying gently from charmwork. The roses had been coaxed to bloom out of season, their fragrance curling into the cool spring air. 

Finally, Draco broke the silence. “Why are you back to calling this a mistake?” His voice was low, strained, carrying the sharp edge of a wound. 

Mimi flushed, twisting the chain at her throat. “I didn’t mean you are a mistake,” she said quickly, “I meant… kissing you when your mother was two feet away? That was… unwise.”

A smirk ghosted over his lips, though his eyes stayed dark, hungry. “So the kiss itself wasn’t a mistake?”

She rolled her eyes, but the faint pink at her cheeks betrayed her. Instead of answering in English, her lips curved and she whispered softly in Italian, voice like velvet. 

“Sei il mio tormento… e il mio desiderio.”

(You are my torment… and my desire.)

Draco’s breath caught. His hand lifted, hesitating only a fraction before brushing her curls back, stroking the soft curve of her cheek with his thumb. 

“Mio,” he whispered, low and reverent, using the word she had given him. Mine.

Her lashes fluttered, her lips parted – and then, the spell shattered. 

“Mimi! Draco!”

Blaise’s voice cut across the garden, sharp and searching. 

Mimi stiffened, but before she could even glance toward the manor, Draco’s fingers closed around her hand. Without a word, he tugged her toward the maze. She stumbled once on the flagstones, then tightened her grip and followed, their footsteps muffled against the grass as the hedges swallowed them whole. 

He didn’t stop until they were deep inside, lantern-light fading, the air close with the scent of roses. He pressed her back against the ivy-covered wall, breath harsh with exhilaration and defiance. 

“Let him try to find us,” Draco murmured, smirk curling as his thumb brushed over her knuckles. “You’re mine for a little longer yet.”

“Draco,” Mimi hissed, twisting her hand in his as the hedges grew higher and higher, blotting out the torches behind them. “We’re in a bloody maze – what if we actually get lost?” 

He glanced over his shoulder at her, the corner of his mouth lifting in the kind of smug grin only a Malfoy could pull off. “Relax. I grew up here, remember? I know every turn. I could walk it blindfolded.” His grip tightened just enough that she couldn’t wriggle free. “Besides… now you can’t escape me without risking being stuck here all night.”

Her heart gave a traitorous thud. “Arrogant snake,” she muttered. 

“And you love it,” he returned silkily. 

They turned one last corner and the hedges opened into a wide circle. At the centre, a marble fountain gleamed under moonlight, water trickling softly into the basin. Silver lanterns floated above it like stars suspended midair. Draco guided her toward the stone bench beside the fountain and sat, tugging her gently until she lowered beside him. 

For a long moment, they just listened to the water. Mimi tried to keep her posture prim and distant, but Draco shifted, his arm brushing hers, then settling, deliberate and sure, along the back of the bench. His fingers toyed with the end of her curls before he drew her in, close enough that her shoulder rested against his chest.

“You should stop,” she whispered, breath catching. 

“Can’t,” he said simply. 

She tilted her face up, ready with an insult, but stopped cold when she saw his expression – unguarded, intent, almost reverent. 

“Mimi,” he said, voice low enough to vibrate in her bones, “I don’t want to fight you forever. I can’t. Every time you look at me, it’s like –” he broke off, shaking his head, exhaling through his nose. “It doesn’t matter. Just know, you undo me. And I don’t want to be undone by anyone else.”

Her lips parted, stunned silent. 

He leaned closer, so close his breath warmed the shell of her ear. “Teach me more Italian. It matters to you, so it matters to me. I want to know every word you keep locked away, everything that’s important to you. I want to know all of you.”

Her throat tightened, breath shallow. His hand slid down to clasp hers where it lay trembling in her lap, his thumb stroking gently over her knuckles. 

“I’ve never hated you, Mimi,” he confessed in a whisper, his forehead almost touching hers. “I’ve only ever been… terrified of you. And addicted.”

The fountain gurgled softly, bearing witness as her walls threatened to collapse. 

Chapter Text

The silence between them stretched, but it wasn’t sharp like their usual battles. It was fragile, trembling, as though a single breath might shatter it. 

Mimi leaned back slightly, studying him. His face was still too close, eyes stormy yet soft, as though he couldn’t decide if he wanted to strangle her or kiss her – or both. 

She swallowed, then said quietly. “Fine. You want to learn? Bene. I’ll teach you.”

His lips curved, slow and dangerous. “Finally.”

“Serpente velenoso,” she began, enunciating carefully, her accent lilting. “It means venomous snake.”

He arched a brow. “So that’s what you’ve been calling me all these years.”

She smirked, tilting her chin up in defiance. “Yes. To wind you up.”

“And here I thought it was some secret compliment.”

Her smirk faltered just slightly. Her voice lowered, almost lost beneath the trickle of the fountain. “It wasn’t… but it isn’t true anymore. Not to me.”

For once, Draco Malfoy didn’t have a ready retort. His throat tightened, and he looked at her as though she’d cracked the sky itself. 

She shifted on the bench, brushing her shoulder against his in something could almost be mistaken for comfort – or affection. “Now repeat it,” she teased softly, trying to cover the way her pulse raced. “Serpente velenoso.”

“Serpente velenoso,” he murmured back, his accent crisp, his gaze fixed only on her. 

“Serpente velenoso,” Draco repeated again, almost lazily, though his eyes never left her face. He tasted the words, letting them linger on his tongue, but it was the way she’d said not anymore that rattled around his skull. 

He leaned just a fraction closer, lowering his voice. “And what would you call me now then, Mimi?”

Her breath hitched. She tried to laugh, but it came out softer than she intended. “What makes you think I’d tell you?”

His smirk was faint, his tone coaxing. “Because you’re teaching me. And I want to know the truth.”

For a long moment she stared into the fountain instead of his eyes. Then, very quietly, she whispered, “Mio veleno.”

He inhaled sharply. “Mine… something similar to velenoso.”

Her cheeks burned, but she nodded. “It’s not intended as a curse. More like… dangerous, but irresistible. My venom. That’s what I said. And that’s what you are now.”

He went very still, the words sinking into him like ink on parchment. “Say it again.”

She met his gaze this time, steady despite the tremor in her hands. “Mio veleno.”

His hand lifted of its own accord, brushing the side of her jaw with the back of his fingers. His voice cracked into reverence. “Then teach me something for you. Something I can call you.”

Mimi hesitated, then her lips curved into the smallest smile. “Mia fiamma.”

“Fiamma,” he echoed, his breath ghosting against her skin.

“My flame,” she said softly, and when his lips parted to repeat it, she pressed a single finger to them. “But don’t overuse it, Malfoy. You’ll ruin it.”

He chuckled, low and husky. “Mia fiamma,” he said anyway, like a vow.

“Mia fiamma,” Draco whispered again, and this time he didn’t stop with words. His hand slid from her cheek into her curls, tugging her closer until their foreheads brushed. 

“Draco…” she breathed, as if it were both a warning and a plea. 

“Don’t tell me to stop,” he muttered, his lips grazing hers. “Not when you’re looking at me like that.”

Her heart hammered. “This is –”

“A mistake?” His voice was sharp, desperate. “Or the only thing that’s ever made sense?”

Her reply never made it past her lips, because his mouth found hers, fevered and reverent all at once. It wasn’t the furious clashing they’d fallen into before, all teeth and venom. This was slower, dangerous in its tenderness. His thumb stroked along her jaw, her hands twisted into his shirt. He swallowed every sigh, every tremor. 

“Mia fiamma,” he breathed against her mouth like a prayer. 

She shivered, whispering back. “Mio velono.”

The sound of crunching gravel froze them both. Voices – faint but unmistakable – drifted through the hedges.

“Mimi? Draco?” Blaise’s baritone carried through the maze, closer than either of them expected. 

Draco tore himself back, cursing under his breath. “Of course. I had to teach Blaise this bloody maze when we were kids. Thought it was clever at the time – hiding from you.”

Mimi’s lips were swollen, her eyes wide and wild. She pressed her fingers against his chest, trying to steady both of their ragged breathing. “We need to go – before he finds us like this.”

Draco brushed his thumb over her lower lip, reluctant, before pulling away completely. “This isn’t over, mia fiamma. Not by a long shot.”

And with that, they straightened themselves, both praying their flushed faces and trembling hands wouldn’t betray them when Blaise stepped into the clearing. 

Blaise appeared at the edge of the fountain clearing, hands in pockets, gaze sharp. “There you are. Supper’s being served. The mothers are starting to fuss.” His eyes cut straight to Draco, narrowing. “Swear to Circe, Malfoy – if you’ve been anything but the perfect gentleman –”

“Blaise!” Mimi hissed, rounding on him with a fierce glare. “Smettila, non sono una bambina da proteggere ogni secondo!”

(Stop it, I’m not a child who needs protecting every second!)

Blaise’s jaw ticked, but she held his gaze until he exhaled and looked away, muttering under his breath. 

Draco, schooling his face into its familiar mask of cool disdain, stepped neatly to Mimi’s side. He offered his arm, and – after a flicker of hesitation – she took it. “Relaz, Zabini,” Draco drawled, though his hand tightened over hers with subtle possession. “I wouldn’t be anything but a gentleman.” He smirked. “Too afraid Mimi would hex me on the spot.”

“Damn right I would,” Mimi muttered, though her lips twitched in a secret smile he caught from the corner of his eye.

Blaise grumbled something about sisters being the death of him, but he let them pass, watching closely as Draco guided Mimi out of the maze – arm in arm, like it was the most natural thing in the world. 

The trio emerged from the maze just as the lanterns along the terraces were being lit. Narcissa and Celeste sat side by side, teacups in hand, their heads bent in conversation, though both pairs of sharp eyes flicked immediately to where Draco escorted Mimi with perfect poise, their arms still linked. 

Lucius and Eduardo shared a glance of their own, the kind of silent, knowing exchange that had their wives practically vibrating with smug delight. 

Blaise, walking a step behind, huffed under his breath but still offered his hand to Mimi when they reached the steps leading up to the dining terrace. She accepted with grace, pressing a kiss to her brother’s cheek before he relinquished her back to Draco’s arm. 

“Something funny?” Draco asked coolly as the four young Slytherins stopped short, all too aware of the grown-ups' indulgent smiles.

“Nothing at all,” Lucius replied smoothly, though the glint in his pale eyes betrayed him. 

“Not a thing,” Eduardo echoed, hiding a smirk behind his glass of wine. 

Mimi’s brow furrowed. “Then why are you all staring at us like a pack of Kneazle’s cornering a mouse?”

“Principessa,” Eduardo said softly, stepping forward. He took her hand, kissed it, and bowed with exaggerated flourish. Lucius followed suit, pressing a courtly kiss to her knuckles as well. 

“Gentlemen,” Mimi teased, cheeks pink. 

“Ladies first,” Lucius intoned, sweeping a hand toward the open doors. Eduardo echoed him, and the women sailed inside, radiant in their triumph, though their lips never once betrayed their secrets. 

When they reached the long dining table, Draco moved without thought. He slid Mimis’s chair back, holding it with the natural ease of a man who’d done it a thousand times. Yet Mimi knew – everybody knew – he never had. Not without being prodded, reminded, or ordered. 

“Thank you,” she murmured, settling into the seat. 

Draco inclined his head, smooth as ever, though the corner of his mouth tugged upward just slightly. Narcissa and Celeste shared a look of such smug, unrepentant satisfaction that Lucius chuckled into his wine and Eduardo whispered, “By Circe, what have we unleashed?”

Chapter Text

The gardens of Malfoy Manor had never looked more enchanting. Twinkling fairy lights floated above sprawling banquet tables, while enchanted lilies bloomed in soft gold and silver across every fountain. Pastel ribbons wound through white trellises, Easter charms shaped like butterflies and eggs drifted lazily in the spring air, and house-elves bustled with trays of champagne and sugared confections. 

The Malfoy family had opened their estate to host a lavish Easter fundraiser in support of St. Mungo’s. It was an affair that all manner of families would attend, if not for no other reason than to spy on the grandeur of the Malfoy family. 

Mimi stepped into the gardens on Draco’s arm – by Narcissa’s order, of course – with Blaise flanking her other side like a general ready for war. The emerald of her gown caught the lantern light, shimmering with each step, and her curls spilled in perfect ringlets down her back. 

Eduardo greeted her with a kiss to the cheek, eyes softening. “Principessa mia, you shame the lilies themselves. Always smile, never trust. And if anyone so much as breathes wrong in your direction –” his gaze slid, razor sharp, to Draco, Blaise, and Theo in turn “ – you three will deal with it, You do not let her out of your sight. Am I understood?” 

“Yes, Papi,” Blaise said solemnly, already bristling. 

Theo grinned like the shameless bastard he was. “With pleasure, Lord Zabin. I’ll guard her with my life.”

Eduardo’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “You will guard her with your distance.”

Mimi laughed, curling her arm tighter through her father’s. “Papi, you’ll scare everyone away if you glare like that.”

“Good,” Eduardo muttered, pressing a kiss to her temple. 

But his glare couldn’t stop the tidal wave of attention. 

The Gryffindors had been invited – ostensibly for optics, but in reality to fan the flames of social intrigue – and they arrived in force. Potter, awkward as ever, strode forward with a hopeful smile. 

“You look… incredible, Hermione,” Harry said earnestly, his gaze sweeping her gown with almost boyish awe. 

“Thank you, Harry,” Mimi replied with courtly politeness.

Ron barreled up next, flushed and already tripping over his words. “You – you look… brilliant, you know. Just… brilliant.”

Behind him Fred and George leaned against one another, identical grins wicked with mischief. 

“Don’t you think she’d prefer a twin, Georgie?”

“Or maybe both of us,” George replied, raising his champagne flute. 

Blaise muttered in Italian, voice dripping with venom: “Li uccidero. I’ll kill them…”

Draco sneered, his tone ice. “Get in line.”

Then came the dragon tamer. Charlie Weasley, broad-shouldered and burn-scarred, moved with easy grace and confidence. He took Mimi’s hand, kissing it with warm reverence. 

“My brothers weren’t exaggerating,” he said with a grin that made Draco’s blood boil. “You’re far too radiant to be wasted on schoolboys.”

Eduardo stiffened at her side, eyes like knives. Unable to act on the storm in his chest for the sake of propriety. “Principessa, you do not leave my sight. Not tonight. Am I clear?”

“Yes, Papi,” Mimi answered sweetly, though her lips curved with hidden amusement. 

*

It didn’t take long for the evening to turn into a parade. Every time Draco turned his head, there was another ambitious lordling or simpering heir approaching Eduardo Zabini with their most obsequious smile, their intentions thinly veiled. 

“Lord Zabini, my family would be honoured to form a connection with yours. Your daughter is –”

“No.” Eduardo’s answer was crisp, dismissive, his arm around Mimi’s shoulders firm and immovable. 

Another tried, younger, bolder. “I would be honoured to –”

“No.”

“Perhaps Lazy Zabini would –”

Eduardo didn’t let him finish. “My daughter requires no perhaps. And you require no further words. Move along.”

Each rejection was sharper than the last, and Draco stood just slightly behind, every muscle taut, every word tasting like ambrosia. He could feel the whispers of the crowd – how unfairly radiant Mimi looked, how impossible it was not to want her – and yet there she stayed. Glued to his arm. Not out of force, not even out of duty. But choice. 

Every step she took, her fingers brushed his sleeve, her warmth bled through the fine fabric of his jacket, and it made him dizzy. He had never hated attention – he had grown on it, thrived in it – but standing at her side while the suitors lined up and fell like dominoes to Eduardo’s cold scorn, he felt something altogether different. Pride. Possession. Want. 

“Draco,” she murmured up at him once, eyes glinting in the torchlight, “you look like you’re enjoying yourself.”

His lips twitched into the ghost of a smirk. “Watching them humiliate themselves? Absolutely. Watching you turn them down without a word? Even better.”

She rolled her eyes, though the corners of her mouth curved. “I didn’t have to turn them down. Daddy did it for me.”

“Same difference,” Draco murmured. His arm shifted, tightening ever so slightly, as though to remind himself she was still there. His. even if no one else knew it. 

But then – Blaise appeared. 

“Mimi.” He bowed with exaggerated formality before plucking her hand off Draco’s arm and tucking it firmly into his own. “Our mother demands your presence. And unlike these witless peacocks, I don’t dare refuse them.”

Draco barely registered the words – only the sudden, shocking cold where her warmth had been. His arm felt stripped, raw, empty. He watched as Blaise guided her away across the gardens, curls bouncing, skirts swaying, her laughter a knife and a caress all at once. 

And for the first time in his life, Draco Malfoy thought he might be going mad. 

Because how in Salazar’s name could the absence of one slip of a girl make him feel as though he’d been hollowed out from the inside?

Draco barely had a moment to collect himself before another approach came. This one calculated, deliberate. Lady Daphne Greengrass, older sister to Tori, draped in emerald silk not nearly as fine as Mimi’s, her eyes sharp with the kind of ambition Draco had seen a thousand times before. 

“Draco,” she purred, sliding up to him with the grace of someone who thought herself inevitable. “You’ve grown into yourself, haven’t you? My, but you look every inch the Malfoy heir.” Her fingers brushed at his sleeve as though to test the fit. “I do hope you saved a dance for me.”

Draco regarded her coolly, the smirk already tugging at the corner of his mouth. Once – last year, even last month – he might have played along. Toyed with her, indulged her, let her believe he might entertain the thought. 

But now? Now there was only one witch whose attention mattered, and she was nowhere near him. 

“No.”

Daphne faltered, blinking. “No?”

Draco tilted his head, the word coming again with deliberate precision. “No. You don’t compare.” His voice dropped, reverent, his gaze flickering to the direction where Mimi had disappeared with Blaise. “Not to my mia fiamma.”

The words left him before he realised he’d spoken them aloud. The fire of mine. His fire. 

Daphne’s painted smile wavered. “I – I beg your pardon?”

Draco’s eyes slid back to her, silver and merciless. “You heard me.”

She stiffened, cheeks blotching with insult before she turned on her heel and stalked away, her silk skirts snapping at her ankles. 

Draco exhaled slowly, satisfied – until he felt the weight of another gaze. 

Eduardo Zabini stood a few feet away, half-shadowed beneath the glow of an enchanted lantern. He had not moved during the exchange, but his eyes – dark and sharp – had caught every syllable. And unlike Daphne, he understood the words. 

“Mia fiamma,” Eduardo repeated softly, testing the words in his mouth. His expression gave nothing away. “Interesting choice of phrase, figlio mio.” (My son.)

Draco’s heart gave a treacherous jolt. “Lord Zabini –”

“Walk with me.” Eduardo’s tone left no room for refusal.

Draco swallowed hard, straightening his shoulders, and followed. 

*

Draco followed Lord Zabini through the lantern-lit gardens, his pulse hammering in his throat. Eduardo’s silence was a heavier weight than any lecture Lucius had ever delivered. The older man walked with deliberate slowness, hands clasped behind his back, every inch the regal patriarch. 

Finally, Eduardo stopped beneath a marble archway that led toward the rose gardens. He did not turn at once, merely spoke in that deep, deliberate tone of his. 

“You know, Draco, I have watched you grow from the time you were swaddled in your mother’s arms. As close to family as blood without blood can be. You were always proud. Clever. Sometimes too clever for your own good.” He turned now, dark eyes pinned on Draco. “But my daughter is not some game, ragazzo. (Boy.) Not a prize to be won because you grew bored of others.”

Draco’s throat went dry. “She’s not.” His voice cracked on the words, and he forced himself straighter. He wouldn’t lie. Not to this man. “I… I can’t stop wanting to be with her. Thinking of her. She drives me out of my mind, but she’s –” He exhaled, the confession tearing itself free. “She’s mine. My equal. My match. I’d burn down the world before I let anyone else touch her.”

For a long moment, Eduardo simply studied him. Then – unexpectedly – he smiled. Slow. Sharp. Approving. 

“Bene,” he said softly. (Good,) “At least you have the sense not to insult me with pretty lies. You love her, then?”

Draco’s heart slammed against his ribs. True he had admitted as much to Blaise, to Theo. But to Eduardo? This was a statement he couldn’t reverse. “Yes.”

Eduardo’s smile deepened, the kind that made Draco wonder if perhaps the infamous Zabini charm was inherited. “I dare say my wife and your mother will be delighted. But –” He lifted one elegant hand, thoughtfully. “I think I’ll sit on the information for a while. Let them stew. Their meddling has been relentless enough.”

A breath of laughter escaped Draco before he could stop it. “Very Slytherin of you, sir.”

Eduardo chuckled, low and rich. He clasped Draco on the shoulder, the weight firm but not unfriendly. “You can take the viper from the pit, Master Malfoy, but a viper he remains. Remember that.”

Draco inclined his head, every bit the polished heir his father had raised – but inside, fire coiled and surged, a single thought consuming him. 

Mimi.

His flame. 

And her father’s approval only made his hunger for her burn brighter. 

*

The Easter fundraiser at Malfoy Manor was in full bloom – literally. Tables draped in silk, crystal flutes of champagne floating from tray to hand, and strings of enchanted Easter lilies weaving light through the garden. Narcissa and Celeste stood like twin queens at the heart of it, every guest orbiting them. 

Molly Weasley, bustling forward in her best robes (still slightly singed at the hem), attempted to join their orbit with a broad smile. 

“My dears,” she said breathlessly, clutching her handbag. “What a marvellous event. Simply splendid.”

“Indeed,” Narcissa replied with her unfaltering aristocratic smile. “We are delighted you and your family could attend.”

Celeste’s eyes softened only slightly as she raised her champagne flute. “And how are your children?”

Molly seized the opening, puffing with pride. “Oh, thriving! You now, Hermione – pardon me, Mimi – is such a lovely girl. She and my Ronald get on so well at Hogwarts. And Harry, of course… Well, he is practically a son to us. Either would make an honourable match, I’m sure.”

The air cooled perceptibly. Narcissa’s smile never faltered, though the frost in it could have frozen the champagne in Molly’s glass.

“Honourable,” she echoed. “Yes. But a Zabini is not bartered in the corridors of Hogwarts.”

Molly flushed, undeterred. “Well, then, perhaps Ginny for your sons? A fine, strong girl. Talented. Fierce.”

Celeste, who until now had sipped her champagne in silence, set the glass down with deliberate grace. Her eyes – dark, molten, commanding – lifted to Molly’s, and in a tone of perfect politeness that nevertheless rang like a blade unsheathing, she said:

“My children’s futures, Signora Weasley, are not commodities for trade. Nor are they open for negotiation. My daughter’s hand is hers to give, and mine to guard. And I assure you – she is very well guarded.”

At that moment, Eduardo himself strode across the terrace, sunlight catching his dark hair, his posture effortlessly regal. The shift in Molly was immediate – her cheeks flushed, her hand fluttered to her collar. Arthur Weasley, trailing behind, stiffened visibly as his wife all but swooned.

“Ah, cara mia,” (my dear,)  Eduardo greeted, slipping an arm with natural intimacy around Celeste’s waist. He bent to kiss her knuckles with courtly precision, his dark eyes flashing to Molly with amusement as though aware of her gaping admiration. “The evening shines all the brighter with you here.”

Arthur’s jaw worked. “Quite – quite the gathering,” he muttered, bristling, though Molly’s dazed sigh made her ears redden.

Celeste’s lips curved as she leaned just slightly against her husband, the picture of possessive pride. “Mio marito,” (my husband,) she purred deliberately, “has exquisite taste in many things. Including the company he keeps.”

Eduardo, sensing the undercurrent as only a Zabini could, let his hand rest a touch firmer in his wife’s hip and smiled the devastating smile that had ruined half of Milan in his youth. “My wife is, as always, correct. And my children –” here his tone sharpened just slightly, still smooth but unyielding “ –are not for anyone’s petitions. They will choose, in their time. Until then, they are mine to protect.”

Celeste tilted her head with satisfaction, her gaze sweeping over Molly as though the matter were concluded. 

Narcissa, eyes glittering, lifted her glass. “Well said, Eduardo. As it should be.”

Arthur tugged Molly’s elbow, muttering something about checking the twins before they caused chaos near the dessert table, while Celeste leaned up to brush her lips against her husband’s cheek, utterly triumphant. 

“Mio,” she whispered, a playful declaration of victory. (Mine,)

Eduardo smirked, whispering back. “Sempre, mia regina. Always.” (Always, my queen.)

*

The Malfoy Manor gardens were buzzing, each pathway lit with floating orbs that glowed like fireflies, musicians weaving soft strings into the air. Mimi, radiant in her gown, drew attention like the sun itself. 

Draco had since returned from his talk with Lord Zabini, lingered at a polite distance, posture stiff, glass of champagne untouched in his hand. He had already lost count of the simpering wizards queuing to charm her – sons of Ministry officials, scions of old houses, even a pair of wide-eyed twins who spoke in tandem as though that would impress her. (Three guesses who.)

To her credit, Mimi played the part of Lady Zabini with perfection. She listened, she smiled faintly, even curtsied when propriety demanded it – but her answers were curt, efficient, leaving no room for lingering. She was polite, but she gave nothing. No invitation, no opening. Just grace wrapped in steel. 

And still Draco burned. 

“For heaven’s sake, Draco, you’re going to set the garden aflame if you keep glaring like that.” Pansy leaned against him, sipping her champagne lazily. 

Theo, at his other side, snorted. “I swear I can hear your teeth grinding. Loud enough to drown out the orchestra.”

Draco flicked them both a withering glance. “Shut it.”

“Oh, do relax,” Pansy drawled. “Your principessa is handling herself perfectly. Look at her – icy, regal, completely untouchable. It’s exquisite.”

“She shouldn’t have to handle herself,” Draco bit out, jaw tight. “The vultures should know better.”

Theo arched a brow, a wicked grin spreading. “Then perhaps you should make them know better.”

Draco stiffened. “And what would you suggest, Nott? Punching every halfwit who looks her way? Also… when did Pansy become part of my confidante?”

“Darling, you are Theo’s and I am hers, I know all about your tragic pining. And hers.” Pansy offered flatly. 

Theo’s grin widened. “And no… you don’t have to punch them. Just… step forward. Claim your space. Stand beside her, make it obvious she’s not available. Trust me, mate, you don’t even need to say the words. Everyone here already suspects. You simply have to stop sulking in the shadows like some tragic poet and act like the man who has her.”

Draco’s hand tightened on his glass. “She’s not mine.”

Pansy’s laugh was sharp, amused. “Oh, darling. You don’t have to declare your love. You don’t even have to touch her. All you have to do is make it clear. And right now?” She tilted her head toward the suitor currently bowing over Mimi’s hand. “You’re failing abysmally.”

Draco followed her gaze – and nearly shattered the glass in his hand. The simpering idiot had dared to kiss Mimi’s knuckles. Mimi, of course, inclined her head coolly, but Draco could see it: the faintest tightening in her shoulders, the way her lips pressed into a line. She disliked it, but she endured it. 

Theo clapped him on the shoulder, grin wolfish. “Time to move, Malfoy. Go on. Stake your claim. Or someone else will.”

*

The simpering fool still had Mimi’s hand, bowing over it as though he might brand himself into her skin with that kiss. Draco’s jaw locked, vision sharpening to a white-hot point. 

Theo was right.

Enough. 

He set down his untouched champagne with deliberate precision, smoothed his cufflinks – the ones she’d given him – and strode forward like a Malfoy born to command. His every step was measured, graceful, purebred nobility radiating from the cut of his shoulders and the steel in his gaze. 

“Lady Zabini,” he drawled, voice low and silken, dipping into the faintest bow. But his eyes never left hers. “Forgive the interruption.”

The suitor startled, half-protesting, but Draco extended his arm without looking at him. Regal. Certain. Unquestionable. 

Mimi’s lips parted, surprise flickering – then something else, something softer. She slid her hand into the crook of his elbow, and Draco nearly exhaled in relief at the weight of her there. Exactly where she belonged. 

He straightened, towering over the other wizard with effortless disdain. “I’ll be escorting her now. You understand.” It wasn’t a request. 

The man stammered something about pleasure and honor, but Draco had already turned, guiding Mimi away, each step echoing possession. 

“You’re impossible,” she hissed under her breath once they were clear of the crown. “You can’t just –”

“I can,” he interrupted, voice cutting low enough that only she could hear. “And I will.”

Her breath hitched. “Since when did you decide this, mio velono?”

“Since always, mia fiamma.”

Her knees nearly buckled, but he tightened his arm beneath hers, steadying her as though he’d known she would falter. 

She turned, whispering back with a tremor she couldn’t mask: “You should be careful, Draco. You play with fire.”

His eyes burned, molten steel and wildfire. “Mia fiamma.”

The words coiled around her like a spell. The garden, the guests, even the orchestra – all of it blurred. There was only the press of his arm, his breath at her ear, and the terrible, exquisite truth of the claim. 

From the terrace, Pansy fanned herself with her champagne glass. “Oh, Circe, I think I’m about to faint. Did he just –”

Theo was grinning like a wolf. “Oh, he bloody did. Regal. Possessive. And entirely fucking obvious.”

*

Draco’s eyes swept the terrace – guests laughing, mothers gossiping, fathers trading sharp glances of politics. Blaise was occupied with a glass of brandy and Theodore’s chatter, Pansy deep in conversation with Tori. For once, no one’s hawk-like gaze rested on them. 

He leaned down, voice a breath at Mimi’s ear. “Come with me.”

Her brows arched, perfectly sculpted, suspicious but amused. “And where, pray tell, are you taking me, Master Mafloy?”

“Somewhere private,” he said, tone like velvet-wrapped in steel. His arm shifted, tightening possessively around hers. “I’ve shared you enough for one day.”

Her lips parted in a mock gasp of scandal. “How ungentlemanly. Stealing a lady from your own family’s fundraiser? What would the matrons say?”

“They’d say,” Draco murmured, pulling her with deliberate, quiet force toward the marble steps, “that I know what I want and I take it.”

She feigned horror, though her eyes glittered with mischief. “Salazar save me, you’ve turned rogue.”

He smirked down at her, guiding her past the blooming arches of pale Easter roses, their fragrance sweet and cloying in the twilight. “You always accused me of being a snake, Mimi. You should’ve remembered that when you wore that dress and expected me not to strike.”

Her laughter was breathless, low. “Oh, so this is my fault?”

“Entirely.”

They came to a quieter part of the gardens, the roses taller here, curving into a secluded bower around a wrought-iron bench. Draco stopped and turned her toward him, the night air cooling his heated skin. 

“Better,” he said, releasing her arm only to claim her hand instead, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. His voice softened, but the hunger beneath it hadn’t eased. “Finally. No one watching. No interruptions. Just us.”

Mimi huffed a laugh and rolled her eyes playfully. 

The air in the gardens was sweet with the perfume of roses, moonlight glinting faintly off the marble fountains and the polished iron of benches. Mimi drew in a deep breath, the tension in her shoulders easing for the first time all day.

“They really are beautiful, aren’t they?” she murmured, brushing her fingertips over the bloom of a white rise. “Your mother had quite the gift. Lady Malfoy’s flowers put the rest of us to shame.”

Draco’s expression softened, rare and unguarded. “She spends hours out here when no one’s looking. It’s… her sanctuary. She tends to every single one herself.”

Something in Mimi’s chest tightened. He loved his mother. Deeply. And she adored that he said it without apology. 

She turned back to him with a sly tilt of her lips. “You’ve been rather quiet this evening, Draco. I think you’ve only insulted me twice in the last four hours.”

His mouth curved, faintly self-depracating. “Very unbecoming of me, I know. But tonight has been… difficult.”

She arched an elegant brow, stepping closer, skirts whispering over the grave. “Pay do tell, Master Malfoy.”

For once, his composure wavered. Colour touched his pale cheeks, blooming just beneath the lantern glow. Draco Malfoy – blushing. Mimi felt her pulse stutter. Saints above, she might actually swoon. 

He leaned in, voice low, roughened with an honesty he never showed the world. “Seeing those other – men, for lack of a better word – circle you like vultures. Hearing them petition your father, like they had any right to your hand. Watching them try to steal even a fragment of your attention…” His jaw clenched. “It was torturous.”

Her breath caught, the world narrowing until there was only him and the confession unravelling in the dark. 

Draco’s eyes fixed on hers, burning with an intensity that made her knees weaken. “Because the entire time, I knew the truth. That you’re mine… but not.”

Mimi’s lips parted, stunned silent. No quip rose to her tongue. No playful barb. Just the thrum of her heartbeat in her ears and the dangerous, impossible warmth swelling in her chest. 

Mimi’s words spilled like fire and silk all at once. 

“As much as I rather enjoy our bickering, and your torture – and don’t be mistaken, I’ll never stop trying to get a rise out of you by insulting you often…” Her smirk curved, but her eyes betrayed something far deeper. “I am yours. Not theirs. You know other than my father, I’ve not entertained a single dance this evening. Only one idiot has managed to kiss my hand, and that was only because I was momentarily distracted by you and didn’t clock his intention before it happened. So really, that was your fault. Yes, I’m blaming you for not being closer.”

Draco’s laugh was unsteady, somewhere between relief and disbelief. His pulse thundered in his throat, and before he could stop himself, the truth tumbled out. 

“Your father took me for a chat, you know.”

Mimi blinked, startled. “He what?”

“He heard me refer to you are Mia fiamma,” Draco admitted, watching her eyes widen. His voice dropped to a gravelly whisper. “And he told me he would never believe anyone could truly deserve you. That he had a very small list of those worthy enough to even try – and that, somehow, I was on it.”

Her lips parted, stunned. 

Draco gave a crooked, vulnerable smile. “He’s more terrifying than my own father. But still, I couldn’t lie to him. Not to Eduardo Zabini. So I told him the truth. I told him my every desire when it comes to you.” He swallowed hard, the words threatening to choke him. “That I want you, Mimi. That I’ve always wanted you. That I –” His voice faltered. “That I love you.”

Mimi stood frozen beneath the moonlight, every inch of her trembling. She stared at him, chest rising and falling in quick succession. And then, like a dam breaking, her words spilled out in rapid-fire Italian.

“Sei il ragazzo più arrogante e testardo che abbia mai conosciuto,” she said, voice trembling. (You are the most arrogant, stubborn boy I have ever known.)

Her hands curled into fists at her sides. “Hai passato anni a tormentarmi, a farmi arrabbiare, e ancora non riesco a respirare quando sei vicino.” (You spent years tormenting me, making me furious, and still I can’t breathe when you’re near.)

Draco’s lips twitched. 

Mimi pressed on, heedless. “Mi guardi come se fossi tua, come se nessun altro potesse toccarmi, e odio quanto lo desidero anch’io.” (You look at me as if I’m yours, as if no one else could touch me, and I hate how much I want that too.)

Her voice cracked. “Sei veleno e fuoco e ancora sei tutto ciò che desidero.” (You are venom and fire and still you are everything I want.)

She finally stopped, only because the sound of Draco chuckling rumbled in the night are. 

Her eyes widened in outrage. “You’re laughing?” she hissed, and smacked his arm with the flat of her hand. 

Draco caught her wrist easily, tugging her into his chest. “Mia fiamma… you are exquisite when you’re furious.”

He lowered his head, breath warm against her lips. He was just about to kiss her when her voice, soft but fierce, cut through the night. 

“I love you too, Draco.”

That was it. The last shred of his restraint utterly shattered. 

His mouth crashed to hers, a kiss that was both a vow and a surrender, fierce and consuming, his hands tangling in her hair as though he could never let go. Mimi answered with equal fire, her fingers clawing at the lapels of his jacket, pulling him closer, closer still until the world around them ceased to exist. 

But they were not alone. 

On the far side of the rose arch, concealed by the shadows, Narcissa and Celeste clasped their hands like giddy schoolgirls. Their faces glowed with smug delight, their eyes shimmering with triumph. 

“Oh, Cissa,” Celeste whispered, nearly breathless. “Do you see?”

“I do,” Narcissa murmured, her smile positively radiant. “Our twenty-year plan has come to fruition.”

The two women exchanged a look of utter satisfaction before quietly slipping away – already, in their minds, planning the wedding. 

Chapter Text

The great carriages stood waiting in the drive, trunks neatly packed and elves fluttering around to see the young lords and ladies off. Spring sunlight bathed Malfoy Manor in gold, giving the scene an almost theatrical glow.

Celeste smothered Mimi in one last embrace, stroking her daughter’s hair as though she were still a child. “Mia principessa, I will see you soon. Behave… or at least, don’t get caught,” she whispered with a knowing wink that earned her a scandalised laugh. 

Across the way, Narcissa’s gaze slid not-so-subtly toward Draco and Mimi standing side by side. A pointed look. Celeste mirrored it perfectly, as if they’d rehearsed it, and the silence exchange spoke volumes. 

Blaise caught it instantly. His dark eyes narrowed. His mother and Lady Malfoy never looked at him that way – only his sister and Draco. Suspicion coiled in his chest like smoke. 

And then, to make matters worse, his father stepped forward. Eduardo’s arm slid around Celeste’s waist as he kissed her cheek, but his attention was on the departing party. “A strange thing, fate,” he said cryptically, voice carrying in that effortlessly commanding way of his. “Sometimes the paths we most resist lead us to exactly where we are meant to be.”

Mimi tilted her head curiously, but Eduardo only smiled, maddeningly unreadable. Blaise scowled. 

The final farewells followed in a whirl. Mimi, radiant in her simple travelling cloak, curtsied deeply before Lord and Lady Malfoy. 

“Than you for your unending, generous hospitality over the holidays,” she said with polished grace. “It has been an honour.”

Narcissa all but melted. “The honour was ours, my dear. Do take care on your journey back. The Manor will be far colder without you.”

Lucius inclined his head, eyes gleaming. “You are welcome here anytime, Lady Zabini.”

Mimi flushed prettily, and Draco – standing just half a step too close – did nothing to conceal the smug pride burning in his expression. His chest swelled, his chin lifted, and for once he made no effort to mask it, not even from Blaise. 

The older Zabini stared between them, suspicion now firmly rooted. His baby sister, curtseying like a queen. His best friend, looking as though he’d just conquered the bloody world.

Something had shifted over the holiday. Blaise could feel it in his bones. And he didn’t like it. Not one bit.

* * *

The Slytherin common room was warm and familiar, firelight licking against emerald drapes and dark stone walls. The gang spilled in from the corridors, shedding cloaks and laughter as though they’d never left. Pansy immediately claimed the prime spot on the velvet settee, Theo draped himself lazily across the rug, and Blaise leaned against the mantle, watching everyone with his usual sharp eyes. 

Mimi moved through the room like she always did – effortless, radiant, as though the ancient stones bent toward her orbit. She slipped off her travelling cloak, shook out her dark hair, and smiled at something Pansy said. 

Draco didn’t take his eyes off of her. Not once. 

He perched on the arm of a chair, every inch the perfect Malfoy lord in posture, but inside he was a storm. His gaze tracked her every movement, possessive and unrelenting, like he might lose her if he so much as blinked. 

Fuck’s sake, Malfoy, he thought bitterly. You’ve stolen a few bloody kisses and already you’re halfway to writing the betrothal contract. Pathetic.

But the truth was undeniable. He didn’t want to hide it anymore. Not the hunger that flared whenever she looked at him. Not the way the sound of her Italian made his chest ache. Not the way she’d whispered “I love you” and shattered every wall he’d built around himself. 

He wanted to show the world she was his. He wanted to claim her in a way that left no room for argument. 

And that meant Blaise.

Draco glanced toward his best mate. Blaise had his arms folded, watching his sister with the same protective vigilance that had ruled him since childhood. 

The weight of what Draco had to do pressed down on him like lead. He could already picture it – cornering Blaise, telling him the truth, confessing what had bloomed into an obsession. And then bracing himself for the inevitable right hook. Because if the situation were reversed, Draco knew he’d throw the first punch too. 

Fuck. 

Across the room, Mimi caught his eye. Just a flicker, just a spark of heat before she looked away. But it was enough to set his pulse racing. 

Draco clenched his fists against his knees. 

He was going to have to speak to Blaise. He was going to have to put it all on the line. Because hiding his affection for Mia Fiamma even one day longer suddenly felt impossible. 

Circe help me, he thought grimly. This is going to hurt. 

Blaise pushed off the mantle with the kind of deliberate slowness that made Draco’s stomach drop. His dark eyes narrowed, sharp as a blade. 

“Malfoy. Theo. Dorm. Now.”

It wasn’t a request. 

Theo shot Draco a look that was half amusement, half good luck, mate, before rolling to his feet. Draco followed, trying not to look as though he was marching toward his own execution. 

Once the door to their dormitory shut, Blaise rounded on them, his jaw tight. “Right. Out with it. Whatever the fuck this is.” He jabbed a finger between Draco and the door, like the truth itself had better come spilling out. “Theo’s here to referee, so don’t think you can worm your way out of it. Before Christmas you told me you were in love with my sister, Malfoy. And now –” his voice sharpened, full of venom – “now something has shifted. So. What the fuck do I not know?”

Theo leaned against the bedpost like he was settling in for a play. “This should be good.”

Draco raked a hand through his hair, his heart pounding so hard he could feel it in his teeth. “Erm. Ok. Don’t freak out –”

Blaise’s glare promised violence. 

Draco ploughed on. “I stand by what I said. I love her. She drives me mental, but only in the best way. And… I don’t hate her. Not sure I ever actually did.”

Blaise’s nostrils flared. 

“And…” Draco swallowed. “... I’ve kissed her. A lot. First they were… hate kisses. Mistakes. Her words, not mine – before you skin me alive. But at the fundraiser –” his voice cracked, and he forced himself to steady it. “At the fundraiser she told me she loves me. And I don’t want to fucking hide it anymore.”

He straightened his shoulders, meeting Blaise’s glare head-on. “So. Punch me if you have to. I’ll take it. Free shot for fancying your sister.”

For a beat, silence thickened the room like smoke. 

Blaise’s jaw worked. His voice was low, deadly. “Just kisses? You’ve not done anything else?”

Draco raised a hand like he was swearing an oath. “I swear. Just kisses.”

Blaise studied him for a long, unflinching moment. Then nodded once. “Right.”

And punched him square across the jaw. 

Draco staggered back, clutching his face with a muffled curse. 

Theo whistled low. “Well. At least you were prepared for it.”

Draco rubbed his jaw, glaring half-heartedly at Blaise. “Bloody hell, Zabini. You’ve got a mean right hook.”

Theo snorted. “He’s been saving it for years.”

“Shut it, Theo,” Blaise growled, still pacing like a caged tiger. Then, abruptly, he stopped and turned back to Draco, dark eyes searching. “So. You love her. And she loves you.”

The question wasn’t really a question, but Draco nodded anyway, feeling the weight of the words settle over them like something irrevocable. “She’s… she…” His voice faltered, and then steadied with more conviction than he’d ever managed in his life. “She’s mia fiamma, Blaise.”

Blaise blinked, brows shooting up. “Since when do you speak Italian?!”

Draco smirked faintly, despite the throbbing in his jaw. “I don’t. I just… asked her to teach me a few things.” His mouth twisted. “And yes, I know what serpente velenoso means, thank you very much. Bunch of pricks.”

Theo let out a bark of laughter. 

But Draco wasn’t laughing. His face softened, stripped bare of its usual sneer. “But yeah… I’m serious about her, man. Fucking hell, I already have half a betrothal contract worded in my head.” He ran a hand through his hair, then froze as if realising what he’d said. “And I’ve not even shagg–” He coughed, colour rushing to his cheeks. “Erm… never mind. Ignore that.”

Blaise’s lip twitched into something dangerously close to a smile. “Oh, I will.”

Theo raised both brows, thoroughly enjoying himself. “Well shit. Malfoy in love. Betrothal contracts. Italian lessons. This is better than a soap opera.”

Blaise ignored him, stepping closer to Draco, his voice low but no longer venomous. “If you’re serious, Draco… if you really mean it… then don’t you dare make her regret loving you.”

Draco swallowed hard, sincerity blazing in his grey eyes. “Never.”

Blaise finally stopped pacing. He let out a long breath, scrubbing a hand over his face as though even he couldn’t quite believe the words he was about to say. His gaze fixed on Draco, sharp but not quite murderous anymore. 

“You might be the only one I’d ever let anywhere close to her, Dray.”

Theo threw his hands up. “Hey! Rude –”

“Shut up, Theo,” Blaise cut in without even looking at him. “You’re too much of a liability and you know it.”

Theo pouted dramatically. “Liability? I prefer charming rogue.”

“Same thing,” Blaise muttered before turning back to Draco. “So. You’re serious. You love her. And you’re not going to piss around like some horny schoolboy?”

Draco straightened his shoulders, meeting Blaise’s stare head-on. “Not about that, no.” His lips quirked. “Although I can’t promise I’m not going to kiss her. Or touch her. But –” he raised his hands, palms out, almost mock-solemn – “I’ll try to keep it clean. For your sake.”

Blaise’s eyes narrowed, but before he could retort Draco pressed on, voice low, steady. “I’m not responsible for her actions though. And I won’t be pushing her away either.”

A heavy silence fell. Theo rocked back on his heels, grinning like a cat at a cream bowl, clearly loving every second. 

Finally, Blaise huffed, resigned. “Fair. I can’t hex her.”

That earned the ghost of a smile from Draco. “Exactly.”

Theo clapped his hands together, all but gleeful. “Well, look at that. A bloody Malfoy-Zabini treaty signed right here in the dormitory. Historic moment, lads. Someone fetch a quill and parchment, let’s make it official.”

Blaise glared at him. “If you ever breathe a word of this to anyone, I’ll hex you so hard your dick will fall off.”

Theo smirked, utterly unfazed. “Touching. Truly.”

And for the first time in years, Draco allowed himself to relax in Blaise’s presence – because for the first time, he wasn’t just tolerating Blaise’s little sister. He was allowed to love her.

*

Draco’s grin was positively wicked as he straightened his cuffs and glances at the other boys. 

“Right then,” he drawled. “I’m going to go and claim my girl.”

Theo nearly toppled from the bed laughing. Blaise groaned, dragging his palms down his face. 

“Merda,” he muttered. “I’m going to regret this. I know I’m going to regret letting him have my sister.”

But Draco didn’t wait for more. He bolted down the dormitory steps, heart hammering, and found Mimi curled on one of the green leather sofas with a book open in her lap. 

“Draco – what on –”

Before she could finish, he scooped her up, book forgotten, her startled squeal dissolving into laughter. And then his mouth was on hers – hot, unashamed, claiming. He kissed her until she clung to him, until the world itself seemed to tilt. 

“Mio,” he murmured against her lips, once, twice, again – each word fiercer than the last. “Mio. Mio. Mia fiamma.”

She giggled, breathless, her eyes glittering as she whispered back, “Mio veleno. I assume my brother gave you that long-awaited permission?”

Draco smirked, utterly smug. “He did. Complete with a little parting gift.”

Her gaze sharpened. She caught sight of the dark bruise blooming along his jaw. Her smile vanished. 

“Blaise Eduardo Zabini!” she shouted, her voice like a whip crack. 

From upstairs came a muffled curse, then heavy footsteps. By the time Blaise appeared at the bottom of the staircase, Mimi was already tearing into him in a torrent of Italian:

“Come osi mettere le mani su di lui? E mio, capisci? Mio! Se lo tocchi di nuovo, to giuro che ti stenderò per una settimana intera!”

(How dare you put your hands on him? He’s mine, you understand? Mine! If you touch him again, I swear I’ll knock you flat for an entire week!)

Blaise’s dark eyes flashed, his own voice rising to meet hers

“Lo stavo proteggendo! Sei la mia sorellina – la mia! Non lascerò che un Malfoy ti faccia del male. Non dopo tutto quello che abbiamo passato.”

(I was protecting you! You’re my little sister – mine! I won’t let a Malfoy hurt you. Not after everything we’ve been through.)

“Proteggermi? Non hai bisogno di proteggermi da lui!” Mimi fired back, cheeks flushed, eyes blazing. 

(Protect me? You don’t need to protect me from him!)

Draco – utterly besotted – only stood there, chest aching, lips curving into the softest, most foolish smile. 

She was incandescent, radiant in her fury. And she was defending him.

Fuck, she was stunning. 

She’s going to yell at me in Italian for the rest of my days, he thought helplessly. And I’ll never – never – be able to be angry about it.

Chapter Text

The entire common room had fallen quiet. Every Slytherin eye was fixed on the volcanic eruption happening between the Zabini siblings. Mimi stood nose-to-nose with her brother, hands slicing the air, her Italian rolling like a storm.

“Sei sempre cosi arrogante, Blaise!” she snapped, stamping her heel against the rug. 

(You’re always so arrogant, Blaise!)

“Arrogante? Io? Non sono io quello che si fa baciare da un Malfoy!” he shot back, jabbing a finger toward Draco. 

(Arrogant? Me? I’m not the one letting a Malfoy kiss them!)

Mimi gasped in outrage, hair flying as she whirled on him again. “Non ‘lasciando’ nulla! L’ho baciato io, per tua informazione!”

(Not ‘letting’ anything! I kissed him, for your information!)

A stunned silence followed that declaration – save for Theo, who let out a low whistle and leaned toward Pansy. “Shit me, I know we don’t understand half of it, but this is still better than the Prophet.”

Pansy was half-swooning herself, clutching Theo’s sleeves with wide eyes. “Look at her – look at him.” She gave Draco a little shove toward the sofa where he’d half-sat, half-fallen. “He’s practically glowing.”

And he was. Draco Malfoy – stoic, icy, untouchable Draco – was gazing at Mimi like she’d hung the bloody constellations in the sky herself. 

“She’s –” he breathed, utterly undone, “she’s the most exquisite thing I’ve ever seen.”

Theo snorted, slapping his knee. “Malfoy’s gone. Completely gone. Sodden toast. He’s going to start writing her poetry next.”

Pansy batted her lashes, grinning. “He already looks like he’s composing sonnets in his head. Hells, this is delicious.”

Meanwhile, Blaise and Mimi were still at it. 

“Hai distrutto la mia fiducia!” she accused, pointing at him as though she might hex him on the spot. 

(You destroyed my trust!)

“E tu hai distrutto la mia pazienza!” he thundered back. 

(And you destroyed my patience!)

“Sei insopportabile!”

(You’re insufferable!)

“E tu sei testarda come nostra madre!”
(And you’re as stubborn as our mother!)

Theo cackled. “Saints save us. Someone is going to explode. I can feel it. Malfoy you’re dead. Blaise is going to kill you just for existing near her.”

But Draco only smiled wider, dazed, like a man drunk on wine and flame. “Let him try,” he murmured dreamily, eyes never leaving Mimi’s flushed face. “She’s still mine.”

Pansy clutched her chest and sighed. “Hopeless. Absolutely hopeless. Both of them.”

Mimi whirled on her brother again, voice rising in a crescendo of Italian, when suddenly she felt herself lifted clean off the ground.

“Put me down, Malfoy!” she shrieked, legs kicking against his hold. 

Draco had his arms locked firmly around her waist from behind, dragging her a few paces back before Blaise could lunge again. He was gritting his teeth, jaw tight with the effort of not burying his face in her neck. 

“Mia fiamma,” he muttered against her ear, his voice dark silk, “I’ve no idea what the hell you’re saying – but fuck me, I don’t even care. It’s taking every shred of my self-control not to snog you stupid over it.”

Her claws came out instantly, voice dripping venom even as it quavered. 

“Sei arrogante, presuntuoso, e se pensi che io –”

(You’re arrogant, presumptuous, and if you think that I –)

He cut her off, voice low, close enough she could feel the brush of his breath. “You’ll be sad if you kill your brother, Mimi. And don’t pretend otherwise.”

Her body stiffened in his hold, fury radiating from her like a storm, but she stopped struggling – if only because she didn’t know whether she wanted to hex him, claw him, or whirl around and kiss him.

Across the room, Theo had his hands clapped on Blaise’s shoulders, physically pulling him backward. “Alright, Lord Zabini,” Theo said with that infuriating grin that only ever made tempers worse, “I think you’ve shouted enough for one night. Time to cool down until you and Mimi truce.”

Blaise’s eyes blazed, his words snapping like firecrackers. “You’re letting her go off with Draco?!”

“Yes.” Theo said smoothly, utterly unbothered. “Because he loves her. And he can handle a little hexing if she gets too cross. Frankly, I’d pay to see it.”

Pansy’s laughter tinkled like a bell from the sofa. “Saints, Theodore, you’ll be the death of us all.”

Blaise growled, muttering something under his breath in Italian, but he let Theo guide him toward the common room entrance. Draco, still holding Mimi tightly against him, finally lowered her to her feet. She was still fuming, still hissing in Italian like a furious cat, and he couldn’t stop the smirk tugging at his lips. 

“Careful, fiamma,” he whispered, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. “You’re making me want to prove every word wrong with my mouth.”

Her gasp was pure outrage – but her blush gave her away. 

Mimi continued spitting flames in Italian, determined to get the last word in despite Draco’s warnings. 

He hauled her through the common room, up the staircase, and straight to his dormitory. She thrashed in his grip, hissing curses that would’ve made even Celeste proud. 

“Imbecille! Come osi –”

(Idiot! How dare you –)

The door slammed shut behind them. With a flick of his wand, Draco cast both locking and silencing charms, the sound of her tirade cut off from the world beyond.

She whirled on him instantly, eyes flashing, hair whipping around her face like fire incarnate. “You don’t get to drag me around like a –”

He didn’t let her finish. His hand cupped the back of her neck, and his mouth crashed against hers. 

It wasn’t gentle. It was fire meeting fire, his kiss rough, demanding, filled with every ounce of frustration and longing he’d been choking down for weeks. For one heartbeat she shoved at his chest, spitting into the kiss, but then – her nails curled into his shirt, dragging him closer. 

Her fury didn’t die. It redirected. 

She kissed him back with teeth, biting his lip hard enough to make him groan. She shoved him against the door and hissed. “You’re unbearable.”

“Good,” he muttered against her lips, half-smirking even as he kissed her again, harder. “Then stop wasting breath telling me so and show me instead.”

Her laugh was wild, low in her throat, and she tugged his hair so sharply he nearly lost his balance. “I hate that you do this to me.”

His forehead pressed to hers, breath ragged. “You don’t hate it. Not even close.”

Another clash of mouths, desperate and punishing, and Draco knew, they weren’t enemies, or even rivals. They were something worse – something far more dangerous. 

Because Mimi Zabini was fiendfyre. And he had no desire whatsoever to put her out. 

Mimi shoved him back against the door again, snarling into his mouth like she wanted to devour him. Her nails scraped down his chest, tugging fabric and skin alike, every inch of her vibrating with rage that burned hot enough to singe. 

Draco let her have it – for a moment. Let her spit curses in Italian, let her claw, let her bite, let her thrash like the untamable storm she was. 

Because fuck, she was beautiful when she burned. Then in one feral motion, he reversed their positions, he had her pinned against the door, his mouth crashing onto hers. 

Her answering growl vibrated against his tongue, hot and furious and perfect. She bit his lower lip hard enough to taste blood, and Draco only groaned, dragging her body flush against his.

“Pretty little mouth,” he panted against her lips, his voice raw, commanding. “All fire, all fury –” his teeth scraped the line of her jaw as his hand tangled mercilessly in her hair, forcing her head back to expose her throat – “and you’re going to give it to me. All of it. Tonight.”

Her answering laugh was breathless, taunting even as her body arched into him. “You think you can handle me, Malfoy?”

He growled, biting her throat just enough to make her gasp. “Not think. Know. And you’ll know it too – Mio. My girl. Mia fiamma.” His other hand gripped her hip possessively, sliding lower, claiming every inch of her as his own. 

“Arrogant bastard,” she hissed, nails clawing down his back, leaving raised welts that made him shudder. 

“Say it again,” he demanded, thrusting her back against the door again, as though he could brand the words into her skin. “Say whatever the fuck you want in that wicked tongue, curse me in Italian – I don’t care. Because by the time I’m through with you, the only thing you’ll be able to say is mine.”

“Since when?” she gasped, even as her hands fisted in his hair, dragging him back to her mouth with feral desperation.

“Since always,” Draco rasped, voice breaking on the truth. He kissed her again, harder, devouring, like he could pour every year of repressed hunger into her in one go. 

Clothes tore, buttons scattered across the floor, neither of them caring – too lost, too far gone. Her thighs wrapped around his hips, his grip iron-tight as he carried her to the bed, throwing her down with a predator’s growl before following her down. 

The world narrowed to heat and teeth and hands – biting, clawing, claiming. Her Italian poured out in frantic, desperate bursts – “Mio veleno – mio drago – maledizione, ti odio, ti amo!” (My venom – my dragon – curse you, I hate you, I love you!) – each one answered by Draco with shuddering groans of “Mio. Mia fiamma. Mine. You’re mine, Mimi. Everyone will know it.”

Draco’s weight pressed Mimi into the mattress, his hands everywhere, greedy, unrelenting. Her gown had been ripped open down the front, his fingers dragging over heated skin, down the swell of her breasts, lower still, leaving gooseflesh in their wake. 

“Draco –” her voice caught between a gasp and a curse as his mouth closed over her nipple, biting hard enough to make her arch, before soothing with his tongue. She fisted his hair, tugging sharply, dragging a growl from him that vibrated against her. 

“Say it,” he demanded against her skin, his hand sliding between her thighs, teasing, tormenting. “Say you’re mine.”

Her laugh was broken, breathless. “Vai all’inferno.” (Go to hell.)

He answered by thrusting two fingers into her, curling them just right, his thumb stroking her clip with maddening precision. She bucked under him, cursing beautifully in Italian, nails clawing his shoulders until they bled. 

“That mouth,” Draco groaned, kissing her savagely even as she moaned into him. “Always running, always fire – fuck, Mimi, I’ll make you scream.”

“Try it.”

That was all the challenge he needed. His fingers worked her harder, faster, until her body was quaking, the wet sounds between them filthy in the silence of the room. She broke on his hand with a cry of his name, half curse, half prayer. He licked her release off his fingers while staring down at her, wicked, hungry. 

“You taste like sin, mia fiamma,” he rasped, lining himself up, teasing at her slick entrance. 

“Arrogant bastard,” she hissed again – but her hips arched up, inviting, demanding. 

He slammed into her in one thrust, burying himself to the hilt. She cried out, her legs locking around his waist, dragging him deeper, nails raking down his back as he set a brutal rhythm. 

Each thrust shook the bed, sharp and claiming. His hand fisted in her hair, pulling her head back so he could growl against her throat. “Mine. My girl. Mia fiamma. Everyone will know.”

“Fuck you –” she gasped, but her voice broke on a moan as he angled just right, hitting that spot that made her see stars. 

“Already am,” Draco smirked against her jaw, biting down as he drove into her harder, faster, until the sound of skin against skin filled the room, a symphony of moans, curses, gasps. 

Her words tumbled out in frantic Italian – “Drago, mio veleno, cazzo, mi stai uccidendo!” (Dragon, my venom, fuck, you’re killing me!) – and Draco’s response was only to piston deeper, groaning her name like a man possessed. 

When she shattered around him again, crying out her release, he followed with a roar, spilling into her, collapsing against her body as though he could sink into her and never let go. 

For a long, shaking moment, all that could be heard was their ragged breathing, the sound of his heart pounding against her chest. 

Draco pressed a reverent kiss to her temple, his voice rough, hoarse, but sure:

“You’re mine, Mimi. Always.”

Her fingers dragged lazily through his swear-damp hair, her lips curling in the faintest smirk. 

“Mio veleno,” she whispered. 

And Draco knew he was ruined for anyone else.

Their bodies were still tangled in the sheets, slick with sweat, both of them trembling from the storm they’d unleashed. The air was heavy, thick with the scent of sex and something far more dangerous – something neither of them could pretend wasn’t there anymore. 

Draco lay on his back, chest heaving, Mimi’s head resting against him, her dark curls splayed over his shoulder. His fingers – shaking, reluctant to still – traced idle patterns over the curve of her hip.

For once, there was no venom left in her tongue. Just silence, warm and unsettling, until finally she broke it with a muttered, “I still hate you.”

He huffed a laugh, turning his face into her hair, inhaling her. “No, you don’t.”

There was a beat, then – soft, quiet, but laced with all the fire she’d just poured into him – “No… I love you. Mio drago, mio veleno.” (My dragon, my venom.)

His breath caught, every muscle in his body tightening at the words. It was the first time she’d said them aloud since the fundraiser, and he almost couldn’t believe she had. His throat worked, but nothing came out. All he could do was pull her tighter against him, as though he could anchor the truth of it into his bones. 

Minutes passed, comfortable, until reality started to intrude. He kissed her temple, whispered against her skin, “You need to go and find your brother now, mia fiamma.”

She shifted against him, stubborn even in her afterglow. “Nope.”

“Mimi…” His tone was gentler than it had ever been, warning threaded with the affection he couldn’t hide anymore. 

“Fine,” she sighed dramatically, finally pushing herself up on one elbow, though she still hadn’t moved from his chest. Her eyes sparkled with mischief even as her lips were swollen from his kisses. “But he has to apologise too.”

Draco raised an eyebrow in question. 

“He touched what’s mine,” she said matter-of-factly, like it was the most obvious truth in the world. “So he has to apologize to me.”

Draco choked on a laugh, dragging her back down onto his chest, kissing her hair with something perilously close to worship. 

*

The dungeons were thick with tension when Mimi finally tracked her brother down. Blaise was leaning against the common room hearth, arms folded, jaw tight, eyes immediately narrowing when he spotted the faint bruising along her neck. 

“Sorellina…” he started darkly, and she rolled her eyes. 

“Don’t sorellina me, Blaise. You’re going to apologise.”

His brows shot up. “Me? Apologise? To you?”

“Yes,” she said, chin high, arms crossed. “You punched Draco. You made a scene. You touched what’s mine. So yes, you own me an apology.”

Draco, lingering nearby with Theo and Pansy, almost choked on his own laugh. What’s mine. He was going to be smug about that for the rest of his life. 

Blaise muttered something in rapid Italian under his breath before growling. “Fine. I’m sorry. I was –” He exhaled through his nose like a bull. “ –overprotective.”

Mimi softened instantly. The siblings always did, she slipped forward and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Truce?”

“Truce,” Blaise said, squeezing her hand. 

There was a beat of peace. Then Blaise tilted his head, suspicious. “Just one question though…” His eyes narrowed to slits. “Why the fuck couldn’t I get into my dorm tonight? And why does my sister have a hickey?”

Mimi’s face flamed. She whipped around to glare at Draco, who was smirking like he’d just been crowned King of England. 

“Blaise Eduardo Zabini!” she thundered, slipping right back into her fire. “I fucking dare you to try and rain on my happiness right now! I will take back that truce and hex you bald!”

Theo burst out laughing. Pansy cackled into her hand. Draco, utterly unbothered, leaned against the wall watching as his woman dressed in fire, burned brighter than anything he had ever seen. 

Blaise groaned and buried his face in his hands. “This is my nightmare.”

Mimi grinned wickedly. “No, fratellino. This is my dream.”

Chapter Text

The classroom was quiet save for the scratch of quills and the hum of McGonagall’s instructions. Mimi sat with her head bent over her notes, her sun-kissed curls spilling over her shoulder, when Ron bloody Weasley cleared his throat. Loudly. 

Everyone’s heads turned. 

He was red-eared, sweating, and holding something awkwardly wrapped in Gryffindor-coloured paper. 

“Mimi!” he blurted, “I – I’ve wanted to say this for a long time. You’re incredible. Beautiful. Clever. And I – I’d be honoured if you’d accept this – as a… a courting gift.”

The class gasped. Even McGonagall froze mid-sentence. 

Ron stepped forward, offering the package like a knight with a sword. “Please. Say you’ll give me a chance.”

Mimi blinked. “You’re joking.”

Ron’s ears went scarlet. “No! I mean – I can’t stop thinking about you. And – I’ve been thinking about it for a while now –”

“Holy fucking shit on a broomstick,” Theo muttered under his breath. “This is about to get juicy.”

Pansy clutched Theo’s sleeve in delight with one hand, while openly biting her knuckles of the other to stop herself from howling with laughter. 

And Draco? 

Draco Malfoy went still. His hands curled into fists against his desk, jaw tight enough to crack teeth. He could feel the burn rising under his skin, could taste the word he wanted to snarl. Mine.

Mimi rose slowly, arms folded, staring Ron down like a queen appraising a court jester. “Weasley… are you seriously declaring yourself in the middle of Transfiguration?”

Ron fumbled. “Well – yes? I wanted everyone to know –”

“Everyone knows now,” Draco drawled, unable to hold his tongue any longer. His voice was low, dangerous, silk hiding steel. “Unfortunately for you, she’s not yours to declare.”

The room erupted into whispers. 

Ron whipped around, glaring. “And what’s that supposed to mean, ferret?”

Draco’s lips curved into something sharp, his storm-grey eyes locked on Mimi – on his Mimi. “It means exactly what you think it does.”

Before Ron could answer, Draco moved. He closed the distance in three sharp strides, every inch a predator staking claim to his prize. His hand wrapped around Mimi’s waist and – ignoring her startled gasp – he pulled her against him. His other hand tilted her chin up, and before the entire stunned classroom, Draco kissed her. 

Not a chaste kiss. 

Not a mistake. 

A deep, possessive, searing kiss that left no one in doubt. 

When he pulled back, grey eyes glittering, he said one word. Low. Ferocious. Unmistakable.

“Mine.”

Mimi was flushed, her lips kiss-bruised, her breath uneven. She shoved him lightly but her eyes betrayed her. “You insufferable snake,” she muttered, followed by: “Mio veleno.”

The entire class went dead silent. 

Mimi’s face flamed. Blaise groaned and dropped his head into his hands. Theo actually whispered, “Spectacular. Fucking spectacular.”

Pansy smirked like Christmas had come early. 

And McGonagall pinched the bridge of her nose. “Mr. Weasley, sit down and stop making a fool of yourself. Mr. Malfoy, put Miss. Zabini down, another word and you’ll be in detention until June. And Miss. Zabini, you have my sincerest sympathies.”

The damage was done. Their secret? As Theo said - spectacularly ruined.

Mimi stormed out of Transfiguration, her robes swirling like fire around her legs. Draco followed, unbothered, hands in his pockets, smirk carved sharp enough to cut stone. 

She spun on him the second the door closed. “You absolute bastardo! You promised – we promised – that this would stay private for now!”

Draco only arched a brow, stepping into her space with that predatory glide. “Forgive me, Mia fiamma, but I don’t recall promising to let Weasley wave a cheap trinket at you like you’re on the fucking auction block.”

“You’re insufferable,” she hissed, trying for fury – but her hands were already gripping his robes, dragging him down to her. The taste of him still burned on her lips, addictive, and impossible to resist. 

“Mm.” He smirked against her mouth as she kissed him. “And yet you’re climbing me like a tree.”

She growled – actually growled – and hooked her thighs around his waist, as he leaned back against the wall. His laugh was low, dangerous, as he cupped her arse to hold her steady. Their mouths crashed together in a feral mess of teeth, tongue, fire. 

That’s when Blaise appeared.

“Mimi!” His voice was horrified, echoing down the corridor. “Sei nel corridoio! Non puoi cavalcare il mio migliore amico, per favore!” 

(You’re in the hallway! Can you not straddle my best mate please!)

Mimi tore her mouth from Draco’s just long enough to shoot her brother a lethal glare, Italian spilling out like molten fire. “Fanculo, Blaisey! Cavalcherò il mio uomo dove cazzo voglio!”

(Fuck you, Blaisey! I’ll climb my man wherever the fuck I choose!)

Theo promptly doubled over in laughter, wheezing at the horrified look on Blaise’s face. 

Draco didn’t even blink. He pressed his forehead to Mimi’s, grey eyes molten steel, and whispered just for her, “Did you just call me ‘mio uomo’?” (my man?)

Mimi flushed biting her lip – then dragged him into another kiss so hard it knocked the smirk right off of his face. 

Blaise? Blaise was already swearing murder in Italian, pacing like a caged panther, while Pansy leaned against the wall fanning herself. “Honestly,” she sighed. “I think I’m going to miss this place after graduation.”

Blaise pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering a stream of Italian curses before finally throwing up his hands. “Merda. Fine. Clearly I’m going to have to get used to this image. Disgustoso.”

Theo clapped him on the back, still grinning like a devil. “That’s the spirit, Zabini. Acceptance is the first step.”

Mimi smirked down from where she was still wrapped around Draco, lips swollen, cheeks flushed. She turned her head just enough to taunt. “Your Italian lessons are paying off, Malfoy. Carry on like that and my own mother will want to marry you.”

Draco’s smirk sharpened into something lethal. He trailed a finger down her cheek, voice pitched low enough for only her. “As stellar as Lady Celeste Zabini is… that spot is already reserved.”

Her breath caught, “Draco…”

“Ssshhh, Mia fiamma.”

And then he was kissing her again – slow, claiming, as if daring the entire castle to watch. 

Blaise groaned and turned away, muttering, “Circe help me. I’m going to be sick.”

Pansy fanned herself openly. “Well. At least when they set fire to each other, they’re pretty about it.”

*

By the time dinner rolled around, there was no hiding it. Not after the hallway spectacle. The whole of Slytherin House, and most of Gryffindor besides, had spread the whispers like fiendfyre: Malfoy and Zabini. Together.

Draco walked into the Great Hall with Mimi’s hand locked firmly in his, smug as sin. Heads turned, forks clattered against plates, and even McGonagall raised an unimpressed brow, clearly still not having forgiven them for the scandal in her classroom. 

“Bloody hell,” Seamus muttered not-so-quietly. “Malfoy pulled Zabini?”

Dean shook his head in awe. “Didn’t think anyone could tame her.”

Draco smirked. Tame? He’d laugh if he wasn’t so preoccupied with keeping his hands off her in front of half the school. 

But if anyone thought Mimi being spoken for would slow things down, they were gravely mistaken. A group of Ravenclaw boys made a show of walking past their table, one daring to bow with a flourish. 

“Lady Zabini,” the boy intoned dramatically. “May I say your beauty puts the Easter roses to shame?”

Mimi laughed politely, about to brush it off – when Draco’s hand clenched against her thigh beneath the table hard enough to bruise.

“Careful now,” Draco drawled, voice pure poison. “Roses have thorns. And my fiamma bites.”

The Ravenclaw flushed scarlet and scampered off. Theo nearly choked on his pumpkin juice. 

But then – oh, then came the surprise. A sixth-year Slytherin witch sidled up table mid-meal, flicking her glossy hair and batting her lashes at Draco. 

“Draco,” she purred. Purred. “I was wondering if you’d care to study together in the library later. I could use a strong partner for Defense revision…”

Blaise groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “Merda. Terrible idea. Don’t do it,” he muttered under his breath. “If you value your life, witch, walk away.”

But she didn’t. She leaned closer. Too close. Her fingers brushed Draco’s sleeve. 

Draco opened his mouth – whether to sneer or politely decline, he didn’t know, because he didn’t get the chance. 

Mimi’s fork clattered against her plate. Slowly, deliberately, she turned to the girl, eyes molten gold and dark with fire. 

“Take your hands off my man before I break them.”

The poor girl froze, lips parting in shock. 

Mimi wasn’t done. She leaned across Draco, voice low and lethal. “Are you deaf or just stupid? I’ll warn you only once.”

The witch stumbled back so fast she nearly tripped over the bench, fleeing down the row of tables without a backward glance. 

Silence. Every eye nearby was fixed on Mimi, who calmly picked up her goblet and sipped like nothing had happened. 

Draco sat frozen beside her, pulse thundering. Every muscle tight. Every thought derailed. 

Shit, he was hard.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, dragging a hand over his mouth. “I love you. Fuck.”

Mimi didn’t look at him, just speared another bite of roast potato and smirked.