Draco Malfoy is unraveling.
It's not the kind of slow, poetic unraveling found in books—no tragic hero unwinding thread by thread in a way that could be admired from a distance. No, this is messier. Harsher. More like being caught in the relentless pull of a fraying rope, one that threatens to snap at any moment, sending him spiraling into something dark, something he refuses to name.
His magic is temperamental at best, betraying him in ways he never thought possible. Some days, it's barely a whisper, weak and uncooperative, like a muscle gone stiff with disuse. Spells that should be effortless flicker and fizzle in his grasp, the once-familiar hum of power now an unpredictable thing, slipping through his fingers no matter how tightly he tries to hold on. Other times, it's wild, volatile—like a storm barely contained beneath his skin, snapping at the edges of his control, crackling at his fingertips when his frustration mounts. There is no balance, no middle ground. Just the gnawing uncertainty of never knowing whether his magic will obey him or fail him when he needs it most.
It doesn't help that sleep is a distant memory, something he lost in the war and never quite managed to reclaim. The nights stretch long and restless, filled with the ghosts of things he doesn't speak of—faces that flicker behind his eyelids the moment he dares to close them. He can hear them sometimes, in the quiet hours just before dawn. The echoes of the past whisper to him in the dark, weaving themselves into his bones, into his breath. He's long since given up on silencing them.
And his patience—well, that was the first thing to go. It used to be formidable, something honed over years of biting his tongue, of keeping his back straight and his mask in place. But now, it's thinner than a Veela's temper, worn down by the endless parade of Ministry officials who either look at him with barely concealed contempt or, worse, with pity. He doesn't know which he despises more. Their questions are always the same, their expectations suffocating: What is Draco Malfoy doing with himself these days? How is he contributing? How is he redeeming his family name?
As if redemption is something that can be measured. As if there is some kind of invisible scale weighing his every action, determining whether he is worthy of forgiveness or doomed to bear the weight of his sins for the rest of his life.
And so, he exists in a space that is neither past nor present, caught between who he was and who he is supposed to be. He goes through the motions, moving through the world like a ghost of himself, untethered and restless, suffocating under the weight of something he can't quite define.
Six years had passed since the war ended, but time had done little to soften the wreckage it had left in its wake. For some, the years that followed had been a time of rebuilding, of reassembling their fractured lives, of clawing their way toward something that resembled hope. For Draco Malfoy, it had been a slow, excruciating process of losing everything he had once believed was immutable.
His parents. His status. His home.
At first, he had clung to what remained with white-knuckled desperation, convinced that if he simply held on tightly enough, he could salvage the pieces of the life he had once known. But life had a cruel way of slipping through fingers that tried to grasp too hard. It took and it took, until he was left with nothing but the echoes of what had been.
His father had been the first to go. Not in a grand, dramatic fashion, not with curses flying or justice being served in some noble display of consequence. No, Lucius Malfoy had withered in silence, his legacy crumbling beneath the weight of disgrace. Azkaban had taken what little pride the man had left, stripping him of the power he had once wielded so effortlessly. When he was finally released, he had returned to Malfoy Manor a ghost of himself, wandering its vast halls as if looking for something he had long since lost.
Draco had watched the light leave his father's eyes day by day, the once-imposing man shrinking into something barely recognizable. There had been no redemption arc for Lucius Malfoy, no path to absolution. Just quiet, tired resignation, as if he had finally accepted that the world had moved on without him. When he died—somewhere between a restless night and an unremarkable morning—it was not shocking. It was not tragic. It simply… was.
His mother had followed soon after. Not in body, but in spirit. Narcissa had always been strong—stronger than his father, stronger than anyone ever gave her credit for—but even she had limits. Her love for Draco had carried her through the war, had given her a reason to survive, but with Lucius gone and their name in ruins, she had begun to fade. She no longer hosted grand parties, no longer concerned herself with bloodlines and traditions. The war had reshaped the world, and she had no interest in living in one where the Malfoy name carried only whispers of disgrace.
One day, she left.
She did not die, not in the way his father had. But she packed a single suitcase, kissed Draco's forehead, and told him she needed to go somewhere quiet. Somewhere where she could breathe without the weight of their past pressing down on her. He had not asked where. She had not told him. He had only nodded, pretending it did not feel like another form of death.
And just like that, he was alone.
Malfoy Manor had been the final thing tethering him to the past, a looming monument to everything that had once been his. But a house was nothing without the people who filled it, and now, its endless corridors and cavernous rooms felt hollow. Lifeless.
The walls still whispered with the ghosts of his childhood—the polished floors still carried the weight of footsteps long gone—but the home he had once known had become nothing more than an empty relic. A prison made of marble and memories.
There was no reason to keep it.
No one was there anymore.
And so, he sold it.
It should have been harder, letting go of something that had been in his family for generations. But in the end, it was alarmingly easy. A few signatures, a transfer of ownership, and Malfoy Manor was no longer his. The money meant nothing—he had more than he could ever need, but what use was wealth when he had no one to share it with?
He had once believed that his name, his blood, his legacy, were the things that defined him. That without them, he was nothing. But as he stood in the empty entrance hall one last time, staring up at the grand chandelier that had once bathed his childhood in golden light, he realized the truth.
He had already lost everything long before he signed it away.
And for the first time in his life, Draco Malfoy had nothing left to lose.
He purchased a grand manor in the countryside, acres upon acres of sprawling land, rolling hills that stretched as far as the eye could see, and thick, enchanted woods that whispered in the wind. The estate was old, older than even Malfoy Manor had been, its stone walls steeped in history, its very foundation humming with magic long forgotten. It was vast, extravagant, a place fit for a legacy—fit for a family. But why?
Why had he done it?
The question gnawed at him, an intrusive thought that refused to be silenced.
A part of him knew the answer.
Even after everything, after the war, after the disgrace of his name, after losing everything that had once been his, he still dreamed of a family. The kind of family he was supposed to have. The kind of future that had been drilled into him since childhood—one of duty, of blood purity, of carrying on the Malfoy name with pride. That was how it had always been, how it was supposed to be. He should have already had an heir by now, a son with silver hair and sharp, aristocratic features, a boy who would one day inherit everything and continue the line, as was expected.
By pureblood standards, he was falling behind.
At twenty-six, he should have already been married, should have had a wife who embodied everything a Malfoy bride ought to be—elegant, composed, of pristine lineage. His heir should have already been born, growing up under the same rigid traditions he had once been shaped by, learning the weight of the Malfoy name before he even understood its meaning. But instead, Draco Malfoy was alone, sitting in a grand, empty house meant for a family that did not exist.
And the truth was, no one wanted him.
Not in the way they once had.
There had been a time when he had been sought after, when his name had been a prize, when witches whispered about securing a match with the Malfoy heir as if it were the pinnacle of success. But those days were gone. His name had been dragged through the mud, his family's reputation tainted beyond repair. He was no longer an ideal husband; he was a cautionary tale. A reminder of what happened when you stood on the wrong side of history.
Only the Muggle ones looked his way now.
Draco sneered at the thought. They were easy, effortless, their admiration untainted by the weight of history, by the unspoken shame that clung to his name. They looked at him and saw wealth, saw a handsome, brooding man with sharp features and an air of mystery. They didn't see the war. They didn't see the Dark Mark that still lingered, faint but inescapable, on his forearm. They didn't see the guilt.
They were good for one thing and one thing only—a brief escape, a fleeting distraction, a way to quiet the thoughts that never seemed to stop. They were good for a shag, nothing more. Nothing deeper. Nothing that required him to explain things that could never be understood by someone who had never seen magic.
And yet, even in that, there was no satisfaction.
It was all so… hollow.
Astoria Greengrass was the closest he had come to something real, and even that was a stretch. Their arrangement was unspoken, infrequent, something done out of convenience more than passion. They would find themselves in the same circles, at the same events, both burdened by the expectations of their families, both unable—or unwilling—to meet them. It was easy, uncomplicated. But it was also unbearably dull.
She was pleasant enough, intelligent in a way that was fitting for someone of her station, with a delicate beauty that should have stirred something in him. But it didn't. She was cold, uninspired, a woman who carried herself with the same detachment he did. There was no fire in her, no unpredictability, no challenge. She was, perhaps, the dullest person ever created by the gods—or the Lord, or whatever divine force dictated the miserable path his life had taken.
There were moments, after they were done, when she would lay beside him, running perfectly manicured fingers over his chest, and he would stare at the ceiling, feeling nothing. No warmth. No attachment. No desire for anything beyond the moment.
And yet, the thought of settling for her—or someone like her—filled him with something close to dread.
He didn't want a loveless arrangement. He didn't want a wife who saw him as nothing more than a duty, an obligation. He didn't want a life filled with cold silences and practiced pleasantries.
He wanted…
Merlin, he didn't even know what he wanted.
All he knew was that this house, this enormous, empty house, meant for laughter and life and a future that had never come, felt more like a mausoleum than a home.
And Draco Malfoy was tired of living among ghosts.
*
Draco Malfoy exhaled slowly, rubbing the bridge of his nose as he stepped out of the Ministry building, the weight of the past few hours pressing down on him like an iron shackle. Today had been the final examination—the last of the endless trials, the relentless questioning, the invasive inspections into his past. And even after all these years, they still didn't trust him.
Six bloody years.
Six years of proving himself, of standing before the Wizengamot, of enduring whispered judgments and barely concealed disdain. Six years of submitting to their relentless scrutiny, their legilimency checks, their endless bureaucratic hoops designed to remind him that no matter how much time passed, he would always be a former Death Eater in their eyes.
They still looked at him like he was the sixteen-year-old boy who had stood trembling in front of the Dark Lord, rather than the man who had spent the years after the war clawing his way out of the wreckage.
He was so fucking tired of it.
He had lost everything—the name that had once commanded respect, the home that had once been his sanctuary, the family that had been his foundation. And yet, the Ministry still demanded more. Still forced their way into his mind, still rifled through his memories as if he were a criminal barely leashed.
Draco clenched his fists as he made his way down the steps of the Ministry, inhaling deeply in an attempt to steady himself. His magic prickled beneath his skin, restless, unsettled. He needed to clear his head.
Diagon Alley was busy at this time of day, a stream of witches and wizards moving between shops, haggling over potion ingredients, browsing through bookstore windows, sipping butterbeer at outdoor cafés. He walked slowly, hands shoved into the pockets of his tailored coat, his mind still tangled with frustration.
He needed something—distraction, normalcy, anything to remind him that he was still just a man, that he was still here, that he wasn't just a ghost trapped in the shadows of his past.
Books.
Books were safe. Books were familiar. He would buy a few, maybe something on advanced potion-making, maybe some new fiction—something to keep his mind occupied when sleep continued to evade him. He might as well grab a few other essentials while he was out.
But then—
A scent.
Merlin's bloody balls, that scent.
It hit him like a rogue bludger, curling through the air like an enchantment, wrapping around him in an intoxicating embrace. It was gorgeous, divine, something that seeped into his skin and made his pulse stutter.
And it was familiar.
Not just familiar—precisely familiar.
Because it smelled exactly like his Amortentia.
His entire body went rigid.
Draco had only smelled Amortentia a handful of times in his life, but he knew what his had always been—freshly polished broomsticks, old parchment, rain-soaked earth, and something sweet, something warm, something he could never quite place. Something that had always eluded him, teasing him with the ghost of recognition but never fully revealing itself.
Until now.
Without thinking, without hesitation, he turned on his heel, following the scent like a man possessed. His legs carried him forward before his mind had even caught up, and within seconds, he was standing in front of the door to a small, enchanting shop he had never noticed before.
His hand was on the handle before he could stop himself, and then—
He barged inside.
Warmth wrapped around him instantly, a cozy, fairytale-like atmosphere enveloping him. The shop was bathed in soft candlelight, the air thick with the scent of exotic teas and delicate floral notes. Shelves lined the walls, filled with jars of dried herbs, enchanted tea blends that shimmered in their containers, and delicate porcelain cups stacked neatly beside them. Everything about the place felt impossibly magical, like something out of a dream.
And then—
"Oh, hello, Malfoy."
Draco froze.
The voice was familiar. Too familiar.
He turned sharply, and there she was.
Luna. Fucking. Lovegood.
His brain short-circuited.
Good heavens.
She was—
Sweet Merlin, she looked like a goddess.
Not the peculiar, dreamy-eyed oddball he remembered from school, not the girl who used to wander the corridors talking about wrackspurts and moon frogs or whatever other nonsense she had once prattled on about. No.
She looked like something carved from temptation itself.
She wasn't just beautiful—she was unreal. Ethereal. Otherworldly in a way that made his breath catch in his throat.
Her hair was longer now, cascading in soft waves down her back, thick and gleaming like spun silver. Her skin glowed with that strange, unbothered serenity she had always carried, but there was something sharper in her now, something that had once been soft but was now dangerously alluring.
And Merlin, her body.
Huge tits. Tiny waist. And that arse—fuck, it was more than a handful, the kind of shape that could ruin a man's self-control with a single glance. And the dress—holy fuck, the dress. It was thin, sheer enough that he could see the teasing hint of curves beneath the fabric, the soft swell of her breasts, the way the material clung to her hips.
Fucking hell.
He nearly got an erection on the spot.
Draco Malfoy—former Death Eater, disgraced heir, Ministry's reluctant pawn—was suddenly reduced to a man struggling not to gape like a teenage boy discovering his first wet dream.
But he was a Malfoy. He had some pride left.
Schooling his features into carefully composed indifference, he inclined his head slightly, forcing himself to speak as though he wasn't seconds away from completely losing his dignity.
"Lovegood," he said smoothly. "It's a pleasure to see you."
And if his voice was a little rougher than usual, if his throat felt a little drier, well—Luna didn't need to know that.
As he stood there, watching Luna Lovegood smile at him with that ever-present look of quiet amusement, Draco felt profoundly unprepared for this interaction. It wasn't often that he was caught off guard—he prided himself on his ability to anticipate, to measure, to calculate. But standing in the middle of this impossibly cozy tea shop, surrounded by the scent of something that smelled like warmth and comfort and her , he found himself at a loss.
"It's good to see you after all these years," Luna said, her voice carrying the same ethereal quality it always had, like she was speaking from some faraway place, but her eyes were sharp and present.
Draco hesitated, mouth suddenly dry. "I… You too." He exhaled slowly, trying to regain his footing, and let his gaze sweep over her again, as if the sight of her might anchor him somehow. "You've changed."
Luna tilted her head, a wry smirk touching her lips. "You mean I'm not a weird girl anymore?"
Draco's back went stiff, and he immediately shook his head. "No! I didn't say that." His words came out more defensive than he intended, and her expression remained unreadable. Merlin, she had this way of making him feel unbalanced, like she was waiting for him to say something revealing without even trying. He cleared his throat, forcing his shoulders to relax. "You just look so… grown. And yourself."
A slow blink. Then, amusement. "Still arrogant, I see."
Draco swallowed, pressing his lips into a thin line. That one stung more than it should have. It wasn't like he didn't deserve it—he knew the reputation he had earned in school, the way people had seen him, the way he had let himself be a caricature of privilege and cruelty because it had been easier than fighting against it. But now, hearing it from her , it made something in his chest twist.
"I do hope not," he admitted quietly, glancing away for a fraction of a second before forcing himself to meet her gaze again. "I'm trying. I'm really trying."
Luna didn't respond right away. Instead, she just looked at him, studying him in a way that made him feel more exposed than he had in years. But there was no malice in her expression, no judgment—just quiet consideration, as if she were weighing his words, measuring the sincerity in them.
Then, with the ease of someone who had already made up her mind, she simply asked, "How can I help you?"
Draco let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. He glanced around the shop, grateful for the momentary reprieve from the weight of her gaze. The place was warm —not just in temperature, but in feeling. The walls were lined with wooden shelves filled with glass jars of tea leaves and herbs, each labeled in looping, delicate script. Candles flickered lazily, their flames glowing golden, and there were dried flowers hanging upside down along the beams of the ceiling. The entire space was infused with a quiet kind of magic, the sort that was felt rather than seen.
"Can I have some tea?" he asked, his voice steadier now. "It smells amazing in here."
Luna smiled, and the sight of it sent an unexpected pulse of warmth through him. "Thank you," she said, already moving behind the counter, her hands deftly working as she reached for a tin of tea leaves. "I bought this place a few months ago, so I'm trying my best to make it cute."
You are cute, he thought before his brain could catch up to his treacherous instincts.
Shit.
What was happening to him?
There was no reason—absolutely no reason—he should be standing here, internally panicking over Luna Lovegood of all people. But something about the way she looked today, the way she moved, the way she seemed so utterly at ease in her own skin—it was messing with his head.
Desperate to redirect the conversation (and his own thoughts), he glanced around the shop again, searching for something, anything, to focus on. His gaze landed on a delicate set of teacups arranged near the counter, each one painted with tiny golden constellations. The entire shop felt like stepping into a different world, a world that belonged entirely to Luna.
He cleared his throat. "It looks like a fairy's home," he murmured, running his fingers absently along the edge of the counter. "So I'd say it is cute."
Luna's eyes flickered up, her smile deepening, as if she knew exactly what kind of effect she was having on him.
"Good," she said, pouring hot water over the leaves. "I always liked fairies."
Draco inhaled slowly, forcing himself to ignore the way his pulse had picked up speed. This was fine . This was just casual conversation . He was absolutely not standing in the middle of a tea shop fighting the urge to drag Luna Lovegood over the counter and devour her whole.
He was absolutely not in trouble.
Not at all.