Of course, she had read it. Of course she had. It wasn't as if he had expected her to ignore it entirely, but he had hoped that perhaps she wouldn't bring it up with such maddening ease, as if dissecting his greatest moments of self-loathing was nothing more than casual conversation over tea.
He wasn't even sure why he had written it in the first place. It had started as an apology, or at least, that had been his original intention. But somewhere between the first paragraph and the twenty-eighth page, it had spiraled into something else entirely—half confession, half rambling diatribe, detailing every reason he had come to hate the person he used to be. He had written about the war, about the choices he had made, the ones that weren't choices at all. He had written about his father, about his mother, about the weight of expectations and the slow, agonizing process of unlearning everything he had been taught to believe.
And yet, not once had he managed to say the actual words I'm sorry .
He swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry, as Luna continued, her expression unreadable.
"It was fascinating, really," she said, tapping her fingers idly against the rim of her teacup. "You have quite the way with words when you're not trying to insult people, you know. Very detailed. Very self-aware. But I couldn't help but notice that for someone who clearly had a great deal to say, you somehow avoided the most important part."
Draco exhaled sharply through his nose, rubbing his temple as if that might somehow ease the throbbing headache forming behind his eyes.
"Yes, well," he muttered, "I was going to apologize, but somewhere around page fourteen, it felt a bit redundant."
Luna laughed—actually laughed —and it wasn't mocking or cruel, but something soft, something warm, something that made his chest ache in a way he didn't know how to name.
"That's an interesting way of looking at it," she mused, sipping her tea, watching him over the rim of her cup with the kind of patience that made him feel both seen and completely undone all at once. "But I think you'll find that sometimes, the simplest words are the ones that mean the most."
Draco stared at her, his jaw tightening as he felt the weight of her words settle between them. There was something about the way Luna spoke, the way she peeled back layers of conversation with an ease that made him feel uncomfortably exposed, as if she had been silently studying him for years and had only now decided to start sharing her observations. His mind was at war with itself, thoughts clashing violently as he tried to predict where this was going. He had spent a lifetime mastering the art of control, of knowing what to expect from a conversation, of maneuvering his way through discussions like a carefully played chess match. But Luna Lovegood was not a predictable opponent.
And for the first time in his life, he found himself wishing he had written just one more page.
She watched him, her expression unreadable, fingers tracing lazy patterns against the rim of her teacup. And then, without preamble, she said something that sent his already unsettled mind into a complete nosedive.
"Hermione is my best friend."
Draco blinked.
What?
Granger? Where is this fucking conversation going?
His mind immediately flung itself into disarray, scrambling to keep up. He had not expected this. Not her. He wasn't even sure why the mention of her name sent a strange jolt of unease through his spine, but it did, and suddenly, the comfortable warmth of the tea shop felt stifling.
Oh, Goody Two-Shoes Granger. The Golden Girl, the insufferable, know-it-all, rule-abiding nightmare of his Hogwarts years. The bane of his existence. The one girl who had made his blood boil so thoroughly that she had inadvertently become his teenage symbol of… shower wank material.
Draco exhaled sharply through his nose, willing himself not to let his thoughts spiral any further. That was years ago, a relic of a time when hatred and frustration had been tangled up with something far more confusing, something he had never allowed himself to examine too closely. He was different now. Granger was different now. It didn't matter.
Still, he couldn't stop himself from responding, his voice carefully measured. "I didn't know that."
Luna smiled, something small and knowing. "Most people don't. We weren't close in school, not really. We only became friends after the war."
Draco said nothing, but he could feel his pulse quickening, that familiar coil of unease tightening in his chest.
Luna leaned forward slightly, the candlelight casting soft shadows across her face. "You actually apologized to her."
Draco stiffened, his fingers clenching involuntarily against his thigh.
"She was so happy," Luna continued, her voice quieter now, as if she was remembering the moment in real-time. "She told me she never thought she'd hear those words from you. And when you did, it was like something inside her finally settled. She was at peace."
He swallowed.
Guilt was a funny thing. It came in waves, unpredictable and relentless. He had thought—hoped—that he had done enough, that the weight of his past had been lifted, even if only slightly, by the things he had tried to set right. But hearing this now, from Luna of all people, made something sharp twist in his chest. He hadn't done it for recognition. He hadn't done it to be seen as a better person. He had done it because it was the only thing he could do. Because he had owed her that much, owed her more than words could ever truly express.
But then—
"She was the reason I went to your trial," Luna said softly.
Draco's head snapped up, his breath catching.
She met his gaze without hesitation, her voice steady. "She was the reason I stood in front of the Wizengamot and voted for your innocence."
For a moment, everything inside him stilled.
He had known people had spoken on his behalf. He had known that there were those who had argued that he was just a boy, that his crimes had been a product of circumstance, that he had been a victim as much as anyone else. But he had never known who. Never asked. Never wanted to. He had convinced himself it didn't matter, that the outcome was the only thing of importance.
But it did matter. Because now, sitting across from Luna, drinking tea in a shop that smelled like peace and second chances, he realized that he had been given something he had never fully acknowledged—mercy.
And Hermione Granger, the girl he had once sworn to hate, had been the reason he had not been condemned.
He didn't know what to say. Didn't know how to say anything at all.
Luna tilted her head slightly, her expression unreadable, as if she could hear the silence inside him, as if she understood that the words he wanted to say were tangled somewhere deep in his chest, knotted tight with guilt and regret. She did not press him. Did not rush him. Instead, she simply took another slow sip of her smoothie, watching him with that quiet, knowing patience that made him feel both seen and utterly exposed. She was waiting. Waiting for him to say something, waiting for him to acknowledge the weight of the moment, waiting for him to face it .
Draco swallowed, his throat feeling unbearably dry despite the untouched tea in front of him. He exhaled through his nose, forcing himself to look at her, to meet her gaze, even though it felt like standing on the edge of something vast and unknowable.
"I remember Granger..." he started, but the name felt foreign on his tongue now, out of place in this conversation, too impersonal, too distant from what it should be.
Luna blinked, unbothered, but corrected him gently. "Hermione."
He hesitated, then nodded, as if saying her first name made it real. "I remember Hermione standing on the stand… and changing my life."
His voice was quiet, barely more than a murmur, but the words carried the weight of years behind them. It was the first time he had ever said it out loud, the first time he had truly acknowledged it beyond his own tormented thoughts. The image was still burned into his memory—Hermione, standing before the Wizengamot, speaking on his behalf when she had every reason to let him rot. He had been shackled then, marked by his past, with the eyes of the world upon him, waiting for his final condemnation. He had expected nothing but scorn. He had deserved nothing but scorn.
But she had spoken.
She had stood there, voice steady, gaze unwavering, telling the world that Draco Malfoy was not the monster they wanted him to be. That he had been a b oy , caught in a storm far beyond his control. That his choices, though dark, had not been made with malice but with desperation.
And somehow, impossibly, she had saved him.
"She really wanted to," Luna said, her voice carrying something softer, something that made his stomach twist.
Draco clenched his jaw, his fingers tightening around the ceramic of his untouched teacup. "I know she did. That's what makes it worse." He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair before he finally muttered, "Thank you for your help, as well. That mercy was... unexpected." He scoffed at himself, shaking his head. " She —Hermione—she was always kind, that much I knew. But you —" He finally looked up at Luna, brow furrowing slightly, "I didn't expect you to speak for me."
Luna merely shrugged, as if it was the simplest thing in the world. "You didn't have to expect it for it to happen."
His mouth pressed into a thin line, his thoughts still tangled. "What I did," he said slowly, voice strained, "was soulless. I would not have blamed either of you if you had chosen to do nothing."
"You were just a scared child," Luna said, but there was no absolution in her voice, no pity. It was not a dismissal, not an excuse—just a fact.
Draco let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. "No. I was a coward," he corrected, the words cutting through him like glass. "That's all I was. A coward who let fear rule every decision I made." His throat felt tight, but he forced himself to keep going. "At least I had the courage to let you out. That much, at least, I can say I did."
Luna's gaze darkened, her usual dreamy air vanishing in an instant. Her fingers tightened around her glass as she stared at him, something cold and heavy settling between them.
"I'm not going to say tha nk you for that," she said, her voice quiet but firm.
Draco's chest ached. He had expected nothing less. "I would never expect you to," he admitted, the weight of it pressing down on him. His voice was steadier now, but no less raw. "I would never ask you to forgive me. I would never forgive myself for my actions that day."
Luna exhaled through her nose, setting her smoothie down gently on the table, as if she were handling something fragile. For a long moment, she said nothing, simply watching him, her gaze lingering as if she was searching for something beneath his carefully controlled expression.
"You keep carrying it," she murmured finally. "Like it's the only thing that defines you."
Draco let out a slow breath, fingers curling into his palm beneath the table. "Maybe it is."
Luna shook her head, her lips pressing into something that was not quite a frown, but something close to sadness.
"It's not," she said simply, her voice as soft as the fading light filtering through the windows. "But I don't think you'll believe that until you decide to let yourself."
Draco looked away, his jaw tight, his throat constricting around words he couldn't form. Because what could he even say? That she was wrong? That he didn't carry his past like a weight chained to his ribs, dragging behind him no matter how much distance he tried to put between himself and the boy he used to be? That he hadn't spent years replaying his mistakes, wishing he had done something, anything , differently? No, he couldn't say that. Because Luna, with her maddening insight, her ability to see through every layer of armor he had built, was right .
And he had no idea what to do with that.
A quiet tick from the wall pulled him from his spiraling thoughts. Luna glanced at the clock, her expression calm as always, though the evening light made the soft gold of her hair glow, casting an almost otherworldly shimmer across her skin. Draco forced himself to breathe.
"It's almost six," she murmured, stretching slightly before rising from her seat. "I'm getting ready to close the shop, okay?"
Draco blinked. That was his cue to leave. Right. He had been here far longer than he intended—far longer than was appropriate for a casual visit. Merlin, he didn't even visit people, let alone sit in their establishments like some… lingering stray. He had come in for tea. He had stayed for something else entirely, and now, after everything—after sharing a straw, after the quiet confessions, after learning she had spoken for him at his trial —he felt unmoored in a way he hadn't expected.
"Oh… of course," he said, standing abruptly, his fingers grazing the edge of the table as if grounding himself. "I—I'm sorry for taking up so much of your time."
Luna turned toward him, her expression unbothered as she grabbed a cloth from behind the counter. "You can make yourself useful," she said, completely ignoring his attempt at a polite exit.
Draco frowned slightly, caught off guard. "Sorry?"
She tossed him the cloth.
"Wipe the tables for me?"
His fingers caught the fabric instinctively, but his brain stalled.
What the actual fuck ?
Malfoys did not do housework. Malfoys did not wipe tables. Malfoys hired people to do things like this while they stood at a dignified distance, preferably with a glass of expensive wine in hand.
And yet.
Here he was, standing in the middle of a quaint, candle-lit tea shop, holding a cleaning cloth like some underpaid Hogwarts elf, staring at a woman who had just asked him to help.
And worse—far, far worse—was the fact that he didn't even consider saying no.
"Of course," he found himself saying, and who the fuck was he anymore?
Because before he even had time to properly process what was happening, his body was already moving. His traitorous, pathetic, entirely whipped body.
He glanced down at the cloth in his hand, completely baffled at himself as he moved toward the nearest table, as if this was a normal, everyday occurrence. It wasn't. This was not normal. Draco Malfoy was not normal. This entire evening had not been normal.
But Luna was already going about her own closing tasks, humming softly as she rearranged a few jars on the shelves, wiping down the counter with a practiced ease that told him she had done this a thousand times before.
And Lord Jesus, he needed to call Astoria. Immediately. Because he was going to die.
The shame of it. The sheer insanity of it. Draco Malfoy—once heir to one of the most powerful wizarding families in Britain, reduced to wiping tables like some common worker, because a woman who looked like she had been sculpted by the gods themselves had asked him to do it.
He could already hear the voice in his head—the ghost of his father's disapproval, the drawling Malfoys do not lower themselves to menial tasks, the reminder that he had staff for things like this.
But somehow, none of that mattered.
Because Luna had asked him to help.
And he had wanted to.
Fuck.
He moved methodically, wiping one table, then another, pretending that this was totally fine, that he was not having a quiet existential crisis in the middle of a tea shop. The fabric was damp in his hands, the wood beneath it smooth, and yet the act itself felt foreign, like stepping into a life that wasn't his own. He had never done this. Had never even thought about doing it.
Luna glanced over her shoulder at him, and he nearly dropped dead on the spot when she smiled.
It wasn't mocking. It wasn't condescending. It was just a smile—simple, warm, like he was an ordinary person doing an ordinary thing.
And for some bizarre, incomprehensible reason, it felt… good.
Merlin, he was doomed.
He had been in real danger before—he had stood in front of the Dark Lord, had been given orders with consequences that had nearly torn his soul apart, had walked through the halls of Hogwarts knowing his life could end at any moment.
And yet, somehow, this was worse.
He finished wiping down the last table, exhaling as if he had just run a goddamn marathon. He straightened, rolling his shoulders, and turned back to Luna, who had finished putting away the last of the jars.
"There," he muttered, tossing the cloth onto the counter. "Happy?"
Luna beamed at him.
"Very."
Draco's brain short-circuited.
Nope. No. Nope, we are not doing this today.
He quickly reached for his coat, clearing his throat. "Right. Well. I should—um—go. Since you're closing and all."
Luna nodded, not looking the least bit perturbed. "You should."
But she made no move to usher him out.
And that was how Draco Malfoy found himself standing there, inexplicably frozen, waiting for her to say something else, to give him some reason to stay.
She didn't.
Instead of saying anything, instead of offering him an easy way out or forcing the moment to a conclusion, she just kept looking at him. Steady. Unwavering. Patient in a way that made something twist deep in his chest. She wasn't expectant, wasn't pushing him toward anything—she was simply waiting. As if she already knew what he wanted to do, as if she had always known, and was only giving him the space to figure it out for himself.
Which was a problem .
Because Draco Malfoy didn't know what he wanted to do next.
His mind was at war with itself, battling between instincts that made no sense. He should leave. That was the logical next step. He had already overstayed, already blurred lines that had once been so clearly defined. But something about the way she was looking at him, something about the ease in which she stood there, soft and unmoving, made leaving feel impossible.
The warmth of the shop was pressing in on him, the scent of tea and magic wrapping around him like a spell, and Luna—Luna—was right there, so close, so calm, so utterly unaffected by the storm raging inside him.
His body moved before his mind could catch up.
He stepped closer. Slow, hesitant, but deliberate.
Luna didn't move away. She didn't flinch, didn't stiffen, didn't question. She simply watched him, eyes wide, expectant in the gentlest way, her breath slow and steady, as if she had already predicted this moment and accepted it before it had even happened.
Draco leaned in, pulse hammering, his breath catching in his throat as his fingers hovered near his sides, as if unsure of whether to reach for her or keep himself grounded. But then—he just did it.
He pressed a kiss to her cheek.
It was soft. Quick. Over in a second.
But fuck, it was everything.
He had barely processed the warmth of her skin against his lips, barely had a moment to tell himself that it was nothing, that it was a simple, innocent gesture, before she moved. Before she shifted just slightly, tilting her head ever so subtly toward him, and—
She kissed him back.
His breath hitched.
It wasn't a real kiss—not on the lips, not yet, but when she leaned in and pressed her own soft lips against his cheek, mirroring his action, something inside him completely, utterly unraveled.
His brain blanked. His body betrayed him entirely.
Because holy fucking shit, he was going to come in his pants.
Merlin, have mercy, what the fuck is happening to me?
His stomach clenched violently, his hands twitching at his sides as every muscle in his body locked up, as if physically restraining himself from doing something monumentally stupid. This was not normal. He had kissed before. He had been with women before. He had done far, far worse things than a simple kiss on the cheek, so why did this feel like the single most devastating thing that had ever happened to him?
She pulled back, her expression unreadable for a brief moment, before something small and amused flickered in her eyes. Like she knew. Like she absolutely knew what she had just done to him.
Luna fucking Lovegood.
He was going to die .
And then, as if she hadn't just dismantled his entire sense of self with the softest, most innocent thing in the world, she tilted her head and smiled lightly.
"See you tomorrow?"
Draco could only stare at her, his pulse pounding, his thoughts a tangled mess of what the fuck just happened, before he forced his lips to move, barely managing to sound remotely composed.
"See you tomorrow."
And then, before he actually did something unforgivable—like grab her face and kiss her properly—he turned, stepped outside, and disappeared into the night.