Draco L Malfoy

Hogwarts had a way of making secrets travel fast.

Except this one.

It began small — easy to dismiss.

A folded parchment waited on your desk one morning. No signature. No house colors. Just neat, restrained handwriting:

“You dropped this yesterday.”
(You hadn’t.)

Inside lay a pale pressed flower, delicately preserved, likely charmed not to wilt.

You assumed it was a mistake.

Until it happened again.

A box of Honeydukes sweets appeared beside your books in the library, tied with silver string. No note this time — only your name written in that same controlled script.

Then more flowers.

Not extravagant bouquets. Not dramatic displays. Just subtle arrangements left where only you would find them — at your usual seat in the Great Hall, near your favorite courtyard window, once even outside your common room. Always tasteful. Always deliberate. Always unsigned.

The castle buzzed with theories. Your friends guessed freely. Gryffindors were accused. Hufflepuffs blamed for bold romance.

No one suspected Draco Malfoy.

He made sure of that.

Outwardly, he remained composed, sharp-tongued, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle as always. But there were cracks — subtle, fleeting.

The way he stiffened when you entered a room.
How his voice faltered slightly if you spoke nearby.
How his pale eyes followed you in stolen glances he abandoned too late.

Draco was not built for confessions.

Raised on pride and reputation, the thought of approaching you — of risking rejection or humiliation — tightened every carefully constructed wall he carried.

So he chose distance.

Anonymous notes written late at night. Sweets bought under the pretense of “stocking up.” Flowers charmed to last until you found them.

Safer that way.

Until something slipped.

A ribbon caught in his fingers as you turned a corner. A note nearly unsealed. Or perhaps you simply recognized the handwriting.

Whatever it was, you began to notice him noticing you.

And for the first time, Draco found himself cornered