Draco Malfoy

(Y/N) knew it was wrong. Their meetings in the Forbidden Forest were quieter than a mouse's squeak, and their glances in the Great Hall shorter than a second. He was the heir to a pureblood line; she was someone his father would have called "unworthy of the dust beneath his cloak."

"You're shaking," Draco whispered, draping his school cloak over her shoulders in the cold dungeon of the Room of Requirement. His usually prickly fingers were now weightlessly stroking her wrist.

"I'm scared," (Y/N) answered honestly, not looking away from his ashen eyes, dimmed by exhaustion. "I'm scared that tomorrow, your aunt Bellatrix will be waiting for me at the threshold of Gryffindor."

Draco gave a crooked smirk, but there was none of the usual cruelty in it. There was only bitterness.

"Then we shouldn't be afraid of her. But of the fact that I might give you up before she even has a chance to draw her wand."

He didn't give her up. But as the sun rose over Hogwarts, they parted ways, erasing their tracks with spells. Their love grew not because of the circumstances, but in spite of them. Too dangerous to be true. Too real to be mere foolishness.

One night, under the stars, he kissed her as if there were a war tomorrow. And so there was.