Draco Malfoy x you, birthday wish.
Synopsis:( A story where both of you are engaged since kids). one night before his seventeen birthday you give him an special present *wink*.
Note: It's me again I hope you like this new chapter.
The days were warm, yellow with orange. Scraped knees, endless laughter, baby blue mornings. Birds singing lullabies at midday, strawberry and lemon shaved ice while sitting on a bench with an umbrella. Little hands dirty from playing in mud, hair pulling, crying, and sneaking candy as an apology at night.
That's how he grew up by your side, your best friend, your partner in childish crimes, like stealing cherry-filled chocolates and eating them secretly from an abandoned table in the back room, your companion, sometimes your enemy, other times your hero. If there was anything you were sure of, if there was a clear and transparent certainty, more so than your own existence, it was the fact that you and he were soulmates, born of the same star, perhaps. Your favorite person, with the same destiny in the end; a door that led to a room decorated with your favorite flowers, violin music filling everything around you, a white dress, petals falling on you both. Yes, I acept.
His happiness was your happiness, his laughter your joy, his sadness your sadness, his tears your pain. Like a ship rocking with the waves, he is the ocean, you are a boat, a fish. He is the sun, you a planet drawn to him, obeying his laws of gravity.
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You push open the heavy oak door to your room, the one thatâs been yours for as long as you can remember. Itâs directly across from Draco´s of course. Narcissa had insisted years ago, when you were both children running through these halls, that you should have a proper room. Your room. As if she knew youâd never really leave.
The space is warm, familiar. Your books stacked neatly on the shelf beside the window. Your trunk already waiting at the foot of the four-poster bed. A few dresses hang in the open wardrobe, and your potions kit sits on the vanity where you left it last summer.
You unpack, folding, hanging, and placing a few parchments and books in your desk.
The manor is quiet. The clock ticks somewhere in the house.
You sit in front your desk to start studying a little more before Draco arrive, youâre halfway a particularly tedious theory on gampâs law when your door swings open, no knock, no warning.
Draco leans against the door frame, arms crossed, his expression caught somewhere between irritation and disbelief.
âStudying?! He says flatly. âYouâre studying. On the night before my birthday.â
He steps inside, letting the door click shut behind him.
âWe had exams after the holidays, Draco. And I donât you know how to---â
But heâs already past you, fingers trailing over the items on your vanity, your perfumes, your lipstick, picking up a hair ribbon and letting it slip through his fingers. By the time you turn fully, heâs crossed to your bed and launched himself onto it with a grace that seems almost unfair for someone acting like a child.
He lands sprawled across your soft duvet, blonde hair mussed, grey eyes gleaming up at the ceiling. One arm folds behind his head. His long legs hand off the edge, feet still on the floor. He looks ridiculously out of place, to tall, too sharp, too Malfoy for the white bedding with frills and the fluffy pillows.
He turns his head, catching you staring. A slow, sly smile spreads across his lips. âWhat? Never seen me in a bed before?â
He pats the space beside him, and invitation, wrapped in arrogance.
âCome here, Iâm bored. You can study later.â
As if your exam notes matter less than his whim. As if they always have.
âYou have your own bed, Draco.â
He keeps tapping the duvet beside him. Tap. Tap. Tap. Each one deliberate, patient, Insufferable. His grey eyes donât leave yours, that lazy smile still curving his lips.
You sigh. The sound of a battle youâve lost a hundred times before.
He shifts just enough to make room, and you climb onto the bed beside him, settling into a familiar dip of the mattress. The canopy hangs about you both, velvet and dark. For a moment, neither of you speaks. The fire pops in the grate and the clock tick, outside is quite almost dusk.
You are painfully aware of him beside you, the warmth radiating from his arm. The slow rhythm of his breathing. Heâs too big now, for this bed that used to be too big for two children. His shoulder presses against yours, a solid, real weight.
He turns his head, blonde hair brushing the pillow. âRemember when we used to do this? Read under the covers until my mother caught us?â His voice is softer now. Stripped of the usual sharpness.
âI remember you used to steal all the blankets.â You canât help the smile thugs at your lips as you turn your head to face him. âBut you werenât this ridiculously tall.â
âItâs not my fault you didnât grow more, shorty.â He says.
You shove his shoulder, but he barely moves. He just grins, that infuriating, handsome grin, and shifts closer, shoulder pressing warm against yours, the scent of him filling the space between you.
His fingers find yours on the duvet, casual, like he doesnât notice. But you feel the deliberate brush of his thumb against your knuckle, once, twice, before he stills.
He stares at the canopy above, but he stays. Warm. Intentional.
âDonât overthink it.â He murmurs, voice a low rasp in the dim room. âJust⌠stay. For a bit.â
You shift onto your side, the duvet rustling beneath you. The movement is slow, deliberate, and when you settle, your eyes find his profile in the firelight.
The sharp line of his jaw. The slight hollow of his cheeks. The ways his pales lashes rest against his skin when he blinks. Heâs not the boy you used to wrestle with in these sheets, the one whoâd pull your hair and laugh until Narcissa threatened to separate you both.
Your eyes trace the broad line of his shoulders, the way his chest rises and fall beneath his shirt. The room feels smaller suddenly. Warmer. The space between you crackles with something unnamed.
He must feel your gaze, because he turns his head, meeting your eyes. Something flickers in those grey eyes, awareness, maybe. Heâs close enough that you can see the ring grey around his pupils.
âwhat.â He asks, voice quieter than before. Not demanding. Almost⌠uncertain.
You realize youâve been staring. That your face is inches from his, that his hand is still loosely tangled with yours.
He doesnât pull away. Neither do you.
Then he moves. A fraction of an inch, barely perceptible. Except you feel it in the shift of the mattress, in the warmth that blooms between you as the distance shrinks. His breath ghosts across your cheek, soft and even. The scent of him, expensive cologne, cedar, something clean and male, fills your senses until you cants breath pass it.
His eyes trace your face like heâs memorizing it. The curve of your brow, the sweep of your lashes, the bow of your lips. Slow. Deliberate. The silence between you is thick, charged, full of things neither of you will say.
His hand, still tangled with yours. His thumb drags across your palm a slow, deliberate stroke that sends heat racing up your arm.
The whole world narrows to the space between his lips and yours, breath mixing in the dark.
The name leaves your lips soft and trembling. Your eyes drop to his mouth, the pale curve of his lips, slightly parted. He doesnât move, doesnât breathe, it seems.
Just watches you with those grey eyes, gone dark in the firelight, his chest rising and falling in slow, measured breaths.
Heâs a gentleman. A Malfoy, he knows the rules.
You close the distance before you can talk yourself out of it, your lips meet his, clumsy, eager, bold. Itâs not perfect. Your nose bumps his, and youâre not entirely sure where to put your free hand, and your heart is slamming so hard youâre certain he can feel it.
But his lips are soft. Warm. And when he makes a small, surprised sound against your mouth, his hand tightens around yours.
Instead, his free hand comes up, fingers brushing your jaw, tilting your face into the kiss. He takes over slow, deliberate, the way he does everything and the kiss deepens, turns from clumsy to something that steals the air from your lungs.
When he finally breaks away, itâs only inches. His forehead rests against yours, breath uneven, grey eyes searching yours in the dim light.
Your name in his lips rough. Barely a whisper. âWhat--? â He stops. Swallows. His thumb traces your cheek like heâs reassuring himself youâre real.
You answer him not with words, but with your lips. This time youâre bolder. Your hand slides into his hair, fingers threading through the soft blonde strands, tugging gently as you press your mouth to his with a confidence that surprises even you. Thereâs a heat behind it now, curiosity turned hunger, the dam breaking.
But Draco⌠Draco kisses you softer, slower. Like heâs savoring every second, like heâs afraid youâll vanish if he rushes. His lips move against yours with patience thatâs almost cruel, drawing the moment out until youâre breathless and aching for more.
Then his composure cracks.
A low sound escapes his throat, something between a groan and a sigh and his arm hooks around your waist, pulling you flush against him. The movement is sudden, desperate, his fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt like he needs to anchor himself to you.
Your knee brushes against him, and you feel it the hard press of his arousal through his trousers. He gasps against your mouth, breaking the kiss for just a second.
He says your name in a wrecked voice, his hand slides up your spine, fingers tangling in your hair, holding you close but not quite looking at you. âYou have no idea what you do to me, how long Iâve been waiting. â
His lips finds yours again, hungrier this time, less restrained, like heâs given up pretending. And you answer him with action, pulling him back into the kiss before the space between you can cool.
This time thereâs no hesitation, no shyness, just heat and want, your lips moving against his with hunger that surprises both. Your hips roll against his side, instinctive and eager, and a broken sound escapes his throat, swallowed by your mouth.
His hands slide down your back, gripping the curve of your waist, pulling you tighter against him until thereâs no space left between bodies. His mouth leaves yours, trailing fire down your jaw, your throat, settling in the hollow, where your pulse pounds frantic against his lips. He presses a kiss there. Then another. Then his teeth graze your skin, gentle, teasing, and you arch into him, fingers twisting in his hair.
 The world narrows to the heat of his mouth, the weight of his hands, and the sound of his uneven breathing against your neck.
Your name as a whisper. A prayer. Lost against your collarbone.
âDraco?â Narcissaâs voice floats up from somewhere on the first floor, distant, but clear, cutting through the haze like cold water, the house carries it through the corridors, upstairs, seeping under the door.
âDraco are you upstairs? I need to speak to you about tomorrowâs arrangements.â
Draco freezes against you.
For a long, charged moment, neither of you moves. His breath is warm in your skin, his hands still firm on your waist, his forehead pressed to your shoulder. You feel him exhale slow, controlled, as if pulling himself back from the edge.
He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. His lips are swollen, his hair disheveled, his grey eyes dark and hazy. He looks absolutely wrecked, and heâs staring at you like youâre the most beautiful thing heâs ever seen.
He opens his mouth. Closes it. Swallows.
Then he presses a quick, almost apologetic kiss to your forehead, and rises from the bed, straightening his shirt with practiced ease.
âComing mother!â His voice is steady remarkably so, for someone who was just devouring your neck.
 He looks back at you from the doorway, firelight catching the sharps lines of his face. A faint, crooked smile touches his lips.
âDonât go anywhere.â A quiet intimate promise.
Then he slips out, closing the door softly behind him, leaving you alone I the dim room with the echo of his lips on your skin, his scent lingering in your bed and the crackling fire.
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