Would you ever consider Draco/Luna as a viable pairing
this is obviously a college au because i’m already weak for uptight straitlacedsenator’s son draco malfoy falling for the weird girl who wears tie-dye croptops to class and leaves out neatly folded paper sacks of water chestnuts forthe local squirrel population and petitions the dean of student affairs toallow her to design her own major.
and maybe draco’s an RA that year because it’s never tooearly to lay a good foundation for your political resume.
and maybe when he calls his first floor meeting duringorientation week, his gaze lingers, somewhat inappropriately, on one of the newfreshmen, a slender girl with waist-length dirty blonde hair and dreamy blueeyes and a medium-sized grandfather clock tattooed on the inside of her rightforearm.
“luna lovegood,” she introduces herself, tilting her head tothe side and peering up at the rotating blades of the shitty industrial ceilingfan. her voice is curious, a gently melodic warble, when she asks, “is it truethat there’s a ghost haunting the dining hall?”
draco barely remembers shaking his head, sneering at her,crossing his arms over his chest and rocking back on his heels and feelingstrangely uncomfortable as the too-stiff collar of his ralph lauren polobrushes the underside of his jaw.
he confiscates an easy bake oven and an eighth of weed fromher the day after the fall semester officially starts, and he exits theelevator the following weekend to see her leading an impromptu yoga session in the middle of the hallway, directlyoutside his dorm. she makes her own lemon greek yogurt in the tiny kitchenetteacross from the fire escape, and she writes nonsensical notes to herself incherry-red lipstick on the foggy coed bathroom mirrors, and she drapes glitteringstrands of sunflower-shaped christmas lights over all the furniture in thefloor lounge.
draco quits writing her up.
he just grits his teeth, scowls, and diligently ignores howpervasive the sticky-sweet smell of burning incense is during midterms.
it isn’t until she tapes homegrown sprigs of lavender to thestupid fucking whiteboard on his door, scribbling “sleep better, xx” in curlicue green letters and babyproofing the electricaloutlets next to his keurig—well, it isn’t until then that he finds himself pounding on her door at fuck-o’clock inthe morning, nerves frayed and temper flaring and—
“why are you awake?” she asks him, sounding disapproving, jesus, and he’s abruptlyso fucking furious that it takes hima moment to register her appearance.
to open his mouth. lick his lips. blink, and then blinkagain, and then…stare.
because she’d just showered, obviously. he must’ve missedit. missed her. and she’s studying him from the far side of her room, hairknotted in a bun on top of her head, stray tendrils cascading down the curve ofher upper back, slow-burning drops of water winding between her shoulderblades, her collarbones, hovering on the terry-cloth ridge of her towel and therounded, satin-soft slopes of her breasts.
and when he doesn’t immediately answer—surely she’d askedhim a question—she walks forward, expression uncharacteristically hesitant, andshe doesn’t stop until she’s right in front of him, standing far too close, foreheadlevel with the point of his chin. she has a single blood-brown freckle in oneof her eyes. she isn’t symmetrical. he doesn’t care.
he inhales, exhales, reels at the feather-light scent ofsoap and sun and fresh gardenias, and then she’s lifting her arm, holding herhand up, pressing the pads of her fingers to the seemingly permanent furrowbetween his brows. smoothing the lines out.
“relax,” she breathes, and then smiles, like it’s really that easy.