Draco Malfoy was many things.
A Slytherin. A pureblood. A man who’d survived war, exile, and accidentally falling in love as a ferret.
But nothing—nothing—could have prepared him for you in a witch hat, glitter eyeliner, and a demand.
“Draco,” you said, leaning dramatically over the couch where he was reading Advanced Magical Theory, “please do couples costumes with me.”
He lowered his book slowly, like a man facing certain death. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t do… whatever this is.” He gestured vaguely at your jack-o’-lantern earrings and knee-high socks that read Spooktacular Witch.
You gasped. “This is Halloween, Malfoy. This is sacred.”
“I was raised in a manor where Halloween was just another excuse for my mother to redecorate the drawing room with floating candelabras and bitter wine.”
“I was raised in a two-bedroom flat where I had to fight off a seven-year-old dressed as Spider-Man for the last fun-sized Mars bar,” you said with a grin. “Let me have this.”
“No.”
“Please?”
“No.”
“…What if I told you I already bought our costumes?”
Draco blinked. Slowly. Dangerously. “You what?”
You bounced on your heels, too proud of yourself to feign innocence. “They’re hanging in the closet.”
He stood. “If it’s anything involving glitter, wings, or being shirtless in public, I’m moving back into the shoebox.”
**
Ten minutes later, Draco stood in your living room dressed as Mr. Darcy.
Full Regency coat. Cravat. Tailored trousers. The works.
He looked devastatingly good and deeply betrayed.
“You tricked me,” he said flatly, watching you adjust your empire-waist gown in the mirror. “You said we’d be ghosts.”
“We are!” you beamed. “Emotionally repressed Victorian ghosts in love.”
He muttered something about Muggle literature being a curse.
You floated up to him, all smiles and mischief. “Don’t you see? It’s perfect. I always imagined Ghost was secretly a brooding aristocrat with too many feelings and not enough ways to express them.”
“…You mean me.”
“Exactly.”
He gave you a long, tortured look. “I miss when I couldn’t talk.”
You laughed. “I don’t.”
**
At the party, people swooned over your costumes.
“You two look straight out of a movie!” someone gushed.
“God, you even argue like you're married,” someone else added.
Draco stiffened. You smirked.
“Only sometimes,” you said. “He pouts. I win.”
“I don’t pout,” Draco snapped.
You kissed his cheek. “You so do, Mr. Darcy.”
He rolled his eyes but didn’t move away.
And later, when the music faded and the jack-o’-lantern lights dimmed, you pulled him into the hallway and whispered, “Thanks for doing this.”
He looked at you—glowing, radiant, ridiculous in the best way—and softened.
“I’d wear worse things for you,” he said quietly. “You made a ferret of me. What’s a waistcoat compared to that?”
You laughed, heart catching somewhere between his words and the warmth in his eyes.
Then you pulled him close.
“Next year,” you whispered, “we’re going as a ferret and his witch.”
He groaned into your shoulder.
But he didn’t say no.
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