On the Edge of Disaster

The next day, he arrived, obviously, because there was never a question of whether or not he would. He could have pretended that he had some semblance of control over himself, that he could stay away if he wanted to, but the truth was, he had already lost. The war had been waged and won, and Luna Lovegood hadn't even lifted her wand.

Draco gripped the edge of the table as soon as he sat down, his fingers curling around the smooth wood like a lifeline, like if he let go, he might float away into whatever strange, otherworldly pull she had on him. His body was working against him, his pulse unsteady, his breathing uneven, his magic unsettled beneath his skin in a way that made him feel both restless and completely paralyzed at the same time. And she was to blame for every single second of it.

The soft clink of porcelain and glass filled the air as she moved toward him, her footsteps light, unhurried, slow in a way that made his stomach tighten with something unfamiliar, something that bordered on anticipation and terror all at once. He knew she wasn't doing it on purpose, knew she probably wasn't even aware of the way she completely shattered his ability to function, and yet, that knowledge did nothing to help the situation, did nothing to ease the heat curling low in his stomach, did nothing to stop the way his chest ached as if he were standing at the edge of something irreversible.

She was holding another drink, another fucking smoothie, of all things, and that was the moment Draco realized he was well and truly doomed. Because for some inexplicable, infuriating reason, it was attractive. Why the fuck was it attractive? It wasn't remotely erotic, wasn't a sultry look across a crowded room, wasn't lips painted red and biting at the rim of a wine glass, wasn't anything remotely meant to seduce him. It was fruit blended with milk, something utterly ordinary, and yet, the sight of her fingers curled around the glass, the casual elegance in the way she moved, the sheer, maddening effortlessness of her existence— it made something hot simmer beneath his skin, slow and unbearable, something that made him grit his teeth and want to set something on fire.

And then, because apparently, she had decided that his suffering was not yet sufficient, she sat down.

Not across from him, not at a reasonable, polite distance, but beside him.

Next to him. Again.

So fucking close that he could feel the warmth of her body even through the frustrating, empty space between them, so close that if he shifted even slightly, their knees would touch, so close that every muscle in his body locked up in warning.

Oh, Lord Jesus, he was about to burst.

She placed the drinks down on the table with that same ease, that same grace, her fingers lingering just slightly on the rim of the teacup before she turned toward him with an expression that made his heart lurch violently in his chest. Her lips curled just at the edges, the subtlest flicker of amusement lighting her eyes, as if she could see directly into his soul, as if she knew exactly what he was thinking, as if she was thoroughly, devastatingly amused by what she found there.

"I brought you tea," she said, her voice so light, so easy, like she wasn't currently in the middle of tearing his sanity apart strand by strand, like she wasn't standing there looking like some ethereal creature sent to torment him. "And a different smoothie."

She reached into the pocket of her apron, pulled out two straws, and placed them on the table between them with all the gravity of a chess move, like it was something ceremonial, something deliberate, something calculated for a reaction.

"And two straws. Apparently, you don't like to share."

Draco forced himself to smirk, forced himself to act like his entire nervous system wasn't currently ablaze, forced himself to lean back as if he had an ounce of control over this conversation.

"That is quite correct," he drawled, grasping for the only thing he had left—his arrogance, his bravado, the pieces of himself that had carried him through war and worse. "I'm an only child and, worse, a dragon—so yes, I do not share what is mine."

The words were smooth, confident, deliberately careless, and the second they left his mouth, he realized exactly what he had just admitted.

Fuck.

He knew it. She knew it.

She blinked once, long and slow, like she was processing something she already knew the answer to, like she was giving him a moment to sit in his own downfall before delivering the final blow.

And then—Merlin save him—she tilted her head.

The shift was barely perceptible, just a slight angle of her chin, just a flicker of thought in her expression, just enough to tell him that he had fallen into a trap she hadn't even needed to set.

"It is my shop, my tea, my smoothie and my straws," she mused, tapping one slender, delicate finger against the side of the cup, her voice so calm, so perfectly even, like she hadn't just upended his entire world in one sentence. "So I share them with whoever I want to."

He had no time to process what that meant, no time to fight against the way his stomach clenched at the deliberate way she said it, no time to steel himself for what was coming next, because suddenly, she leaned in.

Too close.

So close.

Close enough that he could see the flecks of silver and blue swirling in her irises.

Close enough that he could smell the soft trace of lavender and vanilla on her skin.

Close enough that his entire body locked up in protest, in anticipation, in sheer, helpless surrender.

And that was it.

That was the moment Draco Malfoy stopped functioning as a human being.

"I like seeing you blush," she murmured, her voice soft, devastatingly pleased, a quiet observation that wrapped around his throat and squeezed, leaving him teetering on the edge of something he did not know how to control. The words were spoken so easily, so effortlessly, like they didn't hold the power to completely obliterate him, like they weren't the single most ruinous thing he had ever heard in his entire life.

It was a single phrase, a simple comment, but it knocked the breath from his lungs, sent his pulse into a wild, erratic staccato, made his entire body go tense and hot and unbearably alert. He was no longer in control, no longer the man who had spent years perfecting the art of detachment, no longer the aloof, untouchable bastard who could stand in the face of war and feel nothing. 

He was wrecked. Completely, irrevocably wrecked.

And then, as if his complete and total demise wasn't enough, she tilted her head slightly, lips curling at the edges in a way that should have been sweet but felt entirely like a threat, and said the four words that would haunt him for the rest of his miserable life.

"So open your mouth."

Something inside him snapped so violently he swore he felt it physically.

There was no hesitation.

No moment of resistance.

No second where he even considered not doing what she told him.

His lips parted instantly, like the command had bypassed his mind entirely and embedded itself into his bones, like his body recognized her authority before his brain even had the chance to process it.

And the moment he did, the moment he let himself obey without thinking, Luna pushed the straw toward him, watching with that same slow, lazy curiosity, like she was studying a particularly fascinating creature under glass, like she was taking note of every single way in which she had just destroyed him.

And then, fuck.

The smoothie hit his tongue, sweet and cold and entirely too good, a mix of fruit and cream and something thick and utterly sinful, and his body betrayed him in ways he could never, ever recover from.

This was just a drink.

It was just a stupid drink.

And yet, here he was, sucking on the straw again like his life fucking depended on it, his throat working around the cold liquid, his jaw tense, his spine rigid, his entire body locked up like she had ordered him to his knees instead of offering him something as innocuous as a smoothie.

It was humiliating.

It was mortifying.

It was the single worst and best moment of his entire existence.

He needed to stop immediately.

He had to pull away before he said something truly unforgivable, before he did something absolutely unholy, before he actually, physically combusted in the middle of this fucking tea shop and left nothing behind but a pile of expensive robes and regret.

But just as he tried to escape, just as he started to reclaim the remnants of his shattered dignity, just as his body finally caught up to his absolute downfall—

The bell above the door chimed.

Someone walked in.

And the spell shattered.

Draco jerked back so violently he nearly knocked over the entire fucking table, his grip white-knuckled on the edge of the wood, his lungs pulling in air like he had been drowning for the last five minutes and only just realized it. 

His entire nervous system was fried beyond repair, his body still vibrating with the echoes of what had just happened, and when he turned to look at the door, his eyes were wide and wild, like he had been caught mid-orgasm rather than mid-smoothie.

This was not happening.

This was not real.

This was the single most humiliating moment of his entire goddamn life.

And the worst part?

Luna looked completely unfazed.

She merely turned toward the new customer as if nothing had happened, as if she hadn't just dismantled him piece by piece, as if she hadn't just casually ruined every future sexual experience he would ever have with nothing more than a fucking straw.

She was untouched.

She was unbothered.

And Draco Malfoy was never going to recover.

Draco jerked back so violently that his chair nearly tipped over, his grip on the edge of the table so tight his knuckles turned white, his entire body locked in place by the sheer force of his own mortification. He had reacted to her words far too fast, obeyed her command without hesitation, without thinking, without questioning, without even the barest attempt at resistance, and the realization was crawling up his spine like fire, searing, unbearable, impossible to ignore. He didn't want to turn his head, didn't want to acknowledge the presence of another person in the shop, didn't want to look at the door and see who had just entered, because he knew—he knew—that he would look exactly like a man who had just been caught in the middle of something much filthier than drinking a smoothie. 

But his instincts betrayed him, forcing his gaze toward the entrance, forcing him to process the new presence in the room, forcing him to come to terms with the undeniable fact that he had just been utterly wrecked, reduced to nothing more than a mess of frayed nerves and shattered dignity, and Luna Lovegood had been the one to do it.

She moved forward, her body language light and easy, radiating the kind of warmth that should have soothed him but only left him burning, seething, unraveling beneath the weight of everything she refused to acknowledge. His entire body was still coiled tight with restraint, every muscle locked, every breath uneven, the ghost of her voice still curling around his brain like an incantation he could never break. And then, just when he thought he might be able to collect himself, to push through the storm raging inside him, she spoke, and it was so much worse than he could have ever imagined.

"Oh, Rolfie darling, look at you! You look amazing!"

Draco's stomach dropped, the words hitting him with all the force of a hex, his entire body going rigid, his blood running cold, his hands tightening into fists against his thighs as his entire world shifted around him. Slowly, painfully slowly, he turned his head, gaze settling on the man who had just walked in, the man she had greeted with far too much familiarity, far too much ease, far too much warmth. And then he heard it—the voice that would seal this man's fate, the voice that would turn something dark and territorial inside him into something lethal, something primal, something irreversibly possessive.

"Oh, baby girl, you look absolutely gorgeous."

The world tilted, everything sharpening, darkening, rage blooming inside him so fast, so violently, that his vision blurred at the edges. 

Baby girl. 

BABY GIRL?

The words reverberated inside his skull, each syllable slicing through him like a blade, carving out whatever patience, whatever self-control, whatever restraint he might have had left. His body responded before his mind even had the chance to catch up, heat flooding his veins, his pulse roaring, his magic crackling beneath his skin like a barely contained storm, because who the fuck did this man think he was? No one—not a single fucking person in existence—had the right to call her that. That name did not belong to him. That name was not his to use, not his to claim, not his to even breathe in her direction. His going to kill him.

And then, the soon-to-be-corpse made his final mistake.

Rolf reached for her, hands sliding around her waist, pulling her into his arms, lifting her like she was something delicate, something precious, something that belonged to him. 

And Draco saw red. He was going to kill this man. He was going to commit murder in broad daylight, and he wasn't even going to feel bad about it, because in that single moment— that brief, rage-soaked second of perfect, agonizing clarity— Draco saw everything he needed to see.

He saw the way the bastard's hands lingered, the way one of them slid lower than necessary, the way his palm skimmed over her arse as if he had any right.

HIS. LUNA'S. ARSE.

Something inside him shattered beyond recognition, the rational part of him evaporating into thin air, burned away by a heat so possessive, so territorial, so violently unrelenting that he was suddenly on his feet without even realizing he had moved. The chair scraped against the floor with an earsplitting screech, his entire body coiled tight, so tight, too tight, hands curling into fists so severe his nails bit into his palms, because he had never been this close to completely, utterly losing it before.

She was his.

She was fucking his.

She wasn't this pathetic, worthless, insignificant excuse for a man's to touch, to hold, to spin around like she belonged to him, because she didn't. She belonged to Draco. She always had. 

She just didn't know it yet.

If this fucking nobody thought for even a second that he could just walk into Luna's shop, call her something as sickeningly intimate as baby girl, put his filthy hands on her, spin her around, touch her, and get away with it, he was about to learn a very, very hard lesson.

Because Luna Lovegood was not his.

She was not something to be claimed.

She was not something to be worshipped and then forgotten.

She was his.

And if the entire world needed to know it, then so be it.

The decision was made before he could talk himself down, before he could remind himself that this was reckless, that this was dangerous, that this was insanity. His body moved before logic could catch up, his hands finding her waist, his fingers curling around her like they were meant to be there, like they were the only hands that had any business touching her. He pulled her in, flush against him, against his chest, against the heat of his body, against everything that screamed of possession and hunger and dominance, everything that had been building inside him since the moment she whispered see you tomorrow like it was nothing.

There was no hesitation, no warning, no moment of doubt. Draco's head dipped lower, his lips brushing the corner of her mouth, lingering, pressing, claiming, ensuring that there would be no confusion, no misunderstanding, no question of what this was, of what it meant. 

He didn't just kiss her. He branded her. He let the moment sink in, let her feel the weight of it, let her know that this was only the beginning, that there would be no escape, that next time, he would take and take and take until she was shaking beneath him, whispering his name like she was praying to a god that only answered to him.

His lips barely left hers when he spoke, his voice low, controlled, dripping with possession so absolute he knew she would hear it echo in her bones for days.

"Goodbye, love. See you tomorrow."

And before she could respond, before she could process what had just happened, before she could stop him, he turned, stepping outside with the scent of her still on his skin, with the ghost of her still on his lips, with the sound of his own pulse roaring in his ears as he Disapparated into the night, the crack of his departure loud enough to rival the thunder in his veins.

***

Draco barely registered the familiar surroundings of his manor as he stepped inside, his mind too clouded, too fractured by rage, by possession, by the unbearable weight of what had just happened. The moment the door clicked shut behind him, the emotions he had been holding back—barely contained, barely restrained, barely fucking manageable— surged forward, crashing over him like a wave so violent, so devastating, that he barely realized his own body was already moving, already reaching, already gripping onto something breakable, something fragile, something he could destroy.

His fingers curled around the smooth surface of a porcelain vase, a relic of his childhood, an artifact from a life that no longer belonged to him, from a home that had become nothing more than a museum of his former self. For years, it had sat there, untouched, undisturbed, a silent witness to everything that had changed, to everything that had been lost, to everything that had been buried beneath the weight of who he used to be. But none of that mattered now. None of it mattered anymore.

Because that man had touched her.

Because that pathetic, insignificant excuse for a wizard had dared to put his hands on her, had dared to spin her around, had dared to hold her like she belonged to him.

Because Luna had let him.

The second that thought struck him, the fragile thread holding him together snapped. His grip tightened, and before he could stop himself—not that he wanted to, not that he would, not that he could—he launched the vase across the room with all the force in his body. The delicate porcelain shattered against the stone wall in a thunderous explosion, fragments flying in every direction, scattering across the floor like remnants of whatever thin, pitiful control he had left. The sharp, splintering sound barely registered over the roar in his head, over the way his breathing came too fast, over the way his magic surged beneath his skin, hot and wild and dangerous, threatening to tear through him like a storm.

But it wasn't enough.

The destruction wasn't fucking enough.

His chest rose and fell with shallow, ragged breaths, his muscles coiled tight with rage, his pulse hammering so violently it was a wonder he didn't crack apart from the inside out. He needed more. More destruction. More devastation. More proof that the fire burning inside him wasn't just some fleeting thing, wasn't just some passing moment of anger that would dissipate with time. He needed to break something else, needed to tear apart anything within reach, needed to do something, anything, to make the unbearable heat in his blood subside.

His hand was already moving, already reaching, already wrapping around the neck of an antique crystal decanter, the weight of it familiar, the memories attached to it distant, inconsequential. A family heirloom. A priceless artifact. A symbol of old money and old traditions, of a legacy he had once been expected to uphold. But all Draco saw now was something to destroy.

And so he did.

With a sharp, reckless swing, he smashed the heavy decanter against the marble edge of the grand fireplace, the impact explosive, violent, absolute. Shards of crystal and a flood of amber liquid rained down, cascading over the polished floor, soaking into the cracks between the stones, the scent of century-old firewhisky thick in the air, mingling with the acrid sting of his fury. The remnants of glass scattered like broken promises, like ruined expectations, like every piece of himself that he had spent years trying to glue back together.

Still, it wasn't enough.

His hands moved with frantic purpose, his mind fogged by the red haze of pure, unfiltered rage, his heart beating too fast, too erratic, too much. The set of perfectly arranged glasses that had once sat beside the decanter stood like an insult, like a mockery of order in a world that had long since fallen into chaos. With one swift, careless motion, he knocked them over, sent them tumbling, sent them crashing onto the cold, hard floor, watching as they shattered into a thousand useless fragments, sharp and gleaming in the dim light.

And yet, despite the wreckage around him, despite the ruin of glass and whisky and broken porcelain, despite the way his magic pulsed wild and dangerous through his veins, none of it quenched the fire inside him. None of it silenced the image burned into his mind, the unbearable sight of another man holding her, touching her, calling her baby girl like he had the right. None of it drowned out the memory of the way Luna had smiled, the way she had let it happen, the way she had looked at Rolf with familiarity, with comfort, with warmth.

He didn't know how long he stood there, staring at the mess he had made, at the wreckage of his own making, at the pieces of himself scattered across the room. His breathing was still uneven, erratic, his hands still shaking, his skin still burning with something violent, something raw, something he didn't know how to name.

The anger didn't fade.

The fury didn't cool.

The destruction hadn't helped.

Because the problem wasn't something he could break.

The problem was that he wanted her.

The problem was that he wanted her more than he had ever wanted anything in his entire fucking life.

The problem was that he was never going to stop wanting her.

And that realization?

That was far more dangerous than any amount of shattered glass.

The house-elves materialized in a flurry of panic, their tiny forms trembling as they darted around the room, their high-pitched voices rising in frantic distress, their wide eyes flicking between the shattered remains of what had once been an immaculate parlor and the towering, seething force of Draco Malfoy standing in the middle of it all, radiating pure, unfiltered rage. They wrung their small hands, pleaded with him, begged him to stop, their voices shrill with worry, but he didn't hear them.

The roaring inside his head was too loud, too all-consuming, too relentless, drowning out everything that wasn't the blinding fury in his chest, wasn't the violent need to destroy, to break, to release the unbearable tension coiled beneath his skin. It wasn't their fault, wasn't anything they had done, and yet he couldn't stop himself, couldn't stop the need to tear everything apart with his bare hands, because it was the only thing that made sense, the only thing that kept him from Apparating straight back to that cursed tea shop and ending that pathetic excuse of a man where he stood.

How dare he.

"Rolfie."

His vision blurred with rage, the name itself a fucking insult, an affront, a festering wound that would not stop bleeding.

Who the fuck was Rolfie?

What kind of pathetic, emasculated imbecile allowed themselves to be called something so utterly ridiculous, so fucking weak? It wasn't even a name—it was an embarrassment, a joke that should never have been spoken aloud, a disgraceful, pathetic excuse of an identity that no man with a shred of dignity would ever tolerate.

And yet—she had said it.

She had said it with a smile.

She had let it roll off her tongue so effortlessly, so easily, so warmly, like it belonged there, like it had any place near her lips, like it had any fucking right to exist in the same space as her.

That alone was enough to unravel him, to send his already fragile restraint crumbling into dust, to push him over the edge into a darkness that was sharp and consuming and absolute.

Draco's fingers twitched, his hands curling into tight, unrelenting fists, every muscle in his body wound so tight he could barely breathe. His magic pulsed beneath his skin, a writhing, violent storm of energy that had nowhere to go, nowhere to release, nowhere to be directed except at the very walls of his own self-control, pounding against them, cracking them, shattering them. He was losing the battle, slipping further and further into something primal, something raw, something territorial and vicious and wholly, dangerously possessive.

Because she was his.

Luna belonged to him.

She had always belonged to him—she just didn't know it yet.

The idea—the sheer, unbearable thought—of anyone else touching her, holding her, calling her some fucking insipid, revolting pet name, was enough to make something sharp and lethal coil inside his gut, enough to make his vision darken at the edges, enough to make his nails bite into his own palms, desperate for something— anything—to ground him before he truly lost control.

His gaze swept over the wreckage of his own fury, the ruined remains of the parlor that had once been a reflection of his carefully curated life, of his desperate attempts at order and control. The once-pristine space had been reduced to ruin, crystal shards glistening like jagged stars against the floor, the scent of aged whisky thick in the air, furniture overturned, priceless objects reduced to nothing but splintered debris. And yet, even after all of it, after everything he had destroyed, the rage inside him hadn't eased. The tightness in his chest hadn't loosened. The fire in his blood hadn't burned out.

It was still there, raging, clawing, consuming, demanding.

And there was only one thing that would make it stop.

Luna.

It was her. It had always been her. And fuck, fuck, fuck—he was going to lose his mind completely if he didn't claim her soon.

His breath was ragged, his thoughts spiraling into something darker, rougher, filthier, something that could not be undone. This wasn't just about anger anymore, wasn't just about the insult of hearing another man's name in her voice, wasn't just about some worthless fool thinking he had a right to stand beside her, touch her, look at her like she was something he could fucking have.

This was about possession.

This was about a truth that had already been written in stone, whether she understood it or not.

His hands trembled, not with hesitation, not with doubt, but with the sheer force of restraint, with the raw, unfiltered need to do something, to fix this, to make it known, to make it final. His body ached with it, screamed with it, throbbed with it, his magic so unstable, so volatile, so furious that he could barely keep it contained beneath his skin.

Because this was it.

This was the moment he understood.

He had been patient long enough.

He had waited long enough.

He had suffered in silence long enough.

"Rolfie."

His jaw clenched, his teeth grinding together with so much force it sent sharp, splintering pain through his skull, the very sound of her voice saying that name curling around his brain like a noose, tightening, suffocating, unbearable.

This was the last fucking straw.

Draco turned sharply on his heel, his long strides carrying him toward the fireplace like a man with a singular purpose, like a man who had made his decision and was ready to set the world on fire for it. His grip on the mantle was fierce, unrelenting, his knuckles whitening as he inhaled sharply, as he tried—and failed—to steady himself, to breathe through the sheer, unbridled force of his own need.

He needed to calm down.

He needed to think.

He needed a plan.

Because one way or another, he was going to make sure that no one—not fucking Rolfie, not anyone—would ever get the chance to touch what belonged to him again.