A Gentleman Would Leave—Draco Malfoy is Not a Gentleman

The next day, when Draco arrived at Moonbrew, something felt wrong immediately. It wasn't a gradual realization, wasn't something that crept up on him—it hit him like a curse, sharp and unforgiving, striking straight to the center of his chest before he had even fully stepped onto the cobblestone street. The usual hum of the alleyway seemed duller, the familiar scent of cinnamon and honey absent, the very air around the shop feeling colder, emptier, wrong. But worst of all—the door was closed.

Luna's shop was never closed at this hour.

His frown deepened, something dark curling low in his stomach, something unwelcome and dangerous, something that felt too much like panic. He had memorized her schedule by heart, not because he had intended to, not because he had made a conscious effort to track her movements, but because it had become instinctive, automatic, a part of his day as much as breathing. He didn't even question it anymore—the way his feet carried him here without thought, the way his mornings didn't truly start until he saw her, the way he waited, almost fucking needed, for her to say something that would utterly undo him before he had even finished his first sip of tea.

And yet today, there was nothing.

The shop was dark. Silent. Locked.

Draco's jaw clenched, his heartbeat hammering in his ears as unease twisted like a knife in his gut. This wasn't right. This wasn't how the day was supposed to go. She was supposed to be here. Waiting. Teasing. Testing him like she always did, like she had to, because if she wasn't, then that meant—what? That she had gotten bored? That she had moved on? That she had let him fall into this maddening fucking obsession while she simply walked away, unaffected, unbothered, untouched?

No. No.

His knuckles rapped against the wood, firm, demanding, impatient, the sound echoing too loudly in the stillness of the alleyway. He waited, inhaling sharply, expecting the door to swing open, expecting her to be there, expecting her to give him some sort of answer, any answer, to whatever the hell this was. But nothing happened.

His impatience snapped.

His knocks became bangs, open palm slapping against the wood, the force of it rattling the glass in the windows. His pulse spiked, breath coming in short, sharp bursts, muscles coiling with frustration, with unease, with the unbearable need to see her, to know where she was, to hear her voice saying something that would keep him from spiraling any further into whatever fucking mess she had dragged him into.

"Luna Lovegood, if you're in there playing another one of your fucking games—"

Then, just as his anger was reaching its boiling point, just as he was about to shove the door open with sheer force, something fluttered to the ground at his feet. A small piece of parchment, folded, delicate, like it had been waiting for him.

Draco's reaction was immediate, instinctive, desperate. He didn't hesitate, didn't second-guess, didn't waste a single second before snatching it up, his fingers gripping the note so tightly that the parchment nearly crumpled in his palm. His breath was uneven, sharp as he unfolded it, as his eyes scanned the inked words in her familiar, delicate handwriting.

Miss me, darling? Come and find me.

He went completely still.

For a long moment, there was nothing—no thought, no sound, no breath, just a single, visceral pulse of heat that shot straight through his body so violently that it nearly fucking ruined him. His fingers tightened around the parchment, his vision narrowing, his entire being going silent, locking onto those simple, infuriatingly casual words with the force of something dangerously unhinged.

She was doing this on purpose.

She knew what this would do to him.

She knew what she had reduced him to.

She knew she had him wrapped so tightly around her little finger that even a goddamn note was enough to send him spiraling, enough to make his blood rush south, enough to have him standing outside her locked shop, gripping a fucking scrap of parchment like it was a lifeline while his body betrayed him in ways that were humiliating, pathetic, so far beyond repair that it wasn't even worth pretending he had any control left.

Draco Malfoy did not lose control. He did not chase. He did not want.

And yet here he was.

His breathing was uneven, his body still coiled too tight, too needy, his mind still struggling to process the fact that he was standing on the fucking doorstep of her tea shop about to come in his fucking pants over a fucking note.

Fucking hell.

He squeezed his eyes shut, his free hand coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose, willing himself to regain some semblance of composure, to calm the fuck down, to think. But there was no thinking. Not anymore.

There was only her.

Her lips, her mouth, the feel of her breath ghosting over his skin, the way she had kissed him—barely, just enough—before pulling away, before walking out on him like she hadn't just completely wrecked him, like she hadn't left him starving for more, like she hadn't left him teetering on the goddamn edge with no way back down.

And now she wanted him to find her?

She wanted him to chase?

Merlin help him, he would. He absolutely fucking would.

Because if she thought for even a second that he wouldn't burn the entire world down to get to her, to have her, to take whatever the hell it was she was offering, then she had vastly underestimated just how far gone he already was.

Draco Malfoy was in too deep.

He had been in too deep the moment she had said see you tomorrow.

And now?

Now, she had just given him permission to hunt.

***

Draco needed answers, and he needed them yesterday. There was only one person he still trusted, the only person who could provide those answers without asking too many annoying, prying questions or making him admit to anything out loud. That person, unfortunately, was Blaise.

Without hesitation, without an ounce of patience, and certainly without sending any kind of warning like a normal, sane person, he barreled through his fireplace, stepping into Blaise's grand townhouse in a dramatic swirl of green flames. He barely even paused to brush the soot from his coat before storming into the room like an absolute menace, fully prepared to demand what he needed, consequences be damned.

And then—he stopped.

Because what the actual fuck was he walking into?

Blaise was not alone.

For some unfathomable, incomprehensible, utterly inconvenient reason, he was sitting across from not one, but two women, sipping what looked suspiciously like wine, and engaged in what could only be described as an actual civilized conversation.

And not just any women.

Ginevra Weasley and Granger— no, Hermione —because apparently, the universe hated him, and his one and only moment of desperation had to be witnessed by the literal war heroine dream team.

Draco blinked. Once. Twice. His brain tried—really fucking tried—to process what he was looking at.

The scene was baffling. Blaise looked comfortable, relaxed, with one arm slung lazily over the back of his chair, swirling a glass of red wine like he was at a goddamn soirée, while Hermione and Weaslette sat across from him, both looking suspiciously like they actually enjoyed being here. There was no tension, no yelling, no hexes flying through the air, just a calm, normal evening between friends, and Draco had no fucking clue how he was supposed to handle that.

Blaise barely even looked up at him, as if Draco suddenly materializing in his house uninvited was nothing more than an amusing inconvenience to his evening.

"Malfoy," Blaise greeted smoothly, his lips curling into a smirk, because of course the absolute bastard was enjoying this. "It's always a pleasure when you visit without any warning whatsoever."

Draco, still very much trying to get his brain to function, waved him off, because frankly, he didn't have the time to deal with this unexpected gathering of the world's most judgmental women.

"Yeah, yeah," he muttered, before flashing a charming, absolutely shit-eating grin at the two witches. "Hello, gorgeous ladies. Pleasure seeing you both."

Ginny narrowed her eyes immediately, leaning back in her chair, her arms crossing over her chest in a way that screamed Weasley Judgment. "Ferret."

Hermione, predictably more composed, merely sighed, tilting her head as she regarded him like an overgrown problem she had long since run out of patience for. "Draco."

He ignored them. He had bigger things to deal with.

"I need to steal Blaise for a moment."

That was all he said before grabbing his best mate by the collar and physically yanking him from his chair, dragging him halfway across the mansion with zero regard for whether Blaise had been mid-sentence, mid-thought, or mid-business transaction.

"What the fuck is your problem?" Blaise hissed, jerking his sleeve out of Draco's grip, adjusting his jacket with an air of pure offense. "I was in the middle of a negotiation."

Draco snorted, rubbing a hand down his face, already losing patience with this entire fucking ordeal. "You having a threesome is none of my business."

Blaise opened his mouth, probably to murder him where he stood, but Draco steamrolled past him before he could get a single word out.

"I need Lovegood's address. Now."

That shut Blaise up.

He went still for a fraction of a second, his sharp, dark eyes narrowing slightly, scanning Draco's face like he was reading him—which was infuriating because fuck off, Blaise, mind your own business.

Then, as expected, his expression shifted into something smug, something knowing, something deeply insufferable. "Your offer?" he asked smoothly.

Draco was already unclasping his watch.

"My Patek Philippe Grandmaster watch."

Blaise's gaze flickered down to the ridiculously expensive timepiece in Draco's palm, considering it for all of three seconds before nodding. "Fine. Glen Etive."

Draco went completely still.

Then, very, very slowly, he repeated, "She's my fucking neighbor?"

Blaise's smirk was infuriating.

"Whatever," Draco muttered, teeth clenched as he threw the watch at Blaise with zero ceremony. Blaise, naturally, caught it effortlessly, turning it over in his hands with an air of smug satisfaction.

Still seething, still too fucking desperate to be wasting time here, Draco turned back toward the witches—who were, unfortunately, still watching this entire ordeal with great interest.

Another charming, insincere grin. "Goodbye, gorgeous ladies. Good luck. Prepare yourselves."

He took a step toward the fireplace, rolling his shoulders, stretching his neck, preparing to disapparate before he accidentally fucking combusted, and then—because Draco Malfoy had never once possessed an ounce of self-control in his entire life—he threw in one last, entirely unnecessary comment.

"He has a huge cock."

The last thing he heard before the familiar pull of apparition swallowed him whole was the unmistakable sound of Ginny and Hermione giggling.

And fuck, Draco Malfoy was already too far gone.

****

Draco needed a moment to breathe, to steady himself, to process what the fuck he was about to do. He could have gone straight to her, could have apparated directly to Glen Etive the second Blaise had uttered those words, could have stormed into whatever little sanctuary she had built for herself and demanded an end to this unbearable, maddening, torturous game she had been playing. But something in him, something instinctual and sharp, something that recognized the inevitability of what was about to happen, told him to wait. To pause. To think. Because this wasn't like the other times. This wasn't just another frustrating afternoon in her tea shop, wasn't another moment of biting back a groan when she looked at him in that way that made his blood simmer, wasn't another agonizing round of her teasing him to the edge of his sanity before pulling away like it was nothing. This time, there would be no retreat. This time, he wouldn't—couldn't—let her slip away.

So, he went home first. Because despite how completely unhinged she made him feel, despite the fact that he was running on nothing but sheer desperation, he still lived in Scotland, still had a fucking house to return to, still had a shred of self-preservation left in him. He still needed to shower like a normal fucking person before he did something irreversible. The second he stepped into his manor, he all but tore off his shirt, tossing it to the floor without care, already ripping at his belt, his body moving with sharp, clipped efficiency as he stalked toward his bathroom, his skin prickling with the weight of something too heavy to name.

He turned the water as hot as it would go, stepping under the scalding spray, letting it burn against his skin, letting the heat sting his shoulders, his chest, his back, letting it hurt just enough to pull him back to himself. His hands pressed against the cool marble of the shower wall, his head bowing forward, eyes shutting tight, water cascading down his spine, washing away nothing and everything at once. His body was still coiled too tightly, still vibrating with something raw and reckless, something that had been simmering beneath the surface for weeks, but he stayed there, breathing through it, inhaling steam and heat and the undeniable truth that he was fucked.

He didn't know how long he stood there, didn't know how much time passed, how many deep, controlled breaths he forced into his lungs, but by the time he turned off the water and stepped out, he knew. This was happening. There was no stopping it. There was no undoing the way she had unraveled him, no pretending that this thing between them wasn't real.

He moved quickly, drying off without thought, pulling open his wardrobe and grabbing the first thing his hands touched. His movements were sharp, methodical, automatic, because if he let himself think about it, about what exactly he was getting ready for, about what exactly he was about to do, he would lose it.

He had no fucking plan. No strategy. No carefully calculated move to win her over, no idea what he was even walking into. There was just the singular, overwhelming, inescapable need to see her, to find her, to finish whatever the fuck she had started with that note.

That was all. That was everything. And with that, he grabbed his coat, stepped out of his house, crossed the village without a second of hesitation, and headed straight for Glen Etive.

The moment Draco arrived at Glen Etive, he exhaled slowly, his breath curling in the crisp, highland air as he took in the untamed beauty sprawling before him. The valley stretched endlessly, emerald-green hills rolling beneath a vast, cloudless sky, the silver ribbon of the river glinting in the morning light like something out of a dream. It was the kind of place that shouldn't exist in the real world, the kind of place untouched by time, by war, by the corruption of human hands. And yet, beneath all its breathtaking serenity, something felt wrong.

His magic thrummed beneath his skin, a restless energy crackling at his fingertips as he forced himself to remain composed. He was here now. He had found her. There was no need to rush. No need to storm in like a madman. He just had to breathe.

Finding her had been insultingly easy. A few well-placed spells, a simple tracking charm, and there it was—her home, hidden away like a secret whispered between the trees. It was exactly what he expected, the kind of place that belonged to someone like Luna Lovegood, someone who had never quite fit into the structured, rigid world he came from.

The cottage looked as if it had grown from the very land itself, as if the earth had decided she belonged here and wrapped itself around her in protection. The walls were made of warm, weathered stone, the thatched roof covered in soft moss, blending into the landscape like it had always been there. Wildflowers grew in reckless bursts around the perimeter, patches of lavender and foxglove spilling over the small garden gate, and of course—because this was Luna fucking Lovegood—the place was crawling with animals.

Draco barely had time to take it all in before one of her miniature Highland cattle trotted directly into his path, its thick, shaggy coat bouncing with each step, its enormous, glassy brown eyes blinking up at him with a look that could only be described as judgmental.

He stopped.

It stopped.

They stared at each other.

Five full seconds passed in complete silence.

Then, because what else was he supposed to do, Draco aggressively petted the cow. Hard. With purpose.

Because fuck this cow for being so adorable. Fuck this ridiculous animal for standing there, looking like the cutest fucking thing he had ever seen in his life. Fuck it for making his heart do a thing it absolutely should not be doing right now.

Only Merlin knew why, but his hands sank into the ridiculously soft fur with a level of focus that rivaled his most complicated spellwork, rubbing deep into the thick fluff like he was trying to assert dominance over the situation, like this was something he was choosing to do rather than something completely unhinged.

The absurdity of it nearly threw him off-course. Nearly.

But he was a Malfoy. He did not get distracted by livestock.

Straightening with a sharp exhale, he forced himself to refocus, rolling his shoulders back, adjusting his coat, collecting himself like he hadn't just had a moment with a literal baby cow. He turned his attention back to the cottage, took one last breath, and, fueled by nothing but sheer determination and the absolute certainty that she was going to be the death of him, he strode to the door and knocked.

And then he waited.

And waited.

Each agonizing second stretched unbearably long, his patience fraying at the edges, his jaw clenching as anticipation coiled tighter and tighter inside his chest, his body vibrating with a tension so fierce that it bordered on violent.

Then, finally—finally—he heard movement from the other side.

The door creaked open—just slightly at first, just enough for the soft glow of candlelight to spill out, for the scent of herbs and magic and something so distinctly Luna to curl around him, pulling him in, making him fucking drunk before he even saw her face.

And then—there she was.

Her hair was wild, slightly messy, as if she had been running her fingers through it without realizing, her lips parted in silent surprise, her expression unreadable as she took in the sight of him standing there, on her doorstep, like he had been summoned here by forces neither of them understood.

"Dra—"

She never got to finish.

Because the moment she opened her mouth, the moment his name left her lips, the moment their eyes met—he was on her.

His hands fisted in the fabric of her dress, gripping, pulling, taking—closing the space between them so quickly, so aggressively, that she barely had time to react before his mouth was on hers.

It wasn't soft. It wasn't gentle. It wasn't anything close to the delicate, teasing kisses she had given him before.

No, this was a collision, a claim, an answer to everything she had done to him. Every touch, every glance, every whispered challenge—he was done playing.

Her breath hitched, her fingers curled into his shirt, her body melted against his, fit against him like she had always been meant to be there, like the universe had been waiting for this, for them, for this exact moment.

The second his lips left hers, the moment he pulled back just enough to look at her, to see her, to take in the absolute wreck she had made of him, his grip tightened like a fucking vice. One hand remained fisted in the fabric of her dress, bunching it at her waist, keeping her right where he wanted her, while the other curled around her jaw, fingers firm, unrelenting, tilting her face up—forcing her to meet his gaze, forcing her to acknowledge the fucking disaster she had just created.

Her lips were kiss-swollen, parted, her breath uneven, her body still trembling, still pliant, still his.

And then, something changed.

The second their eyes met, something shifted, something cold and sudden and wrong. He saw it the moment she straightened, the moment she blinked, the moment she reconstructed the walls around herself in real-time.

And then, she spoke.

"I'm not alone."

The words felt like a gunshot.

Draco froze.

His entire body locked up so violently that it felt like something had just slammed into his chest. His grip tightened before he could stop himself, his breath stilled, his heart stopped.

"Please go."

His lungs burned. His fingers twitched. His vision blurred at the edges, his world fucking tilted.

"Who are you with, huh?" His voice was low, sharp, deadly quiet.

She didn't answer.

And that was it. That was the final fucking straw.

His patience snapped so violently that he barely registered his own movements before his hand was already wrapped around her throat—not tight, not hurting, just holding, reminding, forcing her to acknowledge what she had just done to him.

"Who fucks your tight little hole tonight, Lovegood?"

She slapped him so hard his ears rang.

Magic erupted from her like a thunderclap, exploding against him, launching him back, out of the house, onto the ground, the door slamming behind him with such finality that he felt it in his bones.

Then—silence.

A muffling charm.

She had muted the house.

Because there was someone inside.

And Draco? Draco saw fucking red.

His hands clenched into fists, his magic crackled, his jaw locked—and then, without thinking, without fucking hesitating, he turned—spotted the miniature cow standing near the porch—grabbed the damn thing—and fucking Apparated home.

With the fucking cow.

Because fuck her. Because fuck whoever was in that house. Because if he stayed, he was going to do something he couldn't take back.