Based on the word “Inevitable”
He’s gasping lungs and cracked open ribs as he clutches the acceptance letter in his pocket and glances up at the frost laced rooftops of Diagon Alley, realizes that there’s an entire world beyond the manor walls and he hadn’t even realized it.
He’s eleven and catching sight of her through shop window reflections like crystal balls. Dragging himself into Florish and Bots because there’s curiosity, no, interest, no, enchantment, maybe, ebbing like magic through the whorls of his fingertips. And she’s in his peripheral, schoolbooks clutched to her chest and smile soft, eyes wide and lashes fluttering. Luminescent in the light filtering through the window.
Draco watches as she rolls her sleeves up to her elbows and tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, strains on her tiptoes to reach a book on one of the higher shelves and –
“Here,” he says, grabs the book and slips it into her hands. Ignores the spark that catches between their fingertips and tugs, oh yes, he’s close enough to see the color of her eyes like rainbows reflected through a prism, the butterfly soft smile that traps itself against her mouth as she meets his eyes –
Says her name, “Y/N,” like wind chimes or a symphony.
And Draco thinks that it might as well be a spell.
He’s glances cast across a classroom, over his shoulder, when he hopes that nobody is looking. Fingers brushing and elbows knocking and, “Excuse me, I didn’t watch where I was going.” He did, and he’d be lying if he said that touching her felt anything less than a charm.
He’s twelve and he’s the pride swelling in his chest at his first Quidditch match when he can hear her somewhere below him, cheering his name. He tells her that she’s his good luck charm the next day, doesn’t quite catch the blush that suffuses her cheeks before he turns away.
But it’s the last day of term and she’s slipping by him in the train corridor and, “Have a good summer, Draco,” she says, hesitates, brushes her lips against his cheek.
He hadn’t quite believed in magic, until then.
He’s Blaise’s snickering and Pansy’s knowing looks and jealousy, hot and potent, bubbling like a potion he hadn’t managed to get right in his stomach as Cormac McLagen smirks and smiles and sidles up beside Y/N in the Great Hall during breakfast one day.
He’s thirteen and he’s fucking captivated as snowflakes dust Y/N’s lashes and the wind twirls the ends of her scarf, as she wipes butterbeer from her upper lip and giggles at something that one of her friends whispers into her ear.
“I’ll help you back,” he offers, seizes a chance, when her friends have run ahead of her on the path back to the castle.
And she smiles at him, tucks an arm through the crook of his elbow. Tells him about the trouble she’s been having in Transfiguration lately and if she can’t figure it out her parents will have her head for sure and –
“I can tutor you, if you’d like,” he says, wonders if Blaise had spiked his pumpkin juice with Felix Felicis that morning. Hopes that she can’t feel his heartbeat through the jut of his elbow.
“I’d love that,” she replies.
And he can’t quite believe his luck.
He’s library desks cluttered with books and ink blotches, Madam Pince’s furious hushing when he and Y/N forget to be quite. The way light streaks and shimmers around her, distorted as though they’re drowning in the Black Lake.
He’s fourteen and strangely, oddly hopeful as he clasps her fingers, marvels at the fit of her hand in his, shows her the correct hand motion and heart stops, starts, stutters when she doesn’t quite pull away.
“I aced my last test,” she tells him, runs towards him in the corridor, throws her arms around his neck till he can feel her heartbeat crash against his.
“I guess you don’t need a tutor anymore then,” he says. A frown is burgeoning on the cusp of his mouth.
“No, no,” she says hurriedly. “I still do.”
And he isn’t sure why he hasn’t transfigured this, them into something else yet.
He’s the firewhiskey on his lips and the castle floor on the palms of his hands as he reaches forward and spins the bottle yes, hopes, wonders, waits as it spins, spins, lands on her, oh yes.
He’s fifteen and he’s the lip-gloss on her lips, the way they crash head on like a train-wreck, a car crash and he doesn’t have an algorithm for this: him, her, the kiss.
Because her mouth fits neatly against his and she tastes like melted sugar, like cotton candy, all soft edges and fluttering pulse points. His eyes are closed and he can’t quite believe/ only he can, he’d rigged the game.
Afterwards, afterwards, afterwards:
He pulls her into a broom cupboard and threads his fingers through her hair, tastes butterbeer on her tongue and feels his tonsils glued together because this is a secret and he can’t quite find the right words to say.
But things are different, they’re different and he holds her hands as he walks her to class, kisses her across the tabletop in Honeydukes and grabs her, twirls her after Quidditch matches. He wraps his scarf around her neck and they pass notes in class, sit at the top of the astronomy tower at night and map out the handful of constellations that they know.
It’s this: him, her, and how he hadn’t anticipated that the winds would change.
He’s late night kisses and early morning platitudes, worried questions and, “Draco, I know something’s wrong.” The mark on his arm and the worry that’s coiled tight in his gut as he attempts to keep it covered up.
He’s sixteen and he’s breaking, the world too heavy on Atlas’ shoulders. Because he has a noose around his neck and he can’t do it, can’t, can’t, can’t.
They lose their virginity to each other the night before he’s meant to kill Dumbledore. And it’s like falling through a pensieve to a memory he didn’t know he had; soft lips and rolling hips and gasps, teeth, fingers fit neatly in the groove of her waist.
Here’s how it goes:
A girl, a boy, a tragedy. He’s Icarus and she’s the sun and it’s not her that kills him, oh no, it’s the ocean and melted wax dripping down his back.
He tells her ‘I love you’ before he tells him ‘I have to kill you’.
And there’s a green light and he’s Gatsby and he’s never managed to reach what he wanted, no, has only ever been a cautionary tale.
He’s sixteen and he’s a mistake, a heartbreak, the boy who made all the wrong choices.
He’s the shards of a broken chandelier stuck in his mouth, his hands, vocal chords torn to ribbons as lights flash green and screams echo through the hallowed corridors of the manor. The letters he’d sent her that don’t have a reply, the ragged stitches of a heart never meant to mend.
He’s seventeen and the room of requirement is burning around him, life flashing before his eyes, flames licking at his heels. It’s her, her, her. And Crabbe’s gone, the room is charred but it’s not over yet, is never over.
There’s blood on his hands and in his throat when he sees her again. When he grabs her, yells, watches as a Death Eater’s body crumbles to the floor.
Her palm is sweaty against his, breaths ragged and tears sooty.
There’s a war raging around them and he finds that he doesn’t quite care.
He’s the faded mark on his arm and the ring in his pocket and the happiness – cautious, unsure, new – that permeates the walls of his new home with her. Because the war is over and the world is still turning.
He’s eighteen and he’s a happy ending, maybe, a fairytale that didn’t quite end with them riding off into the sunset but ended like this instead: him and her and he thinks that that’s all he ever really needed.