Tea Leaves and Dragon Scales (DRACO & LUNA HP)

" See you tomorrow ?"

The words looped through his mind like a curse, like a promise, like something he couldn't shake even if he tried. She had said it so simply, so casually, as if they hadn't just crossed an invisible threshold, as if she hadn't just shattered something inside him with nothing more than a fleeting touch. It was absurd. He was absurd. What the fuck was wrong with him?

Draco wasn't some fumbling schoolboy experiencing his first crush, wasn't some inexperienced virgin who had never felt the heat of a woman before, wasn't the kind of man who let something as simple as a barely-there kiss on the cheek consume him. And yet, here he was, standing in the center of his grand but suffocatingly empty house, his body still thrumming with restless energy, his mind tormented by the ghost of her lips against his skin.

He needed to do something. Anything.

His hands flexed at his sides, his jaw tightening as he exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders as if that might somehow dislodge the tension coiled inside him like a snake waiting to strike. It wasn't working. Nothing was working. He should have gone straight to bed, should have let exhaustion take him, should have buried himself beneath the weight of sleep and forced himself to forget the way Luna Lovegood had effortlessly dismantled him with nothing but a kiss.

But forgetting was impossible.

The warmth of her lips still lingered, hot and maddening, curling around him like a spell that had embedded itself beneath his skin. He needed to erase it. He needed to purge it.

He needed a distraction.

He didn't hesitate. Didn't stop to consider what it meant. His movements were mechanical, detached, automatic, as he summoned a small piece of parchment and sent a message to Astoria.

Draco could feel the frustration crawling under his skin, an unbearable weight pressing against his ribs, suffocating, insistent, relentless in the way it refused to leave him alone. There was no reason for this, no logical explanation for why a single moment, a single touch, a single whispered see you tomorrow had managed to unravel him so completely. He had spent years perfecting his control, mastering the art of detachment, ensuring that nothing and no one could shake him, could make him feel anything he did not want to feel. And yet, here he was, restless and wrecked, standing in the dim glow of his massive but suffocatingly empty house, unable to think of anything except the warmth of her lips brushing against his skin, the way her voice had curled around those words like a spell he hadn't known would bind him.

He needed an outlet, something to purge her from his mind, something to claw her out of his bloodstream before she rooted herself there permanently. His fingers twitched at his sides, tension rolling through his muscles as he exhaled sharply, as if he could breathe out the sensation of her, as if he could shake off whatever hold she had on him. But the feeling wouldn't leave. It lingered, curling around him like smoke, suffocating and intoxicating all at once, an unwanted ghost of something he had no business wanting.

He didn't give himself time to hesitate, didn't allow himself the space to second-guess the impulse as he sent for Astoria. She arrived swiftly, just as she always did, stepping into his house with an ease that came from knowing exactly what was expected of her. She was practical, efficient, polished in a way that had nothing to do with affection and everything to do with convenience. Their arrangement had always been simple—no expectations, no complications, no demands. It was why it worked, why he had never questioned it, why she was the only woman he had let into his bed without worrying about what it might mean. There had never been room for anything more than what they had agreed upon. There had never been a reason to want anything more.

The moment she stepped through the doorway, he reached for her without preamble, without hesitation, without thought. He didn't let her speak, didn't let her ask why he had summoned her with such urgency, didn't give her the chance to question what had shifted between them. His fingers curled around her wrist as he pulled her into the dining room, barely registering the startled sound she made before he flipped her onto the table, positioning her exactly where he needed her. Face down. Because looking at her would be a mistake, because looking at her meant acknowledging that this wasn't what he wanted, because looking at her meant admitting that the image already seared into his mind had nothing to do with the woman in front of him.

His grip on her hips was firm, rougher than usual, his patience fraying, his restraint slipping faster than he could reel it back in. She responded in kind, pressing back against him, murmuring something low and familiar, but her voice barely registered, the words dissolving into nothingness before they could reach him. His mind had already drifted somewhere else, locked onto something softer, something completely out of reach. The memory of Luna's lips ghosted over his cheek like a brand he couldn't scrub away, like a mark he hadn't realized he would never be able to erase. He could still hear her voice, that quiet amusement laced beneath the surface, the way she had spoken to him like she already knew, like she had already seen exactly how he would unravel.

His fingers moved with practiced ease, his body falling into a rhythm that should have felt familiar, should have brought him back into the moment, should have grounded him in something real. But it wasn't enough. It wasn't scratching the itch under his skin, wasn't filling the space she had left behind, wasn't easing the weight pressing down on him. His body moved with purpose, each motion sharp and deliberate, but his mind was lost in a world that wasn't his to claim. His breath came heavier, his rhythm faltering as his grip tightened, frustration bleeding into every movement because this wasn't supposed to be difficult, wasn't supposed to feel like a fucking failure, wasn't supposed to feel like he was losing himself completely.

Astoria arched beneath him, urging him on, her body pliant and eager in a way that should have satisfied him, in a way that should have brought the kind of mindless pleasure he had been chasing. But no matter how hard he tried to focus, no matter how desperately he attempted to force himself into the moment, it was still her that filled his mind, her that he imagined beneath his hands, her that he was chasing with every thrust, every breath, every touch.

Luna, who had never been in his bed.

Luna, who had never given him permission to think of her this way.

Luna, who had ruined him completely with nothing but a whisper and a kiss.

His body betrayed him, the sharp coil of tension unraveling far sooner than he had expected, pleasure hitting him like a blow rather than a release, nothing more than a cruel reminder of everything he had spent the last hour trying to avoid. He pulled away abruptly, his chest heaving, the weight of his own frustration crashing down on him with unrelenting force. He barely registered the way Astoria sighed in satisfaction, stretching lazily against the table, content and unbothered, her body a stark contrast to the absolute fucking wreck he had become.

He had lost control. Completely.

This was dangerous.

And as he stood there, his mind still spinning, his stomach still twisted, his hands still shaking, there was only one thought that kept circling in his head, unrelenting, merciless, impossible to ignore.

He was going to see her tomorrow.

And for the first time in years, he was genuinely, viscerally afraid.

*

Draco's morning began far too soon, the pale golden sunlight spilling through the enormous windows of his bedroom, painting soft patterns across the pristine white sheets that lay in tangled disarray around his legs. Sleep had come to him, but it had not been restful; his mind had remained restless, gnawed at by the remnants of the previous night—not just by the things he had done, but far worse, by the things he had thought. He had always been a man of control, of precision, of habits designed to keep him steady, and usually, after indulging in a physical distraction, he would wake up feeling like himself again, cleansed of whatever tension had driven him to seek comfort in the first place. This morning, however, was different. This morning, he did not feel like himself at all.

The usual haze of self-loathing that accompanied nights like the one before was absent, replaced by something far more insidious, something he could not even name. Because the first thing that came to his mind upon waking wasn't Astoria, wasn't the woman who had laid beneath him, pliant and willing, wasn't the release that should have wiped away his frustration. The first thing—the very first conscious thought that pierced through the sluggish fog of sleep—was Luna.

Her lips. Her skin. Her voice, light and teasing, so effortlessly unbothered, asking him whether she would see him tomorrow as though she hadn't just dismantled every fragile wall he had spent years constructing with nothing more than a brush of her lips against his cheek.

He let out a low, miserable groan, rolling onto his stomach, gripping the pillow beneath him as if he could somehow smother the thoughts threatening to consume him whole. He was a terrible person. Objectively, undeniably, completely awful.

Because it wasn't even her smile that had flashed through his mind first.

Wasn't her eyes, bright and knowing and far too perceptive for his own good.

It was her body.

And oh, fuck, what kind of man did that make him?

For years, he had tried so damn hard to be better. He had worked to shed the arrogance, to undo the entitlement, to erase the sheer, stomach-turning privilege that had once defined his existence. He had spent his adult years making sure he would never be the man his father had expected him to be, the man that had seemed inevitable when he was sixteen and cruel and still too afraid to question anything.

And yet, the second Luna Lovegood had so much as looked at him the right way, his mind had turned to filth.

He was no better than the worst of them.

No better than the men at Hogwarts who had spent their nights boasting about their conquests, their victories, turning women into stories to be told over firewhiskey, reducing them to something to have rather than someone to know. He had despised those men, had sat quietly through those conversations with barely disguised disdain, had wanted nothing more than to separate himself from that kind of base, shallow existence. He had hated how they spoke about women as if they were trophies to be displayed, as if sex were some sort of game to be played, a competition rather than an act of intimacy. He had never wanted to be like them.

And yet here he was, waking up with his mind racing through the memory of the way Luna's dress had clung to her when she moved.

The way her fingers had brushed absently over the rim of her teacup, an unconscious, mindless movement, and how, somehow, that alone had made something tighten in his stomach.

The way her mouth had curved slightly, the smallest flicker of amusement in her eyes, as if she already knew exactly what effect she was having on him.

He had spent years surrounded by women who were conventionally perfect, women who were bred for elegance, sculpted by their families into something poised and practiced and designed to ensnare. Women who knew how to draw attention to themselves in deliberate ways, how to bat their lashes at the right moment, how to shape themselves into the fantasies men wanted. He had seen it all, had indulged in it, had played the game they wanted him to play.

Luna was nothing like that.

She wasn't trying to seduce him.

She wasn't even aware of what she was doing to him.

And that was what was driving him absolutely insane.

With another curse under his breath, he forced himself to sit up, rubbing a hand down his face as if he could physically scrub away the thoughts that had latched onto him overnight, as if he could exorcise whatever part of his subconscious had decided to make a home out of her.

He needed to move.

Needed to do something, anything, before this turned into something irreparable.

Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, he moved through the motions of his morning ritual on autopilot, his hands moving with practiced ease—shower, shave, cologne, hair styled into the usual effortless perfection—but the entire time, his mind was elsewhere, lost in a battle he knew he was already losing.

Reaching for his wardrobe, Draco pulled out his second-favorite suit, the charcoal grey one that had been perfectly tailored to his frame, the sharp, structured lines precise enough to make him feel in control, to remind him of exactly who he was supposed to be. He ran his fingers along the fabric, grounding himself in the familiar sensation of order and predictability, in the assurance that when he put it on, he would look the part, he would feel like himself again, composed, detached, untouchable. His gaze flickered to his favorite suit, the deep navy with silver accents, the one he had had custom-made in Paris, the one that was reserved for occasions that demanded something beyond mere elegance, something that held significance. That one was special. That one was—

His hand froze mid-motion.

That one would be good for their wedding.

Draco stilled, the thought landing with such unbearable force that he physically recoiled, his entire body jerking back as if startled by the sheer insanity of his own mind.

What the fuck?

Wedding?

He actually took a full step away from his wardrobe, running both hands through his hair, pacing across the room in quick, agitated strides, his heart hammering against his ribs, his lungs suddenly struggling for breath. What the hell was he thinking? He wasn't planning a wedding. He wasn't planning anything.

This was about sex. That was all.

He wanted her. That was it. That was the only thing that made sense, the only thing that mattered.

He wanted to taste her.

He wanted to spread her out across that wooden counter in her tea shop, push aside the delicate china and scatter parchment to the floor, slide her dress up past her hips, press his mouth against every inch of bare skin he could reach.

He wanted her gasping beneath him, legs wrapped around his waist, nails digging into his back, arching into his touch, moaning his name like a fucking prayer.

That was what this was about. That was all this was about.

Not marriage. Not romance. Not forever.

And yet, that single, traitorous thought refused to die quietly, refused to slip away like an intrusive whisper in the night, refused to let him pretend this was just another pursuit, just another fleeting desire that would pass once he had taken what he wanted.

Because if this was just lust, then why did the simple act of seeing her name scrawled on parchment send an involuntary curl of warmth through his chest?

Why had he sat in her shop for hours, not even realizing how much time had passed, not even caring?

Why had he written her a damn letter, poured himself out in ink and parchment, let his guilt unravel in rambling, endless pages with no real apology in sight, just confessions and regrets and an aching, unspoken need to explain himself?

Why did she make him smile—a real, unforced smile—when she teased him, when she poked fun at him in that soft, weightless way of hers, as if he weren't some ruined, tarnished thing with too much baggage, as if he weren't a man who had spent years clawing his way out of the wreckage of his own past?

His pulse thundered, erratic and relentless, his chest tight with something unfamiliar, something heavier than simple longing, something deeper than the sharp, unfulfilled hunger that had burned through him since the moment she had waltzed back into his life.

This wasn't just lust. This wasn't just anything.

And that was the most terrifying realization of all.

His hands clenched into fists at his sides, his fingers pressing hard into the wood of his dresser as he stared at his reflection in the mirror, the cold truth reflected back at him in silver and shadow. He wanted her, and not just for a night, not just for the pleasure of stripping her bare and mapping every inch of her skin with his lips, not just for the satisfaction of knowing what she looked like beneath him, what she sounded like when she came undone in his arms. He wanted all of her—her body, her mind, her maddening honesty, her unwavering ability to look at him without fear, without judgment, without expectation.

He wanted her laughter.

He wanted her fire.

He wanted the way she made him feel like something more than just the worst parts of himself.

His jaw locked, his breath escaping in a slow, controlled exhale, but it wasn't enough to calm the storm inside him, wasn't enough to quiet the revelation that had just shattered the carefully constructed delusion he had built for himself.

He had never been more fucked in his entire life.

*

Draco Malfoy was a brave man. At least, that was what he told himself as he made his way toward Moonbrew, his hands buried in the pockets of his second-favorite coat, his pulse an uneven rhythm beneath his skin. He had faced war. He had stood in front of the Wizengamot as they decided whether or not he was worthy of redemption. He had seen things no one should have seen, done things he would never speak of, lived through years of suffocating guilt and expectation.

And yet, somehow, this—walking into a cozy little tea shop to see her—felt infinitely more terrifying than any of that.

Luna had asked him to come. That was all. There was no reason for his stomach to feel like it had twisted itself into knots, no reason for his throat to feel tight, no reason for the irrational, ridiculous impulse that had made him show up at exactly three o'clock as if being on time was suddenly a matter of life and death.

He had arrived outside the shop precisely at the hour, lingering for a full thirty seconds before convincing himself that standing there like a fucking schoolboy on his first date was unacceptable. But when he finally opened the door, his breath caught, and there she was.

Alone.

And looking like a goddess.

Fucking hell .

Why did she have to do this to him? Why did she have to look like that—like something carved from divinity itself, like something entirely out of his reach, something that had descended into the mortal world just to torture him?

The flowy white dress she wore wasn't special in any grand sense—it was simple, effortless, light and airy in a way that made it move like a second skin, brushing against her in soft, delicate waves. It wasn't tight, wasn't designed to show off the lines of her body, and yet somehow, it was worse. Worse because it made her look even less aware of her own effect, worse because she wasn't trying, worse because she didn't have to.

Draco gritted his teeth.

Wasn't just the sight of her enough?

Did she have to undo him every time he so much as laid eyes on her?

His hand lingered on the doorknob for a fraction too long before he forced himself to move, stepping inside, tentative, as if walking into something dangerous. Because wasn't he?

Luna turned at the sound of the bell chiming, a small, knowing smile curling at the edges of her lips as she greeted him with that same casual air, as if this were just any afternoon, as if she weren't standing there looking like she belonged draped across a throne instead of behind a tea counter.

"Oh, you actually came."

Draco blinked.

"Of course," he said automatically, forcing himself to sound unaffected, to push down the way his entire body was reacting to her mere presence. "Why wouldn't I? You asked me to."

Luna tilted her head, her pale hair falling softly over one shoulder.

"So you'll do anything I ask you to do?"

Draco hesitated for only half a second before responding, his lips curving into something smug, something flirtatious, something that wasn't a lie but needed to sound like one.

"Most likely," he mused, slipping into his usual drawl, "depending on your demand."

It was meant to sound light, meant to sound playful, meant to keep some semblance of control in this conversation.

But it was bullshit.

Because the truth was—he would do anything for her.

Anything.

And that was the problem.

Luna took a slow, deliberate step toward him, her fingers idly tracing the edge of a glass jar on the counter, her expression unreadable but dangerous in a way he wasn't prepared for.

"I like that you're obedient," she mused, her voice deceptively casual, as if she weren't in the middle of completely eviscerating him with a single sentence. And then—

"Such a good boy."

Draco choked.

Actually, physically choked on his own fucking saliva.

He coughed violently, his body betraying him in ways he had not been ready for, his brain stuttering to a complete, catastrophic halt.

Good boy?

GOOD BOY?!

Oh, Merlin help him, he had a praise kink.

He had a praise kink and Luna Lovegood had just discovered it before he even fucking had.

Heat shot down his spine so violently he nearly staggered, his entire body reacting to those two words like they were a goddamn spell, like they had wrapped around his throat and pulled.

This is embarrassing. This is beyond embarrassing. This is mortifying. This is the worst thing that has ever happened to you. This is not happening. This is not real. This is not—

He moved before he could combust entirely, his feet carrying him across the room, not daring to look at her as he all but collapsed into his usual chair—his table, because of course, even after just one visit, he had a table now, like some pathetic regular.

He sat so quickly, so forcefully, that he nearly knocked the chair over in his attempt to pretend he wasn't about to pass out.

Or worse. So much worse.

Luna watched him, her lips twitching in quiet amusement, clearly noticing everything, clearly knowing exactly what she had done, clearly enjoying this more than she had any right to.

Draco, for his part, had to physically restrain himself from slamming his forehead onto the table.

This was a disaster.