Bloodlines and Betrayals
Main Character = Darcy Bertha
Darcy's hands trembled as she struggled to push open the gigantus wooden doors of the Hogwarts library. The soft, muffled scent of parchment and ink around her felt like home, but it did not calm the storm bubbling within her. The green and silver Slytherin tie lying at her throat felt like a tight noose, and her breath grew shallow as the tall walls of the library seemed to suffocate her.
She crossed the threshold, her eyes scanning the continuous rows of bookshelves, looking for the least crowded corner where she could study—or maybe just breathe or truthfully just be alone.. The continuous pressure from all sides at this point was becoming unbearable. The professor's constant remarks about how good she was, the whispered comments about a Muggle-born in Slytherin, the dirty looks she got from her housemates when she aced another potion’s essay, and worst of all, the sharp voice of her father in her head.
"You have to prove them wrong, Darcy. You have to be the best. Show them that a Muggle-born can be more than just a fluke."
Her father meant well; he always did. He wanted her to be strong and demonstrate her toughness in a world that viewed her as an outsider. But it was exhausting. Her fists tightened as tension crept up her spine.
Darcy collapsed in a chair at the closest table, holding tightly onto her textbook. She opened it, trying to focus on the words swimming before her eyes. Draught of Living Death: Crush the sopophorous bean… Her vision blurred. She blinked rapidly. Her breathing quickened.
"I can't do this.” She whispered to herself.
The edges of her vision darkened. Her throat felt dry. Her hands shook. She slammed the book shut, stood up fast, scraping the chair loudly against the floor, and stormed deeper into the library.
She needed air. Now.
Darcy stumbled through the library, gasping. She clutched the satchel strap in her hand and sprinted for the farthest corner in the library—the only spot where she could break down without anyone seeing. She turned the corner to hidden alcove, heart hammering hard—
—and froze.
Because someone was already there.
Draco Malfoy.
Of course. Just her luck.
He was sitting on the ground leaning against the glass window, his blonde hair glinting in the light from the enchanted torches. His arms were crossed, a book resting lazily on his lap, and that signature Malfoy smirk pasted onto his face. He raised a single eyebrow as his cold grey eyes raked over her from head to toe.
Darcy’s stomach turned.
"Bertha,” he drawled, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
Of all the people at Hogwarts, Draco Malfoy was the only person she detested. Slytherin’s prince. Privileged. Arrogant. Spoiled. He had everything handed to him on a silver platter: his wealth, his power, his pureblood status—and yet he still acted as if the world owed him even more.
Darcy wiped the back of her hand across her eyes. Of course he had to be here. Her one chance to breathe, and Malfoy had to ruin it.
"Great just what I needed," she muttered, her voice sharp with sarcasm.
Draco’s smirk deepened. "Happy to be of service.”
Darcy rolled her eyes and turned on her heel, already heading back for the turn..
"Feeling a bit rough, Bertha?" asked Draco lazily.
Her back stiffened. She squeezed her eyes shut for a second before turning toward him. "Not that it’s any of your business,but some of us have to earn our marks, Malfoy.".
Draco scoffed and Dracy marched toward the turning. She wasn’t about to give Malfoy the satisfaction of seeing her fall apart.
"Don’t work too hard,” Draco’s voice followed her as she was about to turn. "Wouldn’t want to see Hogwarts’ prized Muggle-born crack under the pressure."
She heard it but left.
She pressed her back against a cold stone wall, heart racing. She could still feel the weight of everyone's expectations pressing down on her. But beneath that weight, there was something else.
It wasn’t the pressure that scared her.
It was the feeling that one day, it might crush her completely.
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Darcy could barely hear the chatter around her as she stormed out of the library, her heart pounding and her breath sharp and shallow as Draco’s smug face replayed in her mind. That condescending smirk. The way he looked at her like she was beneath him.
Her fingers curled into fists at her sides. She was used to it—the sneers, the whispers, the subtle (and not-so-subtle) reminders that she didn’t belong here. Being a Muggle-born in Slytherin made her a target from day one. But today? Today she didn’t know why it felt so personal.
She turned the corner toward the Great Hall, her robes billowing behind her. Students milled about the corridor, some laughing, some arguing, but it was all static in the background. Darcy was too lost in her thoughts—too angry—until a sickly sweet voice cut through the noise like a knife.
"Look, it’s the Mudblood, all alone.”
Darcy froze.
"Shouldn’t you be studying extra hard to keep up with the rest of us real witches?"
Slowly, Darcy turned toward the voice.
Pansy Parkinson stood at the edge of the corridor, flanked by a pair of Slytherin girls whose names Darcy didn’t care to remember. Pansy’s arms were crossed, her dark eyes glittering with malicious delight. Her lips curled into a sneer.
Darcy’s jaw clenched. Her nails dug into her palms.
"Excuse me?" Darcy’s voice was sharp and low.
Pansy’s smirk widened. "You heard me, Bertha. Or is that dirty blood of yours making it hard to understand basic speech?"
A couple of students nearby slowed their steps, sensing the tension crackling in the air. Darcy’s vision tunneled. Her chest tightened.
“God, I’m so sick of you,” Darcy said, her voice trembling with fury.
Pansy’s eyes narrowed, but Darcy didn’t stop.
“You think you can keep throwing that word around like it means something?” Darcy took a step forward, closing the space between them until she was nose-to-nose with Pansy. “God you’re so pathetic.”
Gasps rippled through the corridor. A first-year Slytherin squeaked and hurried away.
Pansy’s smirk vanished. “What did you just say to me?”
Darcy didn’t blink. “You heard me.”
Pansy’s lips curled into a snarl. “You filthy little—”
Darcy’s hand shot out, grabbing Pansy’s wrist before she could raise it.
Pansy’s eyes flashed. A cold, sharp rage twisted her features. For a second, Darcy thought Pansy would back down.
But then Pansy lunged.
Darcy barely had time to brace herself before Pansy shoved her, sending her stumbling back into the stone wall. Pain shot up Darcy’s spine, but she didn’t have time to recover before Pansy was coming at her again, hand raised.
Darcy’s instincts kicked in. She caught Pansy’s arm and twisted it behind her back, spinning her off balance.
Pansy let out a sharp hiss of pain. “Let me go, you—”
Darcy released her with a hard shove, sending Pansy stumbling backward.
Pansy’s hair was wild, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment and fury. But she didn’t come at Darcy again. Not with the eyes of half the hallway watching now.
Darcy tilted her head, her voice cold as ice. "That’s what I thought."
Pansy’s hands curled into fists. Her mouth opened, then shut. For the first time, Pansy Parkinson had nothing to say.
"Let’s go," Pansy hissed at the girls behind her.
She spun on her heel and stalked down the corridor, her minions trailing behind her like lost puppies.
Darcy stood there for a moment, heart racing, her breath still sharp. Her hands trembled at her sides. Slowly, she forced herself to unclench her fists.
A few students were still watching her, wide-eyed. Whispers filled the air. Darcy ignored them.
With her head held high, she turned toward the Great Hall and walked away, her footsteps steady against the stone floor.
Her father had always told her to prove herself. To make them respect her.
But respect was overrated.
Darcy Bertha didn’t need their respect.
She just needed them to know not to cross her.
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
The dungeon was cold, the faint scent of crushed valerian root and wormwood hanging in the air. Dim torchlight flickered against the ancient stone walls, casting long shadows across the room. Professor Snape’s dark robes billowed as he swept down the aisle between the tables, his cold gaze lingering on the students.
"Bertha, Malfoy," Snape’s voice cut through the room like a blade. "You’re partners."
Darcy’s head snapped up. Her stomach dropped.
Draco Malfoy, seated at the next table, turned his head toward her, raising a single pale eyebrow. His signature smirk curled at the edge of his mouth.
"Perfect," Darcy muttered under her breath.
"Get to work," Snape ordered, his tone sharp.
Darcy dragged her chair over to Draco’s table. He didn’t say a word as she sat down, and neither did she. Their cauldron was already set up between them, thin curls of silver smoke curling lazily from the surface of the bubbling liquid.
Darcy rolled up her sleeves, set her jaw, and began chopping the sopophorous bean with practiced precision. Draco adjusted the heat beneath the cauldron and measured out a vial of powdered asphodel. They worked efficiently, their movements synchronized without speaking a single word.
Darcy stirred the mixture clockwise, counting the rotations under her breath. Draco handed her a sprig of peppermint without looking at her, and she added it at exactly the right moment.
It was going well. Too well.
That’s why, when Draco finally spoke, it almost made her drop the stirring rod.
"I heard what happened with Pansy yesterday," he said casually, his tone light.
Darcy’s grip on the rod tightened. "And?"
Draco’s mouth twitched. He leaned back against the stone wall, crossing his arms over his chest. His grey eyes glittered with quiet amusement.
"Didn’t think you had it in you, Bertha," he drawled. ”Handling Parkinson like that? I did not see that coming. I’m impressed.”
Darcy’s stirring slowed. Her eyes narrowed as she glanced at him from beneath her dark lashes.
"Isn’t she your friend?" she asked, her tone sharp.
Draco’s smirk deepened. "Every Slytherin is my friend and my enemy."
Darcy’s jaw tightened. She added a pinch of crushed dragon scale to the potion, and the mixture hissed and darkened to a deep emerald green. A perfect transition.
"I’m not your friend, Malfoy," Darcy said coolly.
Draco’s gaze lingered on her, his expression unreadable. "Do you want to be?"
Darcy’s hand froze over the cauldron. Slowly, she lifted her eyes toward him. His expression was calm, almost too calm—but there was something sharp beneath it.
"What?"
"I want us to be friends," Draco said. His voice was softer now, the mocking edge gone. "Is that so hard to believe?"
Darcy’s heart slammed against her ribs. Her throat tightened. She forced herself to laugh, but it came out cold.
"I’m a Mudblood," she said. Her voice was steady, but she hated the way the word burned her tongue. "You’re a pureblood. Why do you want to be friends anyway?"
Draco’s eyes softened, just slightly. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees.
"I don’t know," he admitted. His voice was quiet now—almost thoughtful. "But let’s figure it out."
Darcy’s breath hitched.
She should have laughed in his face. She should have thrown his words back at him with all the spite and venom she’d perfected over the years.
But she didn’t.
She looked at him, at the quiet intensity in his storm-grey eyes, and for the first time—maybe ever—Darcy Bertha didn’t know what to say.
"Stir the potion," Draco said smoothly, his usual arrogance slipping back into place.
Darcy snapped out of it. She stirred the cauldron sharply, scowling at him. "I’m not doing all the work."
Draco’s smirk returned. He picked up a vial of moonstone powder and poured it in, his hand brushing briefly against hers.
"I never said you were."
Darcy hated the way her pulse quickened at that.
And she hated even more that Draco Malfoy was still smirking.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________
It had been a few months since that awkward yet strangely charged conversation in Potions, and somehow, Darcy had found herself… tolerating Draco Malfoy.
No, that wasn’t right. She liked spending time with him.
It had started small. After Potions class, he’d sit next to her in the library—uninvited at first—while she worked through her essays. He’d make some sarcastic comment about her handwriting or the way she crushed her ingredients too aggressively. She’d roll her eyes, call him a prat, and then they’d quietly get to work.
Soon, it became routine. Every day after dinner, they’d meet in the library, sitting at the same table by the window. Darcy would handle the theoretical side of their assignments, and Draco would correct her wand movements when they practiced spells. He had a sharp wit and a sharper tongue, but somehow it didn’t bother her as much anymore. When he smirked at her, it didn’t make her blood boil—it made her chest tighten.
But not everyone saw it that way.
Pansy Parkinson certainly didn’t.
The rumors started quietly. A few whispers in the common room. A few suspicious glances during meals. Then it escalated.
"Draco’s been off his game lately."
"Missed two catches last match—what’s wrong with him?"
"Bet it’s because of her."
"A Mudblood dragging down our Seeker? Embarrassing."
Darcy had heard the whispers, but she brushed them off. Slytherins always gossiped—it wasn’t anything new. But then Draco missed another catch at practice. Then another. And suddenly, it wasn’t just whispers anymore.
At the next Quidditch practice, Darcy sat in the stands, absentmindedly reading a book while the team warmed up. She could hear the sound of broomsticks cutting through the air and the sharp bark of the team captain’s orders.
"Draco!" the captain shouted after a particularly bad fumble. "Focus!"
Draco scowled, adjusting his grip on the broom. His jaw was tight, his shoulders tense.
"Maybe if he wasn’t so busy entertaining a certain company in the library, he’d be able to focus," a voice called from the sidelines.
Darcy’s head snapped up.
Pansy was sitting near the edge of the field, legs crossed elegantly beneath her green-trimmed robes, a cruel smile curling at the corner of her mouth.
Darcy’s stomach tightened. Draco’s face hardened, but he said nothing. He soared back into the air, his grip on the broom handle visibly white-knuckled.
But it got worse.
By the end of the week, the team captain called a meeting. Darcy lingered near the entrance of the Slytherin common room, listening from the shadows.
"Look, Draco," the captain said, voice low but sharp. "You’ve been off for months. If you don’t pull it together, we’re going to have to replace you."
"I’m fine," Draco said coldly.
"Are you?" The captain’s eyes narrowed.
"Because it seems like someone’s been… distracting you."
Draco’s head lifted, his jaw tightening. "What are you implying?"
"I’m saying if you can’t separate the game from your personal life," the captain said, voice dripping with disdain, "then maybe we need a new Seeker."
Draco’s expression darkened dangerously. "I don’t need to separate anything."
"Good," the captain said. "Because if you keep playing like this, you’ll lose your spot."
Darcy could feel her pulse pounding in her ears. She turned away before anyone could see her, her chest tight.
Later that night, she found Draco in the library—but this time, he wasn’t sitting at their usual table. He was standing near the shelves, arms crossed. His expression was cold.
"So," Draco said flatly, "you heard?"
Darcy’s throat tightened. "Yeah."
Draco’s eyes sharpened. "Funny how it all started after we started… hanging out."
Darcy’s chest tightened. "You don’t actually think this is my fault?"
Draco’s gaze darkened. "Someone is targeting me for this."
Darcy’s heart twisted painfully. "Draco—"
"Maybe it’d stop if we stopped this," he cut her off.
Darcy’s breath caught. "Stopped what?"
"This." He gestured vaguely between them. "Whatever this is."
Her hands curled into fists. "So that’s it? You’re going to let them push you around?"
Draco’s jaw tightened. "I’m not letting them push me around. I’m protecting my spot on the team."
"And throw me under the broomstick while you’re at it?"
Draco’s eyes flashed dangerously. "Maybe I wouldn’t have to if you weren’t such a distraction."
Darcy’s chest hollowed out. She forced herself to stand tall even though her legs felt like lead.
"Fine," she said coldly. "If that’s what you want."
Draco didn’t say anything. His gaze was heavy with regret.
Darcy turned toward the door. Her hand hovered over the handle.
"You know Pansy’s behind this," she said quietly.
Draco’s shoulders stiffened.
Darcy left before he could answer.
Later that night, Pansy sat beside Draco at the Slytherin table in the Great Hall, her hand resting lightly on his arm. She leaned in, whispering something into his ear. Draco didn’t pull away.
Darcy watched from across the hall, her heart thundering painfully in her chest.
She had two choices:
Step aside and let Pansy win.
Or fight back.
Darcy Bertha wasn’t one to back down.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________
Darcy knew Pansy was behind it.
And if Pansy thought Darcy was going to sit back and let her ruin Draco’s life, she clearly didn’t know Darcy Bertha very well.
It started with the broomstick.
Draco had never played this badly before—not even when he was sick in second year. His coordination was off, his speed inconsistent, and the broom itself seemed to jerk at odd angles, like it was fighting against him.
Darcy wasn’t an expert on Quidditch, but she knew enough about magical objects to suspect that someone was tampering with his broom. And given Pansy’s recent behavior, the connection wasn’t hard to make.
The tricky part was proving it.
The night before the next big Quidditch match, Darcy sneaked into the locker room under the cover of a Disillusionment Charm. The moonlight barely filtered through the tall windows as she slipped behind the row of lockers, her heart hammering in her chest.
Her Muggle camera was strapped securely around her neck, ready to video everything.
She didn’t have to wait long.
Pansy’s sharp heels clicked against the stone floor as she entered the room, her wand glinting in the dim light. Darcy crouched lower, finger pressed over the camera’s video button.
Pansy approached Draco’s broom, which lay propped against the wall. She drew her wand and whispered, "Confundo."
The camera whirred softly as it captured Pansy mid-spell, the broom shimmering faintly under the charm's influence. A perfect video.
Pansy smiled to herself, brushing her hand over the broomstick with a satisfied smirk before turning on her heel and striding toward the door. Her heels clicked sharply against the stone floor as she disappeared down the hallway—oblivious to the fact that Darcy had seen everything.
Darcy waited until the sound of Pansy’s footsteps faded. Slowly, she stood, releasing the Disillusionment Charm. Her hand tightened around her wand as she approached the broom.
"Finite Incantatem," she murmured.
The broom shimmered for a brief moment before the trace of the Confundus Charm dissolved into thin air.
Darcy smiled to herself as she tucked the camera back into her pocket.
"Checkmate, Parkinson."
Then she slipped out of the locker room, unseen and unheard.
The next day, Draco played better than he had in months. Sharp, precise, unstoppable. He caught the Snitch with ease, landing to deafening cheers.
Darcy stood on the sidelines, arms crossed. Draco’s gaze flicked toward her as the crowd swarmed the pitch. After a brief hesitation, he walked toward her.
"So," Darcy said, arching an eyebrow, "looks like you got your rhythm back."
Draco studied her. "Yeah. Funny how that happened."
"Maybe you just needed to focus."
"Or maybe someone was screwing with me."
"Maybe."
Draco’s eyes narrowed. "You know something."
Darcy pulled a small, battered Muggle camera from her pocket and handed it to him.
Draco frowned. "What’s this?"
"Proof."
He played the footage—and Pansy’s face appeared, her wand pointed at his broomstick, whispering "Confundo."
Draco’s jaw tightened. "She—"
"Yes."
Draco’s gaze darkened. "How long have you known?"
"Last night."
"And you didn’t tell me then?"
"Would you have believed me?"
Draco hesitated, then slipped the camera into his pocket. His eyes softened. "You could’ve gone to Snape."
"I could’ve."
"Why didn’t you?"
Darcy’s gaze held his. "It wasn’t my fight."
Draco’s hand brushed hers. "Thanks."
Darcy smiled. "You owe me one, Malfoy."
Draco’s smirk returned. "I guess I do."
____________________________________________________________________________________________________
Draco hadn’t played that well in weeks.
The Snitch practically glowed beneath his fingers as the roar of the Slytherin crowd echoed through the stands. His teammates swarmed him, but his eyes were fixed on Pansy Parkinson, pale and panicked at the edge of the stands.
Draco’s eyes narrowed. After talking to Darcy he went straight towards her.
"Pansy."
Pansy stiffened, forcing a smile. "Draco! What a game—"
"Save it." His voice was cold. "You’ve been looking nervous all game."
Pansy’s smile faltered. "I don’t know what you—"
"Did you tamper with my broom?"
Her face paled. "Why would I—"
"Because I know." Draco’s gaze sharpened. He showed her camera in his pocket and put it back in.
Pansy’s eyes darted toward Darcy, who stood across the pitch, arms crossed. Her silence was enough.
Draco’s jaw tightened. He stepped closer, his breath brushing her cheek. "Tell me the truth."
Pansy’s mask slipped. "And what if I did?" she said sharply. "It’s not like you haven’t cheated to win before."
Draco’s eyes darkened dangerously. "You think I need to cheat?"
"I was helping you!" Pansy hissed. "You’ve been slipping because of her."
Draco’s face twisted. "I’ve been slipping because you’ve been sabotaging me!"
Pansy’s mouth curled into a sneer. "I was reminding you where your loyalties lie. You’re embarrassing yourself over a Mudblood."
Draco’s eyes flashed dangerously. "Don’t call her a mudblood"
"I did it for you!" Pansy’s voice was shrill now. "You think they’ll ever accept her? A Muggleborn in Slytherin? They’re laughing at you behind your back—"
"Shut up," Draco growled.
Pansy’s eyes widened.
"You could have gotten me killed." Draco’s voice was ice. "Would that have been funny too?"
Pansy hesitated.
Her lips parted, but no words came out.
"Stay away from us, Pansy."
"But—"
"I mean it."
Pansy’s face flushed red with anger and humiliation. "You’re making a mistake."
Draco’s jaw tightened. "No. You did, coming between us."
He turned and stalked toward the changing rooms without looking back.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________
Draco’s hands were still trembling as he walked off the pitch, the echo of Pansy’s confession ringing in his ears.
Confundus. She’d used Confundus on his broom.
And for what? Because she couldn’t stand seeing him with Darcy? Because her fragile sense of control was slipping through her fingers?
Draco stormed through the halls of Hogwarts, his cloak billowing behind him as he made his way toward the dungeons. His jaw was tight, his heart thundering painfully in his chest. He wasn’t angry—he was furious.
Pansy ruined their friendship. All to sabotage Darcy.
Draco’s feet carried him toward the one place he knew he needed to go.
Snape’s office.
The door creaked open, the dim candle light flickering over the dark wooden walls. Snape was seated behind his desk, his black eyes lifting lazily as Draco strode in.
"Malfoy," Snape said smoothly. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
Draco’s fists tightened at his sides. "I need to report something."
Snape’s brow lifted. "Oh?"
Draco’s mouth curled into a dangerous smile. "It’s about Pansy Parkinson."
Snape’s gaze sharpened.
Draco stepped forward, his voice dangerously calm. "She’s been charming my broomstick before every match. She admitted it."
Snape’s mouth twitched. "Confundus?"
Draco nodded once. "It nearly got me killed."
Snape’s gaze darkened. His long fingers tapped against the desk. "I assume you have proof?"
"Yes," Draco said coldly. Giving him the camera.
Snape’s eyes flashed. He stood slowly, his robes rustling behind him.
"I will handle it," Snape said, his voice low. "Parkinson will face the consequences."
Draco’s jaw tightened. "Make sure she does."
Snape’s thin lips curled slightly. "Oh, I will."
Draco turned to leave, but Snape’s voice stopped him.
"Malfoy."
Draco glanced back.
Snape’s gaze was knowing. "You don’t usually care this much about other people."
Draco’s expression was hard. "Maybe I’m changing."
Snape’s eyes glinted. "Indeed."
Snape’s gaze sharpened. "Shall we go to Dumbledore, then? I’m sure he’d be very interested in seeing this… evidence."
Draco hesitated for a beat before shaking his head. "Not yet."
Snape’s brow arched. "No?"
"There’s somewhere I need to be first," Draco said, his jaw tightening. "Something I need to say to someone."
Snape’s mouth curved slightly at the corners. "Good luck, Malfoy."
Draco didn’t respond. He was already walking toward the door.
That night, the common room was buzzing with celebration.
Slytherin had won the match, and everyone was in high spirits. Firewhiskey had been smuggled in from Hogsmeade, and music thudded from the enchanted gramophone in the corner. Green and silver banners hung from the ceiling, and the sound of laughter echoed through the stone walls.
Darcy was sitting on the far side of the room, a glass of pumpkin juice in hand. She was pretending to listen to Theodore Nott talk about his latest potion experiment, but her eyes kept drifting toward the entrance.
Draco hadn’t shown up.
Not that she cared. (Not that much, anyway.)
Then the door opened.
Draco walked in, his black cloak unfastened at the collar, his pale hair slightly ruffled. His gaze swept across the room until it landed on her.
Darcy’s breath hitched.
He started walking toward her, the crowd parting around him like water.
"Draco—"
He stopped directly in front of her. Darcy’s heart was beating so hard she was sure he could hear it.
Without a word, he extended his hand.
Darcy’s brows furrowed. "What are you—"
"Come with me."
His tone left no room for argument.
Darcy hesitated for a split second—then slid her hand into his. His fingers curled around hers as he pulled her through the crowd, guiding her toward the center of the room.
The music faded.
People were watching now.
"Draco, what are you doing?" she hissed.
He didn’t answer. Instead, he let go of her hand—and got down on one knee.
Darcy’s eyes widened. "Draco—"
Then he got down on his other knee.
Gasps erupted across the room. Someone dropped a glass.
Draco looked up at her, his silver eyes glinting beneath the low candlelight. His lips curled into a small smile.
"I know you don’t like attention," Draco said quietly, "but I don’t care."
Darcy’s mouth went dry. "What are you—"
Draco’s eyes softened. "Darcy Bertha. Will you go out with me?"
A stunned silence swept over the room.
Darcy’s heart was hammering violently against her ribs. Her cheeks flushed painfully as every eye in the room burned into her.
"Draco—"
He smiled painfully. "You don’t have to say yes."
Darcy’s breath hitched.
"But you want me to."
"Desperately."
Darcy’s lips parted. "You’re insane."
Draco’s smile widened.** "Probably."**
Darcy inhaled shakily. "You’re a pureblood. I’m a Muggleborn."
Draco’s gaze didn’t waver. "We’ll figure it out."
Darcy’s hands trembled.
Darcy smiled slowly.
"Yes," she said.
Draco’s eyes darkened with something warm and dangerous. He stood smoothly, closing the distance between them in a single step.
"Good," he murmured.
Then his hand slid around the back of her neck—and he kissed her.
The crowd stayed quiet showing their discontent. But they didn’t care.
Darcy’s hands curled into his robes as his lips moved against hers, soft but insistent. The world blurred around them. Darcy’s chest tightened as Draco’s hand slid to her waist, pulling her flush against him.
Finally, he pulled back, his eyes gleaming.
"About time," he said.
Darcy rolled her eyes. "Shut up."
He kissed her again.