Draco and I stuck to the shadows, living two completely different lives.

Every time I'd pass him in the hallways I ignored him, and every time he'd pick a fight with Potter, he'd restrain himself from even glancing in my direction. Soon any suspicion around us disappeared, dissolving from the school's gossip like salt in a water glass.

Which was what we wanted.

"I almost shoved a first year down the stairs," Draco noted bluntly, "but I didn't."

We were sitting in the Room of Requirement, our favorite meeting place as of late, and the topic of conversation had skipped about to a variety of different subjects. I had my head resting in his lap, flipping through a book Hermione recommended to me, occasionally divulging in the feeling of Draco's hands in my hair.

He was trying to figure out how to braid, but it was a bit of a struggle for him.

"Wow," I smiled, looking up from my book, "how very kind of you."

He smirked, "are you proud of me?"

"For not shoving a child down a staircase?"

"Yes, exactly."

I sucked in a breath, the air whistling through my clenched teeth. I gave the boy a sympathetic, yet still scolding, look, and he wrinkled his nose in disappointment.

"Just because you didn't do it, doesn't mean you didn't think about it," I said, amused, "and what in your right mind possessed you to think about shoving an innocent child down the stairs?"

Draco shrugged, "old habits."

"Well, we're working on making you new ones," I noted, flipping a page, "so try to refrain from any of those nefarious thoughts in the future."

It had been a little over a month since the incident in the bathroom, and the daunting reality of the second task was making its way closer and closer. Harry still hadn't figured it out, and I was trying to do some research on the subject.

Yet...it wasn't working.

I found myself distracted away from my work, because Draco decided to start humming to himself as he played with my hair.

And I know this sounds pretentious, but it was a known fact that Draco Malfoy had never hummed in front of someone—especially when the song was the tune from the Titanic, and yet he was doing it in front of me.

I was lucky.

"Has someone asked you to the Yule Ball yet?" The boy said abruptly, tilting his head downwards to look me in the eyes.

His question shouldn't have alarmed me as much as it did, considering we were...dating and all, but it still came as a shock.

"No," I answered gingerly, "not yet."

Draco beamed at my response.

"Pity," he grinned.

"Why is it a pity?"

"Because apparently no one wants you."

My jaw fell open so quickly, it might as well have fallen to the floor. Draco had a huge smile painted all over his face, and I wanted nothing more than to wipe the amusement off of it.

"Then I guess no one wants you either," I shot back, swatting him with my book, "considering you also don't have a date."

He shrugged, "Pansy Parkinson asked me this morning."

What?

At that moment, I knew what it was like to be Harry when he was jealous. Envy was like an uncontrollable urge to scream, or a will to whack something alongside the head, even if you put all of your trust into that person.

It was only natural, but it was also consuming.

I narrowed my eyes, too annoyed to even make my response a question, "what."

"Are your ears that bad, darling?" Draco smirked, raising his voice as if I couldn't hear, "I said... PANSY PARKINSON ASKED ME—"

"I heard you the first time, you idiot, stop yelling into my face!"

"Then why did you say 'what'?"

"Because I want to know what you said."

Draco pursed his lips, "I told her I'd rather date Potter, and then proceeded to finish my breakfast."

I snorted, letting out a sigh of relief, "that's my Draco."

I returned back to where I left off in my chapter, my eyes scanning along the page. Artistically speaking, the book read, if Pedro Watkins took any notice to the use of acrylic paints, he might have actually succeeded in painting an accurate portrait of 1970 movie star—

"But circling back to you," Draco noted, breaking me away from my project, "if someone was to ask you to the ball, I'd assume you're the kind that likes grand proposals."

I snapped my book shut, giving up on the attempt to read around the boy.

"Well, no," I mumbled, my voice trailing off in thought, "I actually like it simple. If someone just gave me a rose and asked, it would mean just as much as something big."

Draco took note of that. "I see."

"Why?" I smirked, tilting my head back to look him in the eyes, "are you planning on asking me, Draco?"

He rolled his eyes, leaning down to brush his nose against mine. Tingly stomach stuff, right there. Affection from a Malfoy was apparently something often unheard of, yet the boy seemed to have copious amounts of it.

"Don't flatter yourself, [l/n]," he teased.

"Why don't you flatter me instead? You are my boyfriend, after all."

"I am?" He jested, "good heavens, since when?"

"Oh, shut it, Malfoy."

He chuckled, his dimples creasing into the sides of his cheeks amusingly. Wrapping his arms around my waist, he let out a deep chuckle, pulling me off of his lap so he could look me in the eye.

"As much as I trust your taste," he smiled, "please tell me you aren't serious."

I blinked, smiling back, "about what?"

"A rose? That's so cliche, love, I'd think you'd want something a little more creative if someone was to ask you."

I shook my head, turning back to my book, "I just love roses."

He let me resume my reading, but I heard him mutter something under his breath in a mix of confusion and utter astonishment. I understood why he hated my awe of simplicity, because he was born with a big, fat, shiny, silver spoon in his mouth, and anything important had to be worth at least 500 sickles.

"It's just so..." he mumbled, "boring."

I mumbled back:

"Yet so beautiful."