Archive of Our Own ^beta

The silence was unnerving.

Ever since that day, your life has settled into an uneasy peace.

No more running. No more laughing. No more cruel name-calling. You could finally eat in peace in the dining hall without the usual snickers behind your back. You could spend time in the library without being shoved against the wall, nasty words hurled in your face. Finally, you could study in class without being disturbed.

It was quiet. Too quiet. But you'd take it. Even snakes needed to hibernate sometimes, and you were too exhausted to play their games everyday.

But ever since that day, strange rumors began circulating. Whispers followed you through the halls, and they made your blood run cold. Someone claimed that Draco Malfoy had been found a couple of days ago, in a disheveled state, wandering the hallways like he’d seen a ghost. His lip was busted, as if someone had finally given that punchable face exactly what it needed.

Others said he’d been acting strangely, locking himself away in his dorm, skipping classes. Some whispered that he might’ve messed with the wrong people and gotten put in his place.

And then, the rumors took a turn, someone suggested that maybe... someone had stolen his first kiss.

You nearly spat out your tea when you heard that. Draco Malfoy, the scheming silver snake, and first kisses? Like two puzzle pieces that were never meant to fit. But then again, rumors were just that, rumors. Who knew if there was any truth to them, or if there was only a half-truth buried within.

Until tonight. 

You stretch, sitting up straighter in your chair. Looking around, you realize the library is practically empty. You glance at your watch, only to realize how late it’s gotten. Those retake classes had eaten up all of your time. Gathering your things, you walk down the hallway, bathed in the dim glow of flickering lights. The familiar path to your dorm seems darker than usual tonight. 

A cold breeze makes your neck prickle, sending a shiver down your spine. You pull the hood of your coat tighter as you continue walking. It's late, the halls eerily quiet. Your stomach twists with the silence.

Suddenly, someone shoves you hard against the stone wall. Your face nearly collides with the cold surface, but your palms slam against it just in time, stopping the impact.

What the-?

You almost curse out loud, but instead, you glare to see who it is.

Of course. That motherfucker again. But not the polished, sneering prince you remembered. His eyes, once a cold, pale silver, are now bloodshot with rage, filled with a mix of anger and something almost… shameful. His face looks different, almost unrecognizable. It makes you snicker inside. The familiar scent of iris and juniper berries lingers in the air. Even now, he still has time to spritz himself with that obnoxious cologne.

"You fucking bitch," he hissed, fingers tangling in your hair and yanking.

Did I not bite him hard enough last time?

You notice the dark, bruised mark on his lip. It’s black and blue but has stopped bleeding. Your lips curl into a smile. You can’t help it.

Scanning him, you noted the way his breath hitched when your eyes lingered on his injured lip. Make you want to gulp slightly. 

"You look better," you mused, sweet as poison. "More... colorful”

He stiffens, pressing your face harder against the wall. His large hand grabs your face so roughly that you think your jaw might snap. His knee is slotting between your thighs to pin you. Clever bastard. Learned from last time, didn't he? Preventing you from kicking him like last time.

"You think this is funny?" he snarled, his voice echoing through the dark hall.

You didn't bother hiding your grin.“I don’t think,” you sneer, “you’re definitely funny.” The words roll off your tongue, dripping with malice. "What's wrong, Malfoy? Want another kiss from this Mudblood?”

You emphasize the word, enjoying the way his anger flares.

A growl ripped from his throat as he wrenched your face to his. "You're not getting away tonight." His fingers dug into your jaw hard enough to bruise, his chest rising and falling with every heated breath.

You scoffed. "Are your minions with you today? Maybe you need backup.”

His laugh was sharp, echoing in the empty hall. "You want an audience? Should I call them to watch how pathetic you are when you break?”

“Or maybe I want them to see how much of a bitch you really are?” you bite back his words. 

You barely had time to sneer before he smothered your mouth with his hand. Your head slams into the stone, sending a wave of dizziness over you.

Fucking bastard.

He smacks your head again, harder this time before pulling you back up to face him. His eyes burn with hatred, his gaze full of disgust, as if you were the most revolting thing he’d ever seen.

He leans in closer, his hand still clamped over your mouth.

"You should know your place," he hissed.

You blinked up at him, feigning pleading innocence.

“Oh, that won’t work again, you sly fucker,” you mutter, your words muffled by his hand. 

He removes his hand slightly, just enough for you to snap at him again, sinking your teeth into his palm. The marks are visible, but this time, he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he laughed, low and dangerous. 

"What are you? A rabid dog?” 

"Fuck. Off," you hiss, still struggling to free yourself, kicking his legs.

His free hand clamped over your nose, cutting off your air. "Yeah, whine some more. Let’s see if anyone can hear you.”

You glare at him, disgusted by his arrogance.

“You dare bite me again, and we’re going to have a problem,” He leaned closer, his voice a venomous purr. 

We already have a problem, Dumb bitch.

He cautiously removes his hand from your mouth, his eyes still fixed on you, pinning you against the wall. He leans down, his smile twisted, casting shadows across his pale face. The warning in his gaze is unmistakable, suffocating you with its intensity. It’s not as cold as before, but it’s far more dangerous.

His hand suddenly grabs your jaw, forcing your mouth open. You try to turn your head away, but his grip tightens, pulling you back.

“Shh, behave,” he whispers, that sly, sick smile crawling across his face.

Under the dim lights, in the cold of the hallway, he looks more like a beast than the usual arrogant Malfoy. Your breath quickens, your heart pounding in your chest. You have no idea what he’ll do next, what he’s planning.

Do you regret kissing him? Hell no.

You’d do it again in a heartbeat. The look on his face was worth every bit of the crap you’ve been through.

You glance up at him, trying to read what he’s plotting. His hand tightens on your jaw, forcing your mouth open as his shadow looms over you.

Then, in the next instant, your eyes widen in horror as he spits directly into your mouth.

Crazy fucking bastard.

You jerk back from him, his hand finally releases your jaw. You cough violently, almost gagging on the floor. You stumble, trying to stay upright, your hand pressed against the wall to support yourself.

Disgust crawls through your veins as you glare at him through blurry eyes.

That twisted smile is still on his lips, smug satisfaction dancing on his pale face. He seems oddly proud of himself, as if he’s accomplished something.

"Crazy motherf-!”

You kick at his feet, but he’s already stepped back, grabbing your arms with threatening force.

He warns, leaning in so close you can feel his slippery breath against your ear. “Bite me again, and it won’t be as simple as today.”

Then, without another word, he pushes you away and walks into the shadows.

You stand there, breathing heavily, struggling to catch your breath. Your legs feel weak, your body trembling from the encounter, but you force yourself to stay standing, leaning against the wall.

You wipe the back of your hand across your mouth, spitting onto the stone floor in disgust.

The taste of humiliation is bitter on your tongue, hotter than any curse you could throw at him. Your fingers tighten into fists so hard that your nails dig crescents into your palms. Every inch of you screams to go after him, to rip that smug look off his face but you know better. Not tonight. Not when you’re already this shaky.

You stagger down the hall, each step heavier than the last, anger simmering just beneath your skin. You pull your hood lower, wishing you could crawl out of your own skin, wishing you could erase the memory of his breath in your ear, his spit on your tongue.

You make it back to the dorms, somehow. You don't even remember the walk. Your mind replays every second of that hallway, the shove, the snarl, the searing heat of shame crawling up your neck.

Once you're behind the locked door of your room, you sag against it, breathing hard.

You peel off your coat, throwing it onto your bed. Your fingers tremble slightly from anger, not fear. 

Not for Draco fucking Malfoy.

You stomp into the small bathroom, turning the faucet until freezing water rushes out. You cup it in your hands and splash it onto your face, hoping to wash the feeling away. Hoping to cool the burning fury in your veins.

If Malfoy thought he had won tonight, he was sorely mistaken.

Because you weren’t done.

Not by a long shot.

-continue- 

The weather is good today.

Which could only mean one thing.

A Quidditch match.

You sighed, already knowing what would happen next.

Everyone at Hogwarts knew that bloody snake played Quidditch. Draco Malfoy made sure the whole school knew it, too. They even knew how his father, Lucius Malfoy had bought his way onto the Slytherin team with a generous "donation" of top-tier broomsticks.

And then there was his first match. Against Gryffindor, no less. No, scratch that, against Harry Potter, specifically.

You still remember it. Everyone does.

He lost. Miserably. 

He even whined like a little bitch because he got hurt, limping or being carried off the field in the most dramatic, pitiful display you'd ever seen. 

The entire school turned him into a walking joke after that. 

He deserved it, honestly. 

To be fair, it wasn't the first time he became the laughingstock of Hogwarts. Not by a long shot. There had been plenty of moments before and after that match. 

Draco Malfoy had this uncanny talent for making an absolute fool out of himself. Like he couldn't help himself. Like humiliation was a game he didn't know how to stop playing. 

It made you wonder sometimes: How could someone be so arrogant and yet so embarrassingly pathetic at the same time?

It's almost impressive, really.

And maybe that's part of the reason why you never took much of his nasty little words to heart. All those times he picked on you in the corridors, sneering and spitting out insults like he was casting spells. You never let it get under your skin the way he probably wanted.

Like Harry and his friends always said. Draco Malfoy was pathetic.

Pathetic, in that particular way only rich boys with too much pride and too little backbone could be.

People liked to talk about his bloodline, though. About the so-called noble Malfoy name, as if that still meant something. They whispered about his prince-charming looks. Sharp cheekbones, sleek blond hair and those cold grey eyes. 

But if you stripped all that away? The name, the face, the money? He was no one. Nothing. And no one with half a brain would actually like him.

Did you hate him? Absolutely. 

Did you like him? Depends on the day. 

You didn't detest him, though. Not the way some Muggle-borns had every right to. You were Muggle-born yourself. You had endured the sneers, the slurs, the systemic prejudice from wizards like him for years. What Draco said to you-the little barbs, the cruel jokes-felt meaningless in comparison. And what Draco did? His snide remarks and half-hearted jabs?

There were just childish words. Pointless games. 

And yet… if you were being really honest with yourself. There was something about him that almost… amuse you. 

Something that made you want to mess with him. To knock him down a few pegs. To peel back that shiny, smug back that he has carefully put on. To see what is really underneath. 

Maybe it was the way he tried so hard to hold himself together. To cling to his pride even when he was making a fool of himself. 

Let's just say, he entertained you. 

In some twisted, ridiculous way. 

And whenever he was around, you found yourself having a little too much fun. 

So, no. You didn't exactly enjoy Draco Malfoy’s company in the way people might expect. Just not in the way anyone else would understand. 

---------

Maybe that was when you realized something else about Draco Malfoy.

For all his whining, all his childish picking and prodding, all his petty little tantrums. He rarely ever gave up.

Even when he knew he wasn’t the best at something.

Even when the whole school laughed at him.

Everybody starts somewhere, right? You’d heard it enough times yourself.

And Draco? Well, people whispered often enough that he didn’t have half the natural talent Harry Potter had on a broom. As a Seeker, he was average at best, always a step behind when it counted.

But he still played.

He still showed up, match after match, head held high like he wasn’t a school-wide joke. Like he didn’t hear the snickering behind his back.

And then, what really caught you off guard. He somehow clawed his way up to become Slytherin’s team captain.

Hah. Lucky bastard.

You couldn’t help but let out a humorless laugh when you remembered.

To him, you were just a Mudblood. An unworthy, filthy stain on the wizarding world. He made that crystal clear every chance he got.

And to you?

Draco Malfoy was nothing more than a snobby, spoiled brat with a silver spoon lodged so far down his throat it was choking him. A prince, through and through, head to toe in polished arrogance. All pomp, no real bite.

Harmless.

At least, for now.

You never even intended to get tangled up with him in the first place. You had no desire to cross paths, no reason to bother with his nonsense.

But somehow, without meaning to, you’d put yourself squarely in his line of sight.

Accidentally. Stupidly.

And once Draco Malfoy set his sights on something, whether it was the Golden Snitch or someone he decided was worth tormenting. He didn’t let go easily.

------

It happened during Care of Magical Creatures class.

You and your friends were trailing after Professor Hagrid, weaving your way through the edges of the forest as he led the group onward, his massive boots thudding against the earth. The sunlight filtered through the trees in soft, golden beams, the weather unusually pleasant for once. 

Each student clutched a battered, toothy copy of The Monster Book of Monsters, specially assigned for this term.

“Form your groups, class, and open yer books to page forty-nine!” Hagrid’s booming voice called out as he stopped in a small clearing.

The class shuffled around, forming loose circles as everyone obeyed. You glanced down at the book in your hands, fuzzy brown cover, lined with sharp little fangs, the whole thing quivering like a caged beast. It let out a low, guttural growl, as if daring you to try and open it.

“Don't forget! Rub the spine to calm it down first, class,” Hagrid reminded, standing at the front with a proud grin, like he didn’t just hand out a collection of half-feral creatures to a bunch of teenagers.

You positioned your hands carefully, rubbing along the spine just like he said. The book gave a soft, rumbling purr, its pages loosening. Slowly, it relaxed enough for you to pry it open, revealing intricate illustrations of some clawed creature sprawled across page forty-nine.

You couldn’t help the smile that tugged at your lips. All of this, the creatures, the magic, the sheer strangeness. It was still fascinating to you. As someone raised far away from this world, everything here felt like stepping into a living fairytale. Dangerous, yes. But beautiful, too.

You flipped through a few more pages, eyes flicking over drawings of scaled beasts and annotated notes.

Most students seemed to enjoy this class, except one.

The pale boy standing off to the side, arms crossed, face twisted in mild disgust. His white-blond hair caught the sunlight like spun silver, almost too bright against the deep greens of the forest. He stood out sharply among the rest, like some untouchable thing.

He really did look like a prince. That was your first thought, seeing him up this close.

For four years, you hadn’t shared many classes with him. Draco Malfoy existed mostly as a name whispered in corridors, a reputation that arrived before he ever entered a room. People knew him for his family, his sneer, and the weight of his bloodline.

But now, standing closer than you meant to, you realized just how easy it was to get caught in his crosshairs.

You hadn’t even noticed how near you were standing to Harry’s group, close enough, apparently, to make yourself a convenient target for Malfoy and his pack of Slytherins. By the time you registered the gap between your friends and theirs, it was already too late to step away.

His cold grey eyes flicked in your direction, sharp and assessing.

And just like that, you were in the picture.

His lip curled into that familiar, condescending smirk as his gaze dropped to the way you cradled your monster book, completely absorbed just moments ago.

“What’s so fun about this?” he drawled, voice dripping with disdain.

The words weren’t loud, but they cut through the soft murmurs of the class like a blade.

Your fingers paused on the page. The little thrill of excitement you’d felt flipped into something colder, heavier, as you lifted your head and met his stare.

You glanced down at your hands, suddenly aware of how tightly you were holding the book. Your fingers shifted uncomfortably against the worn cover as you considered stepping back, putting some space between yourself and Harry’s group.

You hadn’t meant to get caught up in anyone's mess. You didn’t want to. But somehow, without noticing, the crowd had already formed around them. Students circled in, curious as always when a spat started brewing. And you, unlucky as ever, were nearly stuck in between.

Your eyes dropped to the ground. You said nothing. Just quietly avert your gaze, hoping to go unnoticed.

But Draco Malfoy wasn’t the sort to let things go that easily.

“What? Cat got your tongue?” His smooth voice slid through the air, landing squarely on you like a tap to the forehead, light but sharp enough to sting.

Shit.

Your chest tightened.

How do I get out of this?

Before you could scramble for an answer, another voice cut in.

“I think it’s fun,” Hermione Granger said, standing a little straighter as she spoke.

You turned your head just slightly, watching the way the wind caught her brown curls and sent them tumbling over her shoulders. Calm, collected like she wasn’t the least bit fazed by the sneer thrown her way.

“Oh, look at that. The two Muggles defending each other,” Draco snorted, loud enough for his friends to catch and laugh along. His smirk widened as his pale eyes gleamed with ugly amusement.

The Slytherins snickered behind him like a pack of hyenas.

You felt the heat crawl up the back of your neck. Not from embarrassment, but from the familiar weight of his words. That sharp little sting that always came with the way he said Muggle. Like it was something dirty, something lesser.

Before the laughter could swell louder, Harry stepped forward.

“Leave them alone, Draco,” he snapped, voice low but edged like steel.

You could almost feel the tension coil tight between them, thick and heavy, like storm clouds ready to break.

You didn’t want to listen to this all day. Draco’s insults, Harry’s retorts, the endless back-and-forth that never seemed to end. You weren’t even supposed to be involved, but somehow, here you were.

And insulting Hagrid, well…

That was definitely crossing a line as far as Harry was concerned.

Without a word, you started edging backward, trying to slip between the shifting crowd. Your shoulder brushed against someone, and you murmured a quiet apology as you kept moving, determined to put distance between yourself and whatever fight was about to spark.

But then-

-------

“Tadah!”

Hagrid’s booming voice broke through the rising tension like a clap of thunder.

All heads turned. The circle of students shifted as Hagrid came lumbering back, grinning ear to ear as he led forward- 

A creature.

Your breath caught.

It looked almost like a bird, but not quite. Towering and powerful, with broad, heavy wings and sharp talons that scraped against the ground. Four legs, feathered but strong like a horse’s, and eyes that gleamed with a sharp intelligence that sent a shiver down your spine.

“A bird…?” you murmured under your breath. No, your brain corrected almost instantly. Not just a bird.

“Say hello to Buckbeak!” Hagrid beamed, tossing a slick, silver fish toward the creature.

With lightning speed, the beast’s curved beak snapped it from the air, swallowing it whole with a wet, satisfied gulp. The creature let out a soft, rumbling noise, somewhere between a coo and a growl that vibrated through your chest.

Draco’s face twisted like he’d just caught a whiff of something foul. His nose wrinkled in disgust, lips curling as he eyed the creature standing proudly in front of them.

“What the hell is that?” His voice rang out sharp and clear. And honestly, it was the question everyone else was thinking but too hesitant to say out loud. A murmur spread through the students like ripples in water, hushed voices overlapping as they stared in varying degrees of awe and horror.

Your mouth moved before your brain could stop it.

“A Hippogriff,” you said, quiet but clear enough to cut through the murmuring.

Hagrid’s massive hand shot up, pointing right at you.

“Correct!” he boomed, cheerful and oblivious to the way your stomach dropped at once.

Like a switch had flipped, every pair of eyes in the class turned toward you.

You felt it. The weight of their stares like a physical thing pressing down on your shoulders. Worse still was the sharp, icy prickle crawling along your skin as you felt Draco’s gaze lock on you. 

Fuck me.

Your fingers clenched tighter around the Monster Book in your hands as you tried to shrink in place, wishing you could melt into the forest floor.

Hippogriff.

Half horse, half eagle.

With a razor-sharp beak, talons longer than your hand, and wings powerful enough to lift it clean off the ground. They were majestic, no doubt but dangerous, too, if you didn’t show the proper respect.

At least, that’s what you’d read. You’d poured over the textbooks back in the common room, curious about creatures wizards took for granted but you’d only ever seen on paper.

Hagrid’s voice boomed again, pulling the class’s attention back toward him.

“First thing you wanna know about Hippogriffs. They’re proud creatures. Very easy to offend. You do not want to insult one.”

That earned a few nervous shuffles among the students. More than a few leaned subtly backward, instinctively widening the space between themselves and the towering beast.

“Now!” Hagrid clapped his hands together, grinning wide. “Who wants to come and say hello?”

His cheerful tone might as well have been a starting gun, because the entire class immediately took a synchronized step back. Shoes scraped against dirt, and you could practically hear the collective nope ripple through the crowd.

Well…

Everyone except Harry.

He stood frozen in place, still staring at Buckbeak. Not out of bravery, you realized, but because he hadn’t quite caught up to the part where everyone else had backed away.

And just like that, Hagrid clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder.

“Harry! Brilliant! C’mon, lad, step up.”

You watched as Harry’s face flickered with the kind of realization that hit too late to do anything about it. Still, he swallowed whatever protest he had and stepped forward.

Hagrid leaned in, voice low but urgent as he guided him.

“Right then! First thing, give ’im a bow. Nice and polite. Don’t move till he bows back.”

You swallowed hard, your own heartbeat ticking up even though you weren’t the one standing in front of the creature.

“And if it doesn’t bow back?” you heard someone mutter behind you, voice tight with unease.

Hagrid didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

The silence said plenty.

Your eyes flicked sideways, catching a glimpse of Draco again. His sneer hadn’t faded, but there was a faint flicker of something else now.

Either way, you had the sinking feeling this lesson wasn’t going to stay quiet much longer.

And when Harry bowed, low, just like Hagrid had shown him. The entire class seemed to stop breathing.

The hush that fell was so heavy it felt like the forest itself had stilled.

No one dared blink, let alone exhale, as Buckbeak's golden eyes narrowed, his great feathered head tilting in silent judgment.

Hagrid’s big hand jerked slightly, gesturing Harry to ease back a step, and Harry obeyed without question, retreating just enough to show respect without turning his back.

Buckbeak didn’t move at first.

Instead, he gave a low, grating noise in his throat, wings shifting, spreading just enough that the sharp line of his talons scraped against the earth.

And yet, you couldn’t look away.

Even with the tension choking the air, you found yourself quietly awestruck.

Because yes, this was beauty.

Not the fragile, polished kind that people liked to put on pedestals. No, this was raw, dangerous beauty. Power and pride wrapped in sleek feathers and muscle.

The kind of beauty that wasn’t obvious until you really looked. Like finding a gemstone buried under layers of ash, stone, and mud.

Hidden, but undeniable once seen.

Your heart kicked when, to everyone’s visible shock, Buckbeak finally dipped his head and bowed back to Harry.

A collective gasp echoed through the class, loud and breathless.

Relief washed over the crowd so thickly that people actually started to whisper again, shoulders un-tensing as if they’d all been holding themselves in a vice.

"Good lad!" Hagrid beamed, his voice bursting with pride as he clapped Harry on the back hard enough to make him stumble. “Now go on, give ’im a pat!”

Around you, people started to clap, tentative at first, then growing in scattered applause as Harry, grinning awkwardly, stepped forward and let his hand brush over Buckbeak’s soft feathers.

You started to smile, but then.

You felt it.

A shift at your side.

Subtle, but unmistakable, the swish of fabric, the faintest tug of motion.

Your eyes flicked sideways, and there he was.

Draco Malfoy.

He’d stepped closer, just enough that the sleeve of his robes almost brushed yours. You could feel the fine, expensive fabric whisper against your arm, and your skin prickled instantly in protest.

Without a word, you shifted away, smooth and quiet, pretending you were simply adjusting your stance.

But you knew he noticed.

You felt the way his sharp, pale eyes flickered toward you, catching the slight recoil like a hunter catching movement in the corner of his gaze.

You didn’t acknowledge it.

Didn’t give him the satisfaction.

Your attention stayed forward, face carefully neutral as if you hadn’t just gone cold all over at the realization of how close he’d gotten.

His presence was a thorn. Small but persistent, always irritating no matter how much you tried to ignore it.

And from the faint pull at the corner of his mouth, he liked knowing it.

But you kept your gaze on the scene in front of you.

Because Harry was now grinning ear to ear, his hand still on Buckbeak’s side and Hagrid, in his excitement, threw out a booming suggestion that made the class collectively stiffen again.

“Let’s see if he’ll let yeh ride ’im!”

Your eyes widened as Hagrid lifted Harry up by the waist like he weighed nothing and plopped him onto the creature’s broad back.

The nervous energy that had just settled instantly sparked up again, murmurs rising, students half-laughing, half-panicking at the sight of Harry wobbling atop the majestic, and very much still dangerous, Hippogriff.

-to be continued-

With a powerful leap, Buckbeak surged toward the rocky cliff’s edge, wings snapping open wide. So massive and proud they blotted out half the sky.

The force of takeoff kicked up a burst of wind and dust, leaves scattering like startled birds. The sharp whoosh of wings filled the air as the creature lifted off, taking Harry Potter with him. Soaring higher and higher while the class erupted in gasps and cheers.

Every single head tilted back to follow the sight.

Even you couldn’t help but stare, the wind still tugging at your clothes and hair.

Well… I wish that was me.

The thought slipped in, uninvited but honest.

Your fingers itched a little because riding something that wild and free, flying high above everything? Yeah. That sounded like a dream.

But then.

Bodies pressed around you as students surged forward for a better look, bumping into your shoulder and jostling you until you stumbled a step back.

And that’s when you felt it. The broad wall of someone’s chest stopping your retreat cold.

Silver-grey eyes stared down at you, sharp as a blade and twice as cold.

Draco Malfoy.

His lip curled, just a little.

Annoyed. Disgusted. Like you were something foul that had just stepped into his personal space.

Heat flashed under your skin not the flustered kind, but the shit, nope kind.

You straightened so fast your spine nearly cracked, jerking away from him with your hands half-raised as if to say not touching, not involved, back off.

Because if there was one thing you knew for sure about Draco Malfoy, it was that he didn’t like Muggle-borns anywhere near him.

And you? Yeah, you had no interest in being another name on his personal hit list today.

So you moved.

Quick and smooth, melting back into the crowd before he could even open that sharp little mouth of his.

The cheers got louder as Harry swooped lower, Buckbeak’s wings slicing through the air in powerful strokes. When they finally landed, the class practically exploded with applause.

You found yourself clapping too, partly out of relief, partly because, honestly? That was impressive.

Harry made it look so easy.

Brave. Bold. Exactly the kind of reckless courage Gryffindors seemed to have in their blood.

Meanwhile, you knew if that had been you up there, you’d probably have fallen off mid-air.

But just as you let yourself relax-

--------

Students in the front row stumbled aside as Draco Malfoy barreled through them, walking with that stiff, furious swagger like he was on a mission.

You barely had time to register it before his voice cut through the air, sharp and biting:

"Yeah, you're not dangerous at all, are you?" His tone dripped with spite.

Jealousy.

Did this idiot have a death wish or something?

Your brain short-circuited into pure, instinctive cursing:

Stupid ass bitch motherfucker bastard.

You could already feel your heart climb up into your throat because of this. This wasn’t going to end well.

Not with the way Draco squared his shoulders, glaring at the Hippogriff like he had something to prove.

Not with the prideful tension that suddenly coiled in Buckbeak’s frame, feathers bristling as the creature let out a low warning sound.

The Hippogriff was minding its own business.

Minding. Its. Own. Business.

But no, this dumb blond idiot just had to go and stomp right into its space.

"You great, ugly brute," Malfoy sneered, voice sharp and curling like smoke.

Bitch, you’re ugly with your missing hairline, your brain supplied on reflex, the insult hot and instant.

But you didn’t even get the luxury of finishing the thought. Because your body moved faster than your mouth.

Before you could think, your hand shot out, fingers grabbing at the sleeve of his coat. Just a desperate, instinctive tug.

The fabric bunched under your grip and suddenly those cold, steel-grey eyes snapped away from the Hippogriff and slammed right into you.

Sharp. Hateful. Like knives pressed against your skin.

“Let go of me, you filthy-”

His mouth twisted around the word. 

But he didn’t get to finish it.

"Malfoy, no!"

Hagrid's voice boomed, rough and alarmed, slicing through the rising tension.

Everything happened at once.

The Hippogriff reared up, massive wings flaring wide like a storm cloud ready to break.

The air shifted, heavy and electric as the creature let out a shriek so sharp it rattled your bones.

Students screamed. Feet shuffled. Bodies stumbled back.

Your pulse skyrocketed.

Pupils blown wide. Breath locked in your throat. Because you knew this was about to go horribly sideways.

And Malfoy?

The dumbass froze.

Like a statue.

Like his brain had suddenly hit a blue screen error mid-insult.

" Shit"

You didn’t think.

You grabbed harder, yanking him back with everything you had. Both of you tumbled. Grass scraped at your palms as you hit the ground, Draco’s weight knocking against your side as you fell together in a chaotic heap.

And just a heartbeat later.

SLASH.

The Hippogriff's claws sliced through the air where you’d both just been standing.

Close. Too close. You could feel the wind of it skim past your face.

More screaming erupted around you as students scattered, some bolting for the trees, others just stumbling in blind panic.

Your chest heaved, lungs dragging in air like it was your first breath after drowning.

Hagrid surged forward then, throwing himself between you and Draco and the enraged creature.

His big frame blocked the Hippogriff's path as he called out, voice rough but soothing, trying to pull the beast's deadly focus back to him.

--------

When Hagrid tossed another fish to the side, Buckbeak leapt after it with a powerful flap of its wings, leaving behind nothing but a gust of wind and stirred-up dust.

The creature’s focus shifted, but yours stayed locked.

Because when you looked over, Draco Malfoy was still frozen.

Still kneeling there like he hadn’t processed a damn thing.

His skin, already pale as hell, had gone almost ghostly. His hand, which he tried to casually dust off, trembled just enough to give him away.

And under the sharp sun, those long, annoyingly pretty lashes fluttered as his silver eyes flickered, scared, stunned. 

This motherfucker is really pretty.

That’s what your brain decided to supply, right in the middle of this mess.

Not I almost died. Not that was close.

Nope, just pretty, stupid bastard.

“Are you two okay?”

Hagrid’s voice snapped you out of it, yanking you back down to earth.

You opened your mouth to answer.

But Draco got there first.

His hand shot out, shoving you off him with more force than necessary.

"Don't touch me, filthy Mudblood!"

You blinked, breath catching not from the shove, but from how fast he switched up.

He scrambled to his feet, fussing at his cloak and brushing dirt off like the grass itself had offended him.

Didn’t even look at you.

“They just saved you, idiot!” Hermione’s voice cut in, sharp with disgust as she stepped forward, Ron flanking her with a scowl to match.

Yeah, idiot.

Your thoughts echoed hers bitterly.

But also…

Looking at this whole picture now, you?

Yeah, you were also an idiot.

Because saving him meant you’d just painted a bright, flashing target on your own back.

Congratulations. Lifetime membership to Draco Malfoy’s petty vendetta club: now with bonus insults and extra drama.

He turned away from you sharply, the sunlight hitting his face just right. Illuminating the flawless cut of his cheekbones and the pale, perfect skin stretched over them.

But even then, even then, you caught it. That faint, telltale pink creeping up the tips of his ears.

So subtle.

But with someone as stupidly white as Malfoy?

Yeah, the flush was impossible to miss.

Especially with the sunlight making it damn near glow.

"I don't need anyone to save me," he snapped, voice tight and brittle in that way people get when they know they’re lying.

You almost snorted.

Almost.

Ron crossed his arms, squinting like he wanted to throw hands right there.

“Yeah, right. The way you were trembling gave away a lot of things.”

You caught Harry’s laugh from somewhere behind you, low and amused and way too entertained by this whole trainwreck.

And that pink tint?

Yeah, it crept even further.

Up his neck, flooding all over that sharp, pale face until his cheeks were downright rosy.

He looked like a fucking strawberry.

A really pissed-off, aristocratic, strawberry.

You almost lost it right there, nearly laughed out loud.

Had to duck your face, pretending to fix your sleeve just to hide the grin trying to betray you.

You bit the inside of your cheek, keeping your mouth tight shut because hell no. If he saw you smiling, you were dead.

But even with your head down?

You felt it.

His eyes.

Glaring. Burning. Seething.

Right at you.

You didn’t look up. Didn’t dare.

But you could practically hear his ego cracking like thin glass.

He stormed off, cloak snapping dramatically behind him like he was in some Shakespeare play.

The fabric brushed your side as he passed light but lingering. And you caught it. That faint, minty sharpness.

His cologne. Way too fancy for a fourteen-year-old but of course Malfoy would smell like expensive peppermint rage.

Hagrid’s big hand appeared in your vision then, rough and calloused but warm as he offered to pull you up.

You took it, letting him haul you to your feet, and thankfully, you weren’t bleeding. No scratches. Just some dirt and grass stains.

Your heart was still hammering, but otherwise?

Alive .

Fine.

All good .

At least, that’s what you thought.

You figured it was just another chaotic Care of Magical Creatures class.

Just another day.

But you were wrong.

Because after that?

Everything shifted.

Draco Lucius Malfoy.

The boy with the silver eyes and strawberry cheeks.

The boy you accidentally saved and then accidentally laughed at.

Yeah.

He added your name to that little mental hit list of his.

Right up there with Potter and Granger and Weasley.

And you?

You’d just become his new favorite target.

Congratulations.

Your life was officially about to get so much more complicated.

-continue-

Back to the Quidditch match again.

The weather couldn't have been more perfect for it. The sky stretched wide above the stadium like a canvas dipped in blue ink, interrupted only by slow-drifting clouds, soft and weightless as spun sugar. The sun spilled through the gaps, casting golden streaks that lit up the field in a warm, almost theatrical glow. Even the sand beneath the stands shimmered faintly in the light, like powdered diamonds scattered across pale stone.

And in the sea of swirling green robes and excited chatter, your eyes were drawn, inevitably to that familiar flash of blond.

He stood slightly apart from the others, yet always at the center. Laughing with his teammates, his voice carried easily in the open air, rich and amused. His smirk curled at the corner, that unmistakable brand of arrogance sculpted effortlessly across his face. His eyes, narrowed slightly in the sunlight, gleamed like polished mercury, half-lidded and feline, as though he were basking.

Sunlight adored him. It glanced off his impossibly pale skin like it had been invited there, like he belonged to it. He didn’t blend into the crowd. He never could. He stood out as if nature itself wanted to make sure no one missed him.

He looked every inch the little prince.

A difficult one to like.

But, perhaps, just a bit harder to ignore.

You sighed, resting your chin against your palm as you leaned forward, peering down toward the pitch. Your eyes met his, perhaps. Maybe it was just chance. But in that moment, he raised his arm high above his head with that unshakable confidence, as though the match were already his.

You rolled your eyes. Honestly.

You've never cared much for Quidditch. Too loud, too fast, too... vertical. The last time you'd come, someone had leaned a bit too far and nearly tumbled headfirst from the stands. You weren’t keen on becoming a cautionary tale. But today felt different.

Something about the breeze. The way the sun framed the whole stadium like a spotlight. The murmuring anticipation in the crowd, vibrating like a spell just on the edge of being cast.

Or maybe it was him.

You didn't even know how he ended up as captain. You couldn't recall seeing him play much, at least not in matches you bothered to watch. Maybe he was all talk, all polish and no bite. Or maybe, just maybe, he had the skill to back it up.

You leaned a little farther over the edge, careful this time. You weren’t here for the sport.

-------

It was Hufflepuff versus Slytherin today.

You wouldn’t have come if it weren’t for your friend. She all but dragged you from the common room of your House, clinging to your arm with a desperate kind of excitement that made it impossible to say no. “I just don’t want to go alone,” she had said, a little too quickly, brushing it off like it meant nothing.

You had raised a brow. You weren’t stupid. But you didn’t ask. Not directly. You just let her tug you through the castle corridors and out into the blinding daylight.

Now, sitting on the sun-warmed benches of the stadium, the match minutes from beginning, you let your gaze drift.

The crowd around you buzzed with anticipation, loud enough to rattle the wooden stands beneath your feet. Cheers, chants, house colors fluttering in the wind. Somewhere, a set of enchanted banners burst into motion, golden badgers racing green serpents in looping patterns. But it all felt distant.

The noise dulled in your ears.

Your eyes had already found him.

He stood at the center of the chaos like he owned it. Shoulders back, chin lifted, broom balanced loosely in one hand as he exchanged grins and lazy words with his team. That damned smirk tugged at the corner of his lips like it had been stitched there. His entire posture radiated confidence, arrogance even. And why wouldn’t it?

Every eye seemed drawn to him. The stadium may have been full, but he looked like he was performing for an audience of one. Himself.

He soaked it in. The screaming, the whistling, the banners waving in the air like they were all for him. And maybe, just maybe, a lot of them were.

You watched him tilt his head back slightly, his blond hair catching the sunlight, eyes fluttering shut for half a second as if he were drinking in the roar of the crowd like wine. If ego could be fed, he’d be feasting right now.

Stuck-up prince.

The thought slipped through your mind like smoke, uninvited but not untrue. You chuckled under your breath, amused and mildly irritated.

Your friend nudged you, snapping you back to the present with a playful elbow to your side. “What’s so funny?” she asked, her voice half-drowned in the chaos around you.

You shook your head, smirking quietly as you watched the prince of self-admiration strut across the field. “Nothing,” you said, lips twitching at the corners.

She leaned closer, squinting down toward the pitch, trying to trace where your gaze had been. “Who were you looking at?”

“No one.” You shrugged, tone airy, flipping the spotlight back at her before she could press. “What about you? Who do you have your eyes on?”

That caught her off guard. A blush bloomed on her cheeks, faint but unmistakable. “Uhm… I’ll tell you someday,” she mumbled, her voice dipping just low enough to be coy.

You didn’t push. You just let her have that moment.

Down on the pitch, the players mounted their brooms, buzzing the edge of the stands in a last round of pre-game showmanship. They zipped through the air with practiced ease, waving to students, exchanging winks and taunts. The ritual before the storm.

You leaned forward slightly, forearms on your knees, pretending to be interested in the game. But your eyes found him again, hovering just above the pitch now, one hand raised in a lazy salute to the crowd.

Arrogant. Ridiculous.

And yet, undeniably captivating.

-----

The routine chatter of your friends and the clamor of the crowd faded into a dull background hum. Neither of you were really paying attention. 

Your friend had just leaned over to make another teasing comment, something about a Hufflepuff Chaser's hair and you were halfway through rolling your eyes when it happened.

A sharp slice of wind, like a razor's edge. The air slides past your face. You felt a sting graze your cheek, a fleeting reminder of how perilously close you had come to a blade's kiss. Your breath caught for half a second. 

You blinked, stunned and instinctively reached up to your cheek. 

It's burn. 

Your gaze snaps upward, eyes scanning the airspace, heart quickening as you try to locate the sources. 

It was Draco Malfoy. With that infuriating, self-satisfied smirk that you'd come to despite. He hovered just past your row, angled slightly in the air with the easy posture of someone who knew exactly what they'd done. His expression was a picture of smug delight, that shit-eating grin you practically carved into his face. 

He had flown close. Too close. He could've easily kept his distance, but no. He aimed for the drama. His passage was reckless, dangerous intimate, leaving you with a shallow cut on your cheek. A souvenir of his scornful display. 

Your friend gasped beside you. “Your face!” turning to you with immediate concern as she leaned in to inspect the injury. 

“I'm fine.” You retorted, a terse answer that did little to mask the simmering anger inside. 

Even as you mumbled those words, your gaze remained magnetically fixed on the blond boy soaring nearby. A stark contrast to Draco’s malcontent.  That boy’s laughter rang out, echoing across the blue dome of the sky as if daring the heaven to out shine his light. Like a thunderclap made of mockery. 

The sunlight caught him just right again, casting a halo of gold around infuriating head of his. He shone under the sun, every feature aglow, his cold silver-grey eyes catching yours for a split second before he veered away. 

Your finger pressed against the small wound on your cheek. Feeling the tender sting of the cut and a small trickle of blood. A trivial price. A torrent of furry churned within you. 

Every cell of your body ached with the desperate need to see him plummet from that perfect position on his broom. In your mind, your harbored the most vivid and unkind fantasies: to grab him by the collar and fling him back down to earth. Let him land with a satisfying crack. Even gouging out his smug face if it meant retribution for his arrogance. 

Scratch his smirk clean off. 

Let him eat some real dirt for once in his life. 

Does it sound childish? Perhaps.

Do you care? Not one bit.

Let him lose. Let him crash.

Let him see how it feels to be knocked down a peg or two. 

-----

You and your friend fell into silence.

Neither of you said a word as the match pressed on, the stadium alive with shouts and chants and the thunderous beat of feet on the wooden stands. But all of it faded beneath your skin. Your focus had narrowed to a single point, him.

The blond prince, cloaked in green, slicing through the sky like it was made for him. He moved with precision, body low against his broom, legs taut with control. He darted between players like wind through reeds, always just a breath ahead of collision. That same arrogance that made you want to hex him into next week translated into every turn he made. Fluid, fearless, fast.

Slytherin’s playing style was brutal. Everyone knew that. Strategy through intimidation. Force. Barely a foul away from being disqualified, and sometimes not even that stopped them.

They weren’t just playing They were dominating.

Hufflepuff was holding on by a thread, desperately scrambling to regain points, but Slytherin kept scoring with merciless consistency. One goal after another. The crowd was split half on their feet cheering, the other half watching in anxious dismay. Even the Hufflepuff Chasers looked like they were bracing for impact every time they got close to the goalposts.

And then there were the Seekers.

Your gaze lifted higher, squinting toward the specks darting across the far end of the pitch. The announcer’s voice rang out again, excited and breathless, calling the names of the two Seekers as they chased the glittering golden Snitch.

You found it too, just barely, a tiny glimmer fluttering erratically in the open sky, constantly slipping just out of reach.

It felt like the match had been going on for hours. The Snitch kept leading them on, playing games in midair like a mischievous sprite, just close enough to tempt, never close enough to catch.

You could practically feel the frustration radiating from the Hufflepuff Seeker, a younger boy with wide eyes and shaking hands. Every time he inched closer, the Snitch veered off like it was mocking him. At one point, it even hovered just for a second, taunting him before zipping off again at full speed.

The stadium roared, a mix of groans and gasps.

But then something changed.

Malfoy pulled low.

While the other Seeker stayed high, eyes locked on the glittering dot, Malfoy angled downward, sweeping low along the outer curve of the field, close enough that he almost skimmed the tops of the sand with the tip of his broom.

What is he doing?

You weren’t sure if it was a tactic or just more showboating. Possibly both. You didn’t know a damn thing about Quidditch rules or strategy. But there was something calculated about the way he moved, slower, quieter, eyes scanning ahead like he knew something no one else did.

Your friend leaned toward you, her brows furrowed. “Why is he going down? That’s not where the Snitch is.”

You didn’t answer.

You were too focused. Watching him track something. His body taut, lips pressed tight. That grin was gone now. All arrogance peeled away and replaced with pure intent. 

In contrast, the Hufflepuff Seeker looked like a wreck, desperate and overwhelmed, chasing the Snitch as it zipped upward again, lured away like it had somewhere better to be.

The Snitch kept toying with them, but something told you… it wouldn’t last.

And Malfoy?

He was playing the long game.

-to be continued-

For a brief moment, the Snitch hovered motionless, suspended in the air like a glimmering star caught between beats of time.

And then,  in a flash of silver and green, Draco shot upward from below, a streak of momentum breaking through the swirling dust and wind. His hand, steady and sure, reached out with perfect precision. In a single, fluid motion, his fingers closed tightly around the Snitch, capturing it with the ease of someone who had always known it was his to claim.

It was like watching a serene, untouched lake surface shatter, a great fish leaping from the depths with its mouth wide open to snatch its prey. The stadium seemed to hold its breath for a heartbeat before erupting into deafening screams and cheers, the sound crashing down like a tidal wave of excitement.

The wind tore through Draco’s pale blond hair as he hovered high above the pitch, the sunlight catching in each strand and making it gleam like a halo. He wore a grin that was both triumphant and effortless, as if he had never once doubted the outcome, as if victory had been stitched into his very bones. For a fleeting second, he looked almost angelic, radiant and untouchable against the backdrop of the golden sky.

But there was nothing angelic about Draco Malfoy.

The announcement rang out, sharp and exultant over the roar of the crowd:

"Slytherin wins!"

The entire stadium erupted into a frenzy of applause and shouts, the stands shaking with the force of collective celebration. Banners waved wildly, house colors blending into a vibrant sea of green and silver as Slytherin students leapt to their feet, chanting and clapping.

Draco descended slowly, savoring every second, the captured Snitch still fluttering weakly in his hand, as if even it understood who had truly conquered it.

-------

The stadium had dissolved into chaos, the good kind. Students poured from the stands like a flood, racing down the steps to swarm the field. Cheers echoed from every corner as house banners flapped wildly in the wind, and the cheerleaders hurled their golden and silver pompoms into the air, letting them rain down like glittering confetti.

Even though Hufflepuff hadn’t claimed victory, their students still spilled onto the pitch with bright smiles and open arms, surrounding their team in a tight, laughing circle. There were no tears, only pride and warmth as they hugged their exhausted players, clapping them on the backs and ruffling their hair. It was a celebration of spirit, not just score.

On the other side, the Slytherins were a storm of green and silver, fierce and unrelenting in their joy. They swarmed around Draco and the rest of the team, shouting triumphantly, their voices rising above the others. Hands gripped shoulders, arms thrown around necks, as they reveled in their well-earned victory.

Beside you, your friend walked quietly, her steps slowing as her eyes swept over the sea of people on the field. You noticed the way her gaze drifted, subtle but persistent, drawn again and again to the celebrating Slytherin team.

Curious, your own eyes followed the invisible line of her stare, trying to pick out the figure among the crowd who had so completely captured her attention.

She didn’t say a word, but it was obvious. Her gaze lingered too long, tracing the green-cloaked figures with a mixture of longing and hesitation.

You understood, of course. As a Hufflepuff, it wasn’t exactly simple for her to cross the invisible line and approach a Slytherin. She couldn't just stride over and offer congratulations without drawing looks.

But even so, no matter how much her mind warned her away, her eyes betrayed her, flicking back again and again, unable to help themselves.

Standing at the very center of the roaring circle was Draco Malfoy. His pale hair caught the sunlight like molten silver, and his laughter rang out sharp and clear as he basked in the adoration of his teammates. Cocky as ever, he slapped hands and traded jeers with his fellow Slytherins.

And then, as if pulled by some invisible thread, his eyes shifted, sharp and sudden, locking directly onto you and your friend standing at the edge of the field.

That smirk, already stretched across his face, deepened into something even more insufferable. His lips curled back just enough to show the flash of white teeth, like fangs bared in challenge. You caught the flick of his tongue, slow and deliberate, as it swept across them. Every inch of him radiated the high of victory, the arrogance of someone who knew the world was watching and loving every second of it.

Your face stung.

Not from his gaze exactly, though that cut deeper than you cared to admit, but from the faint, burning scrape still lingering along your skin. The small cut you'd gotten during the match throbbed as if it had suddenly split wider, raw and exposed under the weight of his silver eyes, now glinting dangerously bright in the flood of attention and golden light.

Your jaw tightened. Your pulse hammered. And before your brain even caught up, your hand was already rising, fingers snapping into a sharp, unmistakable gesture. You shot your middle finger straight into the air, holding it up in full, defiant display.

Across the field, Draco’s grin only widened. He chuckled, a low, careless sound and turned his back on you, throwing his head back in laughter as his teammates pulled him back into their noisy celebration. Unbothered. Untouchable. As if your little act of rebellion was nothing more than an amusing flicker in his victorious day.

And that, somehow, made your face sting even more.

-------

Before either of you could make a move, you caught sight of him, a tall figure wrapped in the familiar green and silver of Slytherin. He turned slightly, just enough for his eyes to scan across the crowd… and land squarely on your friend.

Your stomach dipped as you realized. Slowly, almost on instinct, you shifted a subtle step away from her, giving just enough space as your gaze flickered back to the boy. He glanced around briefly, as if checking to make sure no professors or housemates were watching too closely, and then he started walking. Straight toward you two.

You leaned in, voice low but urgent.

“He’s heading to you.”

Your friend stiffened like she’d been hit with a Stunning Spell. Her head snapped toward you so fast it was a wonder her neck didn’t crack.

“Do I look okay? Why is he walking over here?”

Her words tumbled out in a panicked whisper, and you couldn’t help it, a small, amused giggle escaped your lips. Even the tips of her ears were flushed a deep pink, glowing like a beacon against her hair.

“Maybe because he wants to talk to you?”

You lifted a brow at her, stating the obvious, though she was clearly too deep in panic mode to process anything logical right now.

And then he was there, tall, broad-shouldered, shadowing both of you as he stopped right in front of her.

“Hey.”

His voice was low, rough around the edges in that casually cool way that made it clear he wasn’t nearly as nervous as your friend.

You felt more than saw the way her breath hitched, her throat working as she swallowed hard.

“H-hey…”

The word came out barely above a whisper, and you bit down on your lower lip to stop another laugh from slipping free. She was practically vibrating next to you, every inch of her screaming I am not nervous at all while her reddened ears and wide eyes betrayed her completely.

They exchanged a few words, awkward on her end, confident on his but your attention flickered sideways when you noticed movement from the Slytherin crowd. And there he was again.

Draco.

His silver-grey eyes had drifted over, watching the scene unfold with a predator’s calm. His expression didn’t change much, that same crooked smirk still curved his lips.

It wasn’t long before the peanut gallery got involved.

“You change your taste or something, dude?”

One of the boys in the same greenish cloak called out, his voice carrying just enough to cut through the noise. He laughed, sharp and mean, the kind of laugh meant to poke and prod.

Another chimed in, grinning like a devil. “Yeah? Since when did you get so bored?”

They all turned their attention your friend’s way, eyes raking over her with thinly veiled mockery, sizing her up like she was some curiosity they couldn’t quite believe.

Oh, these little gremlin bitches.

You could feel your jaw clench as the thought flashed through your mind. Your fingers twitched at your side, resisting the urge to throw another rude gesture just to shut them up.

Your friend’s smile faltered. You caught the exact moment her excitement crumpled into something small and fragile. Her eyes darted down, avoiding the boy’s gaze as color drained from her cheeks. Her posture shrank inward, and her fingers fidgeted nervously at her sides as though she wanted to disappear right then and there.

Shame? Embarrassment? Whatever it was, it hit her hard. Her head dipped, and you could already see the retreat forming in her body, her foot shifting backward as she prepared to step away from him to slip out of reach before the teasing could cut any deeper.

But before she could move, the boy’s hand shot out and caught her wrist. His grip wasn’t rough, but it was firm enough to stop her retreat. His face twisted into a scowl as he spun slightly on his heel, turning toward his snickering housemates.

“Shut up.”

His voice cracked like a whip, sharp and clear above the hum of the crowd. The laughter from the group faltered, one of the boys muttering something under his breath but otherwise backing off, clearly not interested in pushing further when their friend wasn’t playing along.

When the boy turned back to your friend, his face softened, not a full smile, but enough of a change that even you could see the shift. The grip on her wrist loosened, becoming more of a light touch before he let go entirely.

Your friend’s shoulders eased, just a little. Her breathing steadied, and while the redness lingered on her ears, some of the color crept back into her face. She lifted her eyes again, tentative but willing, and mumbled something back to him. Words you couldn’t quite catch, but enough to tell she wasn’t running this time.

The field around you was still a mess of bodies and noise: students clustered in loose groups, laughing, shouting, chattering over each other as they basked in the afterglow of the match. People moved in every direction, celebrating and jostling, too caught up in their own conversations to spare a glance at anyone else.

No one was paying attention to anyone.

And with your friend clearly distracted with her little crush, easing into her tentative conversation with the tall boy. You saw your chance.

Without a word, you shifted your weight, slipping sideways through a gap in the crowd. Your steps were quick but smooth, practiced, vanishing into the tide of people like a stone sinking beneath a river's surface.

Let them have their moment.

You had no intention of sticking around for the rest of this awkward circus.

-to be continued-

Your footsteps echoed softly against the stone floor as you slipped through the empty corridor, each step light and careful. You kept your head low, eyes flickering left and right, making absolutely sure no one was trailing behind you. The distant roar of celebration from the pitch was fading now, muffled by the thick walls of the castle. No one had noticed you slip away, not your friend, not the crowd, and hopefully not him.

Good.

Your hand closed around the handle of the door, and with a swift glance over your shoulder, you pushed it open just enough to slide inside.

The air inside the Slytherin changing room was cooler, still heavy with the sharp tang of sweat and leather, mixed faintly with that particular smell of damp stone that always lingered in the dungeons. It was empty, not a soul in sight. The victory celebration had bought you time, and now, with no eyes watching, a wicked little smile crept its way onto your lips.

You stepped further in, slower now but with growing confidence, your shoes making soft taps against the worn floor. The place was unmistakably a boys’ changing room, cluttered with the chaos only a Quidditch team could manage. In one corner, stacks of beaters’ bats and extra pads were thrown together in a heap that looked one rough landing away from collapsing. A few jerseys hung carelessly over the backs of benches, the emerald and silver colors catching the faint torchlight.

Your eyes dragged across the space until they landed on the neat rows of lockers lining the far wall. Narrow, tall, and uniform, at first glance, they all looked the same. But you knew better. Somewhere in this row was his.

You made your way toward them, your fingers trailing lightly over the cold metal doors as you passed each one.

Hmm. Which one belongs to Draco Malfoy?

Your lips curled as you scanned them, imagining the boy’s face in your mind’s eye. Flashy, arrogant, always with that smirk that made you want to slap it off and roll your eyes all at once. He liked attention, bathed in it, but he was also proud. Meticulous. The type who ironed his robes twice just to make sure the folds looked sharp enough to cut someone.

No doubt he cared about status and image.

But… would he go as far as to paint his locker gold?

Your brow arched, amusement flickering in your chest. Nah. Even Malfoy wasn’t that tacky. Probably.

Still, you could picture it: gilded edges, maybe a little family crest slapped on there for good measure. "Malfoy, heir of Slytherin Quidditch glory". You huffed quietly to yourself, biting back a snicker.

You glanced around the empty room once more, your ears straining for any distant footsteps or voices. Nothing but the low hum of silence and the occasional creak of old wood settling in the walls.

Truth be told, you didn’t actually know if there was a spell that could help you identify which locker belonged to whom. Maybe there was, but you hadn’t bothered to look it up. Besides, it turned out you didn’t need to.

Because among the rows of battered, worn-out lockers, one stood out like a sore thumb. Your eyes narrowed as you stepped closer.

Hogwarts was old, very old. The whole castle practically oozed with ancient magic and history, with walls that whispered and floors that groaned. The changing room was no different. The lockers were a collection of Hogwarts’ classic charm: scratched up, dented, with corners chipped and little doodles and crude carvings left by generations of bored students. Names half-scratched out, initials looped with hearts, childish insults etched in jagged letters.

But this locker…

This one was different.

Oh, it wasn’t perfect. There were a few faint dents and tiny scratches if you looked closely, no avoiding that in a place like this but it was obvious someone had gone out of their way to keep it clean. No doodles. No careless scribbles. Not a single foul word carved into the metal. Even the polish on it gleamed faintly in the torchlight, a little too pristine for such a grimy old room.

Your lips curled into a deeper, sharper grin.

Found you, Malfoy.

Without another thought, you drew your wand from your sleeve, the familiar wood settling easily in your hand. You aimed it at the locker door, your grin only growing as you whispered, “Alohomora.”

A soft click.

The latch popped open.

You blinked.

Seriously? That was it? No hexes? No jinxes waiting to blow your eyebrows off?

For someone as paranoid and status-obsessed as Draco Malfoy, you had expected at least a mild ward or a stinging hex, something to keep nosy hands away. But the door now stood slightly ajar, inviting and unprotected.

Either he was too arrogant to think anyone would dare touch his things…

Or no one had ever dared. Until now.

Your grin twisted into something wicked as you reached for the door, fingertips brushing the cool metal.

Maybe he should have.

------

The door creaked open a little wider under your hand, and you leaned in, eyes flicking over every inch of the space inside.

It was… Immaculate.

Not just "tidy" by schoolboy standards, no. This was obsessive, meticulous. Every item had its exact place, like pieces in a carefully arranged display rather than a locker meant for sweaty gear.

On one side, his Quidditch cloak lay neatly folded, not a single wrinkle in sight. Draped over it was a pair of fine leather gloves, the initials “D.L.M.” stitched subtly in silver thread near the cuffs as if anyone in this godforsaken castle would ever mistake his things for someone else's.

His gear gleamed like it had been polished just this morning and honestly, knowing Malfoy, it probably had. Nestled on the lower shelf was a slender charm you didn’t immediately recognize, but from the high-quality sheen of the bottle and the faint golden lettering, you guessed it was some kind of broom care kit. Probably Nimbus. Maybe even a custom Cleansweep polish. You weren’t exactly an expert, but you knew expensive when you saw it.

And then there was the charm.

Hung with deliberate care on a little hook at the back of the locker, it dangled in the still air, silver and green, colors so deeply Slytherin they practically hissed. A tiny snake was carved along its side, detailed and elegant, its little emerald eyes catching the flickering torchlight.

Of course.

This locker didn’t just say Draco Malfoy.

It screamed it.

This. Is. Draco. Lucius. Malfoy. Property.

The sheer arrogance of it rolled off the walls in waves. And for a second, you found yourself clenching your jaw a familiar sting blooming again at the side of your face, right where that thin cut still smarted from earlier.

You wanted revenge. Badly.

And yet…

Your gaze dropped to the gloves, the charm, the pristine order of everything. You weren’t stupid enough to touch his things. Not like that. You weren’t going to stoop to messing up his stuff like some petty thief. No, you had something else in mind.

You took a small step back, steadying your breath as you raised your wand. A wicked little smile pulled at your lips again.

With a whispered incantation, something small, harmless, but annoying enough to get under the skin, you let the tip of your wand glow faintly.

You clicked the locker shut again with a precise push, letting it fall back into place exactly as it had been. Neat. Untouched. Perfect.

Just like before.

You paused, your hand still resting against the now-closed locker. It looked untouched, pristine, just like before. Not a trace of your presence left behind.

Caenum Sternuo.

The memory came sharp and clear, the Weasley twins, cackling like hyenas as Filch had burst into a sneezing fit so violent it nearly knocked over his entire tea cupboard. You’d laughed so hard that day your ribs had hurt, and later, when you begged them to teach you the spell, they had been delighted to pass on the tradition.

But you weren’t done yet.

Your gaze slid sideways, toward the back of the room, where the showers stood.

Your lips twisted into something sharper, darker.

Oh, those little gremlins.

You could still hear their jeering voices back on the field, mocking your friend like they owned the air around them.

Well, maybe it was time they got a taste of their own medicine.

Humming lightly under your breath, some nameless tune that suddenly sounded ten times sweeter, you strode toward the showers. Wand up, you cast the same spell again, careful to spread it along the entrance where the steam would carry it perfectly.

Satisfied, you stepped back, letting out a little breath as you admired your handiwork. The room still looked empty. Innocent. No sign of the chaos you’d just planted.

With a little skip to your step, you spun on your heel and skittered out of the changing room, humming that tune a little louder now, like the melody itself was dancing along with you.

Payback never sounded so sweet.

------

His POV

The whole bloody match, I couldn’t focus.

Not because of the Snitch, not because of the stupid Hufflepuffs flapping around like headless owls. No.

Because YOU were there.

Standing in the stands like they belonged, giggling with that pathetic little Hufflepuff friend of yours. Giggling. Like some lovesick idiots who had nothing better to do than cackle about Merlin-knows-what while I was on the pitch, giving the entire damn stadium a show.

You didn’t even look at me. Well, you did. But not properly.

When everyone else had their eyes on me, every cheer, every scream ringing out my name, you were too busy whispering to that yellow-cloaked idiot. Too busy pretending I wasn’t right there.

It made my blood boil.

Made me want to snap my broom in half just to get their attention.

I wanted to shout. Scream their name so loud the entire pitch would go silent just to hear it. Force their eyes on me. Make them see me.

Why do I care? Why does it twist in my chest every time they look away?

Maybe it's that damned look in their eyes when they do look.

Like they see me, but look down at me at the same time.

Like I’m something beneath them.

I don’t take that. I don’t ever take that.

Especially not from a fucking Mudblood.

How dare they?

That's why I flew low when I passed their section, close enough to give them a taste of my broom’s wind. A warning. A reminder.

And when I saw that small cut on their face just a thin line, but enough to sting, it made something dark and ugly in me purr with satisfaction.

Wasn’t my intention. But Merlin, did it feel good.

The grin that stretched my lips then… yeah, I didn't even try to hide it.

Serves them right.

I won.

I caught the damn Snitch.

I gave them a show so brilliant even the announcer nearly choked screaming “Slytherin wins!”

But somehow, I’m still pissed.

Because while the entire bloody stadium was roaring my name, you didn’t even flinch.

Didn’t even care who won.

Still hanging around with that stupid Hufflepuff friend like it was some picnic outing instead of my victory.

Laughing. Smiling. Like the match didn’t even matter.

And Mattheo?

Since when did he get tangled up with a Hufflepuff?

He’s supposed to be smarter than that.

I scowl as I shove open the door to the changing room, the team already flooding in, loud, sweaty, all high on the win. I peel off my gloves, tug at the laces of my cloak, the victory already souring in my mouth.

And then, like rubbing salt in the wound, I hear it.

One of the lads, Warrington or Vaisey, I don’t care elbowing Mattheo with that dumb, lopsided grin.

"Who was that girl earlier?" he asks, voice full of teasing.

The whole room goes quiet for a beat, every idiot in green suddenly interested.

Mattheo barely even looks up as he opens his locker, shoving his gear inside.

"Someone I’ve been talking to," he says, like it’s no big deal. Like it’s normal.

And then the other bloke laughs, this loud, grating sound that makes my jaw tighten.

"She’s obviously into you, dude."

I glare at my locker, fingers curling tighter around the straps of my gear.

What the fuck is so funny about that?

Why does it feel like my skin is crawling under my own clothes?

Mattheo just shrugs, all casual confidence like he’s already won.

"I know."

The room erupts with that stupid “Oooohh!” sound, like we’re back in third year and this is the most scandalous gossip they’ve ever heard.

I rip at the buttons on my shirt, too forceful, nearly popping one clean off.

"Then why haven’t you made the move?" the idiot keeps pressing, too nosy for his own good.

Mattheo slings his bag out of the locker, grinning like he owns the whole bloody world.

"It’s way more interesting going back and forth with her," he says. "I plan to ask her out some other time. Just not now."

And with that, he strides out of the room, leaving the rest of them laughing and jeering like fools.

I stand there, jaw clenched so hard it aches, my shirt half-off and my head spinning.

Interesting, is it?

Back and forth, is it?

I bite back the snarl rising in my throat.

Fucking Inkworm. Laughing around like they’ve got nothing to worry about.

Like they’re so far above it all.

"Isn’t the one you keep picking on friends with that Hufflepuff?"

Someone says it, lazy and loud, just as I drop down on the bench, my back damp with sweat, my arms already aching from peeling off the gear.

I huff out a breath, a smirk twisting at my lips.

"Yeah. That loser and their little stupid friend," I mutter with a chuckle, remembering the way they looked today.

Annoyed.

Angry.

But forced to swallow it all down while standing there like a fool.

Priceless.

Probably the same reason they snapped last week. Like a fucking rabid dog.

Snarling and biting like they’d lost their mind.

And Merlin,  the thought makes something tight coil in my chest.

That sudden flash of teeth. That reckless fire in their eyes.

It should make me want to laugh.

It should.

But instead- 

Fuck.

I scrub a hand down my face, trying to shake the image out of my head before it digs deeper.

I don’t want to remember that.

Don’t want to remember the way they grabbed me — skin on skin.

Filthy little Mudblood with their disgusting hands on me.

Close enough that I could feel their breath. See every flicker of defiance in those eyes like they weren’t afraid of me.

The nerve.

Looking down on me.

Mocking me.

Snapping back every word I throw like they’ve got nothing to lose.

Rabid dog doesn’t even cover it.

No.

Firecracker. Unpredictable. Loud. Explosive.

Something you want to stamp out but can’t stop poking just to see if it blows.

My fists clench without me meaning to, nails biting into my palms.

I swear, next time, I’ll make sure they can’t even look at me without remembering their place.

I twist my locker open like I always do, not thinking twice.

And then I hear it.

That weird, wet sneezing sound.

Like some sick bastard hacking up their lungs.

At first, I just freeze, frowning into the empty space inside, everything looks normal.

But before my brain even catches up.

BANG

The locker sneezes. Violently. Loud.

And suddenly I’m drenched.

Thick.

Green.

Slimy.

It splatters across my face, down my chest, dripping off my chin. I can feel it sliding into my collar, cold and disgusting. Behind me, someone screams, others start yelling, jumping back.

I cough, gagging, wiping at my face with both hands but it just smears worse.

“Gross! What the fuck is this?” someone asked in the chaos.

I choke out, spitting the taste out of my mouth. It smells like wet moss and dragon snot.

My blood goes cold then hot.

Someone hexed my locker.

Who the-

And then it clicks.

That fucking bitch.

The one grinning at me earlier like they’d won something even when they lost.

The rabid dog.

The firecracker.

Snarling, I shove the locker shut so hard it rattles and storm toward the showers, other blokes around me gagging and groaning, their gear already splashed with the same crap.

We all stumble into the stalls, yanking the taps open.

And that’s when it gets worse.

The fucking showerheads cough.

Like old, dying lungs.

And then they start sneezing too, blasting out that same green sludge, pouring down on our heads.

It’s everywhere.

The floor. The walls. Dripping from the ceiling.

Sticky and thick, and the showers just keep coughing and wheezing like they’re alive.

“WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS SPELL?!” I roar, slamming my fist against the tile as more of that shit splashes in my hair.

Someone behind me yells, slipping in the slime. Another one is dry-heaving in the corner.

My fists curl so tight they shake.

You motherfucking Mudblood.

I’m going to kill them.

I swear on Salazar’s grave.

I’m going to find that little rat, and I’m going to make sure they never forget what happens when they mess with me.

-to be continued- 

It had been a couple of days now. Quiet days. Suspiciously peaceful, really. Not a single green cloak had crossed your path with their usual snide comments or shoves in the hallway. No muttered insults. No cheap hexes tossed behind your back.

Because they were all too busy rotting in the infirmary.

Hah. Serves them right.

You could almost picture it: the mighty Slytherin elite, coughing their lungs out, sneezing until their noses turned as red as Weasley’s hair, wheezing pathetically as they huddled in bed with glazed, teary eyes. And let’s not forget the splitting headaches that hex of yours liked to gift on the side.

The beauty of it? It wasn’t serious enough to get you in deep trouble. No, just a nasty little cold that clung to them like a curse for a week, long enough to make them miserable, and definitely long enough to sabotage their precious Quidditch practice. Merlin knows, there’s nothing a Slytherin hates more than looking weak on the pitch.

You hummed softly, almost tunelessly, as you strolled through the corridor, your steps light with the satisfaction of a job well done. The hall was packed, students flowing past like a river, their chatter blending into a constant hum. Everyone minding their business, wrapped up in their own little worlds.

But then, you saw it. A flash of green at the corner of your eye.

There he was.

Even through the crowd, your eyes locked on him instantly. Draco Malfoy. Blond, smug, and somehow still managing to look like he owned the bloody corridor despite looking like absolute hell.

You had half a mind to just walk past. Blend in. Treat this like any other day. But, of course, he wouldn’t let that happen.

The moment your paths aligned, his sharp, drawling voice cut through the noise like a blade.

"Nice scar you have there," Malfoy sneered, tilting his chin up just enough to make you want to slap that look right off his pale face. His lips curled in that familiar, infuriating smirk. "Adds some character to that boring little Mudblood face of yours.”

Ah. There it was. The usual slime oozing out of his mouth like clockwork.

This guy just never gets tired, does he?

Your first instinct was to roll your eyes so hard they might fall out, but then, your memory flared. The sting of the cut he’d given you back at the stadium, fresh and vivid. No, you weren’t letting him have the last word today.

You slowed your steps, turning toward him with deliberate ease. You could feel the grin pulling at your lips before the words even left your mouth.

"You look awful, Malfoy," you said, voice low and laced with mock sweetness. Your smile sharpened as you let your gaze rake over him, slow and scathing. "Caught something nasty, did you? You and your little fan club all look like death warmed over.”

The words hit their mark. You could see it in the flicker behind his cold grey eyes, and you drank it in like victory.

Honestly, they did look pathetic. All of them, his usual goons standing just a step behind him, sniffling and trying to look menacing through their obvious misery.

And Malfoy… he looked worse up close. His usual pristine appearance was a mess. The tip of his aristocratic nose was raw and red, proof of too many tissues. He had one clutched in his hand even now, crumpled and damp. His famous platinum hair, normally so carefully parted and slicked back hung slightly limp, just disheveled enough to make him look human for once. There were shadows smudged beneath his sharp silver eyes, dulling their usual gleam, and his lips… pale, drained of their usual color.

He was still trying to smirk, to hold up that stupid Slytherin pride, but you could see the cracks.

Pathetic, you thought, the grin on your face stretching wider. Absolutely pathetic.

And Merlin, it felt good.

---

Now, you did feel bad.

But not in the way most people would expect.

You felt bad because sickness had drained all that polished, painted perfection right off Malfoy’s face. That sculpted, high-and-mighty look he always wore like armor? Gone. All that was left was skin gone too pale, lips leeched of color, and those famously sharp eyes weighed down by tiredness and streaked with red.

There was a cloud hanging over him, you could almost see it, scattered across the lines of his face, pulling at the corners of his mouth, dimming that usual silver gleam. He looked weak.

Poor boy, you mused with mock pity.

As if. He deserved every miserable minute of it, for all the times he’d messed with you and your friends, hexed you from behind, and sneered like he ruled the world.

Do you feel victorious?

A little. Enough to make your chest swell.

Would you do it again?

Absolutely. No doubt. No second thoughts.

His little gang, Crabbe, Goyle, and the other sniffling Slytherins twisted their faces at your words, eyebrows drawing together like they couldn’t quite believe you dared to speak to them like that. They didn’t look so tough now, not with their watery eyes and red noses. They looked like a pack of oversized toddlers on the verge of a tantrum.

Malfoy himself was a picture of barely-contained fury. His hands had balled into fists so tight you could see the knuckles strain against his skin. His jaw clenched, sharp enough to cut glass, but no words came out, not immediately. His mouth opened, then shut again, like his brain couldn’t pick which insult would sting you back the hardest.

His bloodshot eyes locked on yours, and for a second you couldn’t tell if they were blazing with anger or just raw from the cold. But the corners, yeah, you caught that, stung red from the constant watery sneezing that had clearly been tormenting him.

You could’ve laughed right then. A loud, full-bodied laugh that echoed through the hallway.

But you had to hold it in. Barely.

Instead, you smiled, slow, wicked, curling up at the edges like you had the world’s best secret.

"Hope it’s not contagious," you murmured, voice dripping with false concern as your eyes flicked over the entire group, scanning them up and down like they were bugs under glass. "Wouldn’t want the whole school turning as ugly as you lot.”

That’s what you thought.

His breath hitched. His cheeks, already flushed from fever and irritation, darkened with a fresh wave of rage.

"Shut your mouth before I-" he barked, stepping forward with a thud of his polished shoes against the stone floor. His voice cracked halfway, rough and raw from whatever virus was still clinging to him.

You didn’t flinch. Instead, you let out a soft, bright laugh, the kind that sliced through the tension like a blade and leaned back just a little, crouching slightly as though warding him off like he was diseased filth.

"Before you what?" you shot back, your voice sweet as sugar but sharp as a hex. "Cough on me? That’s real scary, Malfoy. I’d hate to catch whatever disgusting thing’s festering in you and your stupid little friends.”

That creeping flush bloomed brighter on his pale skin, a blotchy red that climbed up his neck and into his cheeks. His gang, usually quick to parrot whatever threat he spat out, were frozen. Eyes wide, mouths parted in shock. They even looked at each other like they couldn’t believe what they’d just heard.

Like a bunch of idiots caught in a sudden downpour.

And you? You couldn’t stop the laugh this time. It bubbled out, light and mocking.

Yeah, right. Because most of the time, you do avoid them. You pretend to be scared, keep your head down just enough so they get bored and leave you alone. That’s the game you’ve played, stay under the radar, pick your battles.

But not today. Not when they look like this.

"You filthy-" Draco started, voice raw and hoarse like gravel scraping against stone. But the insult broke apart mid-syllable, crumbling into nothing as the congestion clawing at his throat caught him by surprise.

He coughed. Loud.

His whole body jerked forward with the force of it, shoulders curling in as his hand flew up to cover his mouth. The pathetic, rattling sound echoed off the high stone walls of the corridor, bouncing back louder than it had any right to.

And that was enough to draw attention.

A few passing students slowed, then smirked when they caught sight of the infamous Draco Malfoy reduced to a wheezing mess. Snickers flared up from the crowd. Hushed laughs and whispers that made his ears turn an even deeper shade of red.

You clicked your tongue, slow and exaggerated, as you tilted your head at him. Your eyes, wide and glittering with fake concern, never left his face.

"Tsk. Didn’t even last two seconds before choking," you said sweetly, voice cutting like a blade sheathed in velvet. Then you let your smile curl wider, twisting into something more wicked.

"I didn’t know pureblood constitution was this fragile."

Your words slithered into the space between you, low and sharp with mockery. And oh. You could see it in the way his jaw clenched and his shoulders tensed beneath the weight of humiliation.

"Big words," Draco ground out, voice still cracked and rough, "from someone who hides behind cheap hexes and the little Hufflepuff friend."

He stepped in closer, eyes glassy and bloodshot but still latching onto you like a predator too proud to admit it was wounded.

And there it was, that familiar whiff of his peppermint cologne. Sharp and fresh. It tangled with the faint scent of menthol and sickness. It hit your lungs, and you had to stifle a laugh at how ridiculous it all was.

Here he was, dragging himself forward, red-faced and fever-flushed, still trying to act tough in public. Still trying to play the role of untouchable Slytherin prince even while his body betrayed him with every cough and every staggered breath.

Your grin stayed fixed on your lips as your eyes flickered over him, drinking in the details like they were little trophies.

His white hands, pale as bone were wrapped tight around his own neck, slender fingers pressing against his throat as he coughed again, trying to steady himself. The bob of his Adam’s apple jumped with the motion. His eyes, rimmed red and watery, blinked hard like he was fighting back another fit. Even the corners were pink, raw from how much he must’ve been rubbing at them.

And yet… even like this, even when he looked like a sickly rat cornered in broad daylight… he still managed to look pretty.

And that fact made something bitter flicker in your chest.

Jealous, maybe.

Stupidly, annoyingly jealous that someone could look like that, bloodshot, coughing, miserable and still have a face carved like it belonged in a portrait gallery.

Your teeth pressed lightly into your lower lip as you held back the laugh bubbling in your throat.

Because Merlin, it was funny. Watching Draco Malfoy try to tower over you when he could barely keep his lungs from betraying him.

And yet, you couldn’t tear your eyes away.

---

"I don’t need to hide, Malfoy."

Your voice was steady and edged as you lifted your chin, just enough to catch the light and throw it right back at him. Your gaze pinned him, sharp as a hex. "Unlike you, always whining to your little goons when someone hits harder than you can handle.”

His jaw locked, so tight you caught the sharp little tic in his cheek where the muscle jumped. His throat bobbed.

For a breathless beat, neither of you moved.

The corridor’s usual hum dulled, faded, like the entire castle had shrunk down, collapsing into this charged, tight space between your bodies. Like the whole world had gone still just to watch this moment stretch thinner, hotter.

Because his stare flickered, dropped, unsteady. First to your scar, tracing the mark like it was a roadmap to something he wasn’t sure he wanted to find. Then lower, lingering just a fraction too long before his mouth tightened.

And, you noticed.

Not that you cared.

Because you were just as bad, your own eyes flickering over every inch of his face like you had to memorize how sick and furious and stupidly pretty he looked all at once. The flush staining his pale skin, the sheen of fever dampening his hairline, the breath he dragged through flared nostrils like he was barely keeping it together.

"Pathetic," he muttered finally, louder now, projected for the crowd that had started paying real attention. His voice rasped rough in his throat, but the word still struck like a slap.

"You’re not worth the dirt on my shoes, mudblood.”

You stepped back first.

Not because he’d won. Not out of fear.

But because something in your chest kicked too hard. Like if you didn’t put space between you right now, you might explode, just like last time. Like you’d either end up hexing him into next week…

Or you’d grab his stupid, flushed, fever-warm face and kiss him senseless just to shut that filthy mouth for good.

Your smile didn’t falter though, it stretched wider, almost sweet as poison.

"Say that again when you stop staring at me like you’re constipated."

His face snapped taut. The pink flush deepened up his throat, over his ears and for a second, you swore you saw something flicker behind his eyes. Embarrassment? Rage? Something sharper, messier?

Malfoy straightened abruptly, spine stiff as a rod, and smoothed his robes with a flick so sharp it looked violent. Like he was physically reclaiming space, pushing back against the charge crackling in the air between you both.

He lifted his chin, schooling his face back into that old, practiced sneer.

The tightness in his throat.

The way his chest heaved, struggling to get enough air through the lingering congestion.

The raw, red rims of his eyes that blinked once, slow and heavy.

You just stood there, smiling like you hadn’t almost lost your mind for a heartbeat.

---

Even like this, miserable and flushed, with his breath rattling and his eyes rimmed raw, he still tickled something stupid in you.

Well. That was your problem, wasn’t it? You had a soft spot for pretty faces. Liked to look at them, admire the artistry.

But this guy.

It was like God sculpted this motherfucker out of marble, gave him the bone structure of an angel, every sharp angle and soft curve perfectly placed then went, “You know what? Let’s ruin it.”

Slapped on a personality so vile it made your teeth grind.

Made you want to smash that perfect face in, just to see what cracked open.

Would it be as empty as his foul words?

Or hollow like a pit so deep, even he hadn’t figured out what rotted at the bottom yet?

You almost snorted.

He really did look better when he couldn’t speak, when all that venom choked itself in his raw throat.

Your lips curled, slow and deliberate, stretching into a grin that was anything but kind.

"I feel bad now. Bullying someone who’s sick."

The grin deepened, carved sharper as you stepped closer, close enough that your breath fanned hot against his pale face.

You dropped your voice low, soft as silk but laced with barbed wire.

"Get well soon, princess.”

You made sure to draw out that last word, sugary and high-pitched, dripping with mockery. Your eyes dragged over him, every inch, as if you were sizing up a dead animal on the side of the road.

Draco’s jaw clenched so tight you swore you could hear his teeth grind.

His breath wheezed thin and shallow through his flared nostrils, chest hitching like it hurt to even pull in air. His throat worked once, struggling to swallow whatever curse he wanted to spit back.

Satisfied, you shoved past his little gang, shoulders hitting them a bit harder than necessary, just to feel that jolt of contact. They flinched but didn’t stop you, glaring uselessly as you slipped back into the current of students flooding the corridor.

You didn’t look back.

Didn’t need to.

You could practically feel the heat of his glare burning into the back of your head. Could hear the wet splutter of another cough as he choked on rage or phlegm, hard to tell which.

Your grin stayed stretched across your face, teeth flashing bright as you melted into the crowd.

All the way to class, it lingered.

Sticky-sweet and victorious.

And maybe, just maybe, a little too pleased with how good it felt to wreck that perfect, awful boy’s morning.

-to be continue-

You were in too good a mood to sleep.

There was something about the night, the way the castle sighed with silence, how the torches whispered as they flickered on ancient stone walls, that made the idea of a midnight celebration snack feel not only justified, but necessary.

So you slipped from your dorm with a grin tugging at your lips, your steps light as air and silent from experience. Filch was probably drooling into some dusty pillow three floors up, and Mrs. Norris hadn’t sniffed you out yet. You’d done this a dozen times. Easy.

The corridor yawned ahead, cast in that familiar warm flicker of torchlight. Shadows danced along the walls, your own gliding beside you like a playful ghost. You started to hum, something aimless, cheerful, the kind of melody that only makes sense in the quiet of night.

The kitchen door creaked open with a groan.

Inside, the warmth and scent of leftover feasts clung to the air. You made a beeline for the counter, snatching up a greedy fistful of candies from the bowl left out by the ever-forgiving house-elves. A few snack packets disappeared into your hoodie pocket before you popped a sweet into your mouth and strolled out again, still humming under your breath.

You paused just outside the kitchen, eyes scanning the corridor. Nothing.

Coast clear.

You slipped into the hallway again, steps easy, head filled with sugar and soft music. You rounded the corner near the lower halls and that’s when it hit you.

A chill swept over the nape of your neck.

Like something ancient and unseen had stirred. Like cold breath down your spine, like the air itself had turned to watch you. You froze mid-step.

And then it crept in, slow, sinuous, unmistakable.

Like a snake slithering across your feet, winding up your legs, its body coiling tighter and tighter until it draped itself around your neck, squeezing just enough to make your skin crawl.

Your hum died instantly.

The voice slithered from the dark like the thing you imagined, it was smooth, low, and curling with amusement that didn’t feel entirely sane. 

"Going somewhere, are we?"

Draco Malfoy stepped out from the shadows, wand already raised with practiced ease. The dim torchlight caught in his pale hair and danced across his sharp features, making his grey eyes gleam cold and furious. He looked like something conjured from the dark, dangerous, beautiful, and absolutely livid.

Your heart leapt straight into your throat.

“Bloody hell,” you breathed, staggering back a step before you caught yourself. “You scared the absolute shit out of me.”

He didn’t smile. Of course he didn’t.

His shadow stretched long across the stone floor, merging with yours until it swallowed it whole, towering, heavy, unyielding. You hated how it made you feel cornered, even though you weren’t.

“What the fuck do you want, Malfoy?” The words came out hard, jagged. Not really a question. More like a warning: you didn’t have the time or energy for his bullshit tonight. Not with everything else going on.

Draco's lip curled, subtle and razor-edged. He took a slow step closer, eyes never leaving yours. “Maybe I just missed your charming attitude,” he drawled, low and mocking. But the fury underneath it, the barely-contained tension in his jaw and the grip on his wand, it said otherwise.

---

With his wand pointed like that, of course you were more cautious.

Your eyes flicked to his hand, then back to his face, then again to the tip of his wand. His jaw was set. His nostrils flared. Oh yeah, he was pissed.

“What,” you drawled, stuffing the last of your snacks into the depths of your cloak pocket, “you gonna hex me or something?”

You straightened your spine, meeting his gaze like he hadn’t just emerged from the dark like a curse with legs. 

Draco’s lips curled, voice thick with venom. “Yeah. And I’m gonna make sure it lasts ‘til you get the fuck out of this school.”

His silver eyes locked onto yours, flaring like tempered steel just before the strike.

“Yeah, right,” you muttered, trying not to grin. You saw the flicker in his wrist, the twitch of intent.

And then. You didn’t even hesitate.

You ran.

Your shoes slapped against the cold stone like a starting gun, cloak whipping around your ankles as you bolted. Breath catching sharp in your throat, you tore down the corridor as fast as your legs would carry you.

“Don’t you dare run from me!” he roared behind you, his voice a snarl ripping through the silence. “I swear to Merlin, I’ll hex that smug smile right off your bloody face!”

Yeah, yeah. Sure you will, motherfucker.

You didn’t look back. Just ran harder.

This corridor was the wrong direction, opposite your dorm but what choice did you have? Malfoy had his wand out, and you weren’t exactly trying to get turned into a toad in the middle of the hallway.

You hit the stairs fast.

One, two, three steps at a time, teeth gritted, eyes on your feet so you didn’t trip and die like some cliché from a third-rate horror flick. Your lungs were burning now. Your legs screamed.

Of course he’d chase you.

Of course.

The sharp slap of his shoes echoed behind you, closing in. He wasn’t yelling anymore but you could hear him. His breathing was ragged, wild, but determined. And every footstep was a drumbeat of rage.

Your breath came out in gasps, each one fogging in the chill that clung to the lower levels. The flickering torches were fewer down here, shadows stretching long and crooked across the walls. The air felt thick, like it remembered things it shouldn’t.

The footsteps grew louder. Faster. Closer.

------

“Petrificus!”

The hex sizzled through the air like a bolt of lightning, too close. You barely ducked in time. It grazed your shoulder, missing by inches, and slammed into the stone wall beside you with a sharp crack, leaving behind a scorched black mark that hissed faint smoke.

He was actually trying to hex you.

Adrenaline flooded your system, making your limbs feel shaky and electric. You twisted down another corridor, feet skidding on the slick, uneven floor. One misstep and you’d be on your ass or worse.

Your breath was ragged now, each inhale scraping down your throat like sandpaper. Your legs felt like rubber, like they weren’t really yours anymore. You could hear him behind you, still chasing you like some vengeful curse with a grudge and a wand.

And then you saw it.

A door. Old, rusted, ancient-looking. The thick iron frame was cracked open just enough for someone desperate to slip through. It looked heavy. Probably cursed.

You didn’t think.

You dove.

With a hard shove, you forced the door open enough to squeeze through, shoulder scraping the edge. The room beyond was pitch-black, the air cold and stale. You didn’t have time to think about what it was or where it led because just as you turned to slam the door shut.

A hand shot out.

Malfoy lunged in after you like a hunter grabbing its prey, fingers locking tight around your sleeve.

“Got you-”

He shoved the door wider and threw his weight into it, sending both of you stumbling inside. You nearly tripped over your own feet, arms pinwheeling as you caught yourself before hitting the floor.

You spun around, chest heaving.

He looked like hell, hair mussed, robes askew, wand raised again, his expression wild and furious. 

And still too pretty for someone who just tried to hex your spine in half.

“Not so fast now, are you?” he growled, eyes glittering as he reached for your wrists again.

“Oh, fuck off-”

You yanked hard, twisting your body, and in the struggle, your elbow slammed against the inside of the door. The iron groaned.

Then slammed shut behind him.

CLUNK.

And then, like some cruel joke written into the castle itself, the unmistakable click of an ancient locking charm echoed through the air.

A cold, silencing sound.

Fuck.

You both froze.

Draco blinked at the door. Then at you.

“…What the fuck did you just do?!”

You blinked right back at him, chest heaving, sweat clinging to your spine like a second skin. You didn’t even bother answering. Your hand flew to the iron handle, fingers wrapping tight as you yanked with all your strength.

Nothing. Not even a rattle.

The damn thing didn’t budge, like it had fused with the surrounding stone, as if the castle itself had decided, Nope. You’re not going anywhere.

You tried again, both hands this time, throwing your weight into it. Still nothing. It was like pulling against a mountain.

And that’s when it sank in.

That cold, sinking feeling that started in your gut and spread outward like frost on glass.

You were locked in.

No windows. No lights, save for the dim flicker of an enchanted torch high on the wall, barely illuminating the room. No noise but the sound of your heavy breathing and his, still ragged from the chase.

No windows. No lights, save for the dim flicker of an enchanted torch high on the wall, barely illuminating the room. No noise but the sound of your heavy breathing and his, still ragged from the chase.

-----

The darkness pressed in thick and heavy, muffling sound and swallowing space. The faint flicker of the lone torch barely lit more than a few feet ahead, casting long, warped shadows on the stone walls.

You didn’t know what kind of room this was, just that it felt ancient, forgotten. The kind of place that wasn’t meant to be found, let alone escaped from.

And now you were trapped in it. With him.

You stood there, frozen in a mix of panic and disbelief, your breath still coming too fast to think clearly. Cold sweat slid down your spine as your mind churned, trying to process how this happened and how to fix it.

Then his voice cut through the dark like a dagger.

“You absolute idiot!”

The sound bounced off the walls, echoing too loud, stabbing straight into your already pounding skull. You flinched, turning toward him sharply, jabbing your finger in his direction as you stepped forward.

“Me?! You’re the one who chased me in here like some rabid ferret!”

He pointed at the door, voice rising. “You ran into a door with a cursed locking charm!”

“I didn't know it had a cursed locking charm!”

He opened his mouth to argue again, then shut it with a growl and turned away from you, pacing in a tight circle like a caged beast. His cloak swirled around his legs as he muttered something under his breath that definitely included your name and at least three creative swear words.

You were locked in a stone room with Draco bloody Malfoy in the middle of the night, and Merlin only knew how deep this part of the dungeons even went.

This was going to be hell.

Even in the dim light, you could see how flushed his face was, red with fury and exhaustion. His platinum-blond hair was wild from the chase, stuck in sharp angles like it was trying to escape his scalp. His chest rose and fell with ragged breaths, and his wand hand twitched like he was one second away from doing something truly stupid.

This is a school. A dungeon, sure, but still, used by students, by professors. There had to be a way out.

“I mean, what kind of room locks itself from the inside?” you muttered, more to yourself than to him. “What the hell kind of security design is that?”

“One meant to keep people in, clearly,” Draco bit back, behind you.

You swore you saw a vein pulsing at his temple.

You groaned and threw your hands in the air, stepping back before you threw something heavy at him. “I’m not standing here all night arguing with your idiot logic.”

You turned away and started pacing along the wall, your fingers brushing against the rough, ancient stone as you moved. Squinting into the shadows, you looked for cracks, outlines, anything that resembled a seam or an exit.

Each step along the curved wall made your boots scuff against the uneven floor. You pushed along it, hoping to find a latch, a lever, maybe even a secret passage because this is Hogwarts, and it loved its dramatic bullshit.

----

Behind you, you heard him sputter, all wounded ego and righteous fury.

“Oi! Where the hell do you think you’re going?!”

Away from you.

You didn’t even grace him with a look. “It’s so fucking dark- light up, will you?”

“Fuck, I’m not a Crup,” he snapped, voice rising like a kid throwing a tantrum. “Don’t tell me what to do!”

You rolled your eyes so hard it nearly gave you a headache. “Okay, then trip over your own feet.”

You kept walking, arms stretched out slightly, fingers brushing the damp stone wall to guide yourself through the pitch-black dungeon. The floor was uneven, the air thick with dust and chill, and every step was a gamble.

Behind you, his footsteps grew louder, faster, and more agitated.

“Hey! Listen when I’m talking to you!”

You didn’t stop. “Well, I’m busy trying to find a way out since someone’s too busy foaming at the mouth to be even remotely useful.”

The air sparked with tension. You could feel it, hear it, the low mutter of curses behind you, the angry scuff of his expensive shoes against stone, the sharp hiss of his breath as he barely held his temper in check.

And then, of course, because the universe hated you.

Your shoes caught on something, maybe your shoelace. A raised edge in the floor or a loose stone, you didn’t know but your body pitched forward. With a short yelp, you threw your hands out, just managing to catch yourself against the wall before your face kissed the ground.

You stood there, frozen, heart pounding in your ears.

Behind you, Draco’s voice, low and venomous:

“For fuck’s sake-”

Then a pause. A muttered sigh of deep, exhausted hatred.

“Lumos.”

The tip of his wand lit up with a small but steady glow, casting golden light over the corridor and your now half-crouched, definitely irritated form. Shadows shifted on the walls, long and twisting, as the two of you were finally granted a shred of visibility.

He stalked closer, wand raised, the light flickering in the silver of his eyes. His jaw clenched tight, his expression twisted into that signature disgusted-prince look he wore like a badge of honor.

“Honestly,” he grumbled under his breath. “I should’ve just hexed you unconscious and dragged your corpse back upstairs.”

“If you managed to find a way out” You brushed yourself off, refusing to dignify that with a reply. “Great. Thanks for the light. Maybe now you’ll actually be useful.”

For a moment, neither of you said a word.

Only the frantic echoes of your breathing filled the dark chamber, mingling with the faint, rhythmic drip of water somewhere deeper in the dungeon’s depths. The sound was distant but constant, like the castle itself was exhaling slowly in the silence.

“Why do I even have to follow you around?” he muttered bitterly, pushing past you with a shoulder bump that wasn’t subtle. His wandlight swung ahead as he took the lead with an exaggerated huff.

You rolled your eyes, too exhausted to rise to the bait. Childish. So childish. Let him stomp around like a moody hippogriff. Whatever.

He shined the light across the damp stone floor, grimacing as it revealed patches of moss and the occasional suspicious glisten. “Ugh. Where the hell is this place? Sticky, dark, wet-”

You scoffed, voice flat. “It’s called a dungeon. You know, the ones right near your own common room? How the fuck do you not know?”

He halted, spine stiffening. Then slowly turned, eyes flashing. “As if anyone actually wanders down this far!”

You shrugged. “Only a coward wouldn’t.”

In one quick movement, he spun around and stalked back toward you, the light from his wand bouncing wildly across the walls. Before you could take a step back, he was right there, too close. You stumbled slightly, back pressing into the cold wall behind you.

“What?!” you snapped, eyes narrowing as you tipped your chin up to meet him, refusing to flinch.

“Why can’t you just shut up for five seconds?” he growled, his hand planting firmly on your shoulder to pin you in place. It wasn’t hard, more a warning than a threat but your back thudded against the stone anyway, heart jumping in your throat.

You glared at him. “Oh, and your mouth’s suddenly sealed shut, is it?”

You smacked his hand off your shoulder, hard enough to make a point and it dropped, but he didn’t move back.

He stayed right there.

Close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath on your cheek. Close enough to count the tiny flecks of silver in his storm-grey eyes. His chest was still rising fast from the chase, from the argument, from, whatever this was now.

“Move!” you said, voice low.

----

The dungeon rumbled.

Not just a tremor, but a full-bodied shudder that rolled through the floor like a wave, jerking under your feet. Dust sifted down from the ceiling. The ancient stones of the walls began to shift, move. Grinding, groaning. Like the castle was awakening after centuries of sleep.

Draco’s eyes darted to the ceiling, to the walls, then to you, wide and white and sharp with panic. But he didn’t step away. Neither did you.

The stones behind you creaked ominously. Then split.

A seam cracked down the center of the far wall, light bleeding in through the widening fissure. It peeled open with painful slowness, stone dragging against stone in an ancient mechanical protest.

And there, in the opening, stood Professor McGonagall.

Her wand cast a stark golden glow around her silhouette, and her robes billowed faintly in the sudden draft that followed her in. Her mouth was pressed into a thin, dagger-straight line. Her eyes, sharp, flinty, took in everything in less than a second.

Your flushed, panting face.

Draco’s disheveled, red-cheeked scowl.

The space between you, barely enough to breathe in. The tension. The heat. The kind of closeness that screamed.

She did not look amused.

“Well,” she said, voice colder than the dungeon walls, “Mr. Malfoy and... L/N.”

Each word landed like a spell.

“I suppose I should be grateful you haven’t hexed each other unconscious. Yet.”

The silence in the room grew deafening. You could feel the panic rising again, this time laced with the distinct humiliation of being caught.

Draco took a step back, finally and you straightened your spine off the wall like it burned. Neither of you dared speak.

Her gaze pinned you both in place.

“And,” she continued, her voice as sharp and slow as a blade being drawn, “I believe it’s well past curfew.”

That was somehow worse than if she had yelled. The quiet precision of her disapproval was like being slowly transfigured into stone.

You swallowed hard, staring at your shoes. Draco stood stiff beside you, his usual bravado shriveled into miserable silence.

“Detention.” The word cracked like a whip. “Tomorrow night. My office. Together. Don’t even think about being late.”

Draco groaned under his breath.

You groaned louder.

----

You were caught.

Red-handed. Flushed-faced. Breathless. With Draco bloody Malfoy.

Professor McGonagall’s eyes bore into both of you like twin scalpels. Then, she sighed. Long. Tired. Deep enough to carry a lifetime of regret for ever becoming an educator.

“I don’t even want to know how you managed to get in here,” she muttered, rubbing the bridge of her nose. Then, with a crisp gesture of her hand.

“Out. Now.”

The stone door rumbled open again.

You walked out first, shoulders squared, pretending your face wasn’t burning hot. Each step dragged like a weight chained to your ankles. Not just because you'd been caught breaking curfew, not even because you'd be spending detention with Draco Malfoy but because it was her. McGonagall.

The one professor you respected.

And now what does she think? That you were sneaking off to snog your wayward enemy in a cursed dungeon? That you’d developed a thing for hallway bickering and poorly-timed hex threats?

You didn’t even want to imagine the image that must be stuck in her head now.

Behind you, Draco stomped out like he was trying to shatter the floor one step at a time. Cloak flaring, mouth muttering curses just low enough for you not to hear. Or maybe not. Maybe you just didn’t want to.

He didn’t spare you a glance. Just turned sharply and disappeared around the corner in a swirl of green and attitude.

Good.

You turned the opposite way without hesitation. Teeth clenched. Jaw tight. Every step echoing down the corridor.

Fucker ruined your night.

You were supposed to have snacks, a cozy bed, and a good mood. Now you had shame, rage, and a detention with him.

-to be continued- 

That morning, you jolted awake with a choked gasp, heart hammering against your ribs. Sweat clung to your skin like a second, clammy layer. A nightmare, you told yourself. Just a nightmare. But then reality hit you even harder.

Detention.

With Draco bloody Malfoy.

And worse? The nightmare wasn’t some twisted dream, it was your schedule for the day.

Your punishment: cleaning out Hogwarts’ ancient, godforsaken storage room. And the word "storage room" barely covered it. This place felt older than the castle itself, like some graveyard where centuries of magical junk went to rot. Stuff that belonged here, and even more that absolutely didn’t, piled up with no rhyme or reason. It was a sprawling chaos, an avalanche waiting for the slightest nudge.

When Filch unlocked the heavy, iron-bolted doors with a rusty clang, the stench hit you first.

It curled through the air, thick, musty, and foul, like old parchment soaked in mildew and memories best left forgotten. You could feel it the second you crossed the threshold. It seeped into your lungs, clawed at your throat. It wove through your hair like invisible fingers, clung to your clothes, and coated your skin with a layer of something that made your stomach turn.

Inside, the room looks like it was designed by someone trying to hoard centuries of chaos. Books teeter in unstable towers. Cauldrons, broken broomsticks, shattered glassware, and things that look suspiciously like shrunken heads litter every inch of floor and shelf.

A maze of junk. A tomb of forgotten magic.

And you have to clean it.

By hand.

Because, of course, Filch had snapped, "No magic allowed!" with a sneer sharp enough to slice through stone.

You're not unfamiliar with cleaning. It wasn’t the worst thing in the world, mundane labor isn’t foreign to you. You scrubbed your childhood kitchen floor every Sunday until it gleamed like new, because Muggles don’t wave wands. But that doesn’t mean you’re thrilled to be shoulder-to-shoulder with him. Especially here. This is psychological warfare.

It wasn’t the work itself that made your blood simmer.

It was him.

Because you knew, deep in your bones, that there was no way in hell he was laying his perfectly manicured fingers on anything in here. Merlin forbid he get dirt under his nails or breathe in the same stale air as the rest of you peasants. No, he'd probably stand there, arms crossed, sneering down his nose while you did all the actual work.

Malfoy looked like he’d just been sentenced to Azkaban.

You roll your eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t fall out. Of course he won’t lift a finger. Draco Malfoy? Clean? You’d have better luck getting Snape to dance in pink robes. 

You grit your teeth and get to work. Gloves on, you start sorting books, some of which bite if handled incorrectly. One squirts ink directly into your eye. You hiss, wipe it off with a grimace, and toss the little bastard onto a pile labeled “Needs Rebinding.” 

And the cherry on top of this nightmare?

The section you two had to clean was so cramped, it was almost a joke. A narrow corridor between towering stacks of broken furniture, cracked cauldrons, and cursed objects wrapped in faded cloth. Every time you moved, you brushed against him, your shoulder against his back, your elbow knocking his arm, making your skin prickle with irritation.

Neither of you spoke. Not a word. Not since Filch shut that heavy door with an ominous thud and left you to rot in here.

Your backs were turned, your gazes stubbornly fixed anywhere but each other. The only sounds were the scrape of wood against stone, the distant creak of the shelves groaning under their impossible weight, and the clatter of objects as you shuffled them around.

The air was thick. Not just with dust, but with something heavier, tension so suffocating it could be sliced clean with a blade.

The only sounds are the clatter of shifting boxes, the scrape of parchment, and the muffled curses you mutter when a book tries to bite your hand or spills ink like blood down your gloves.

And then, breaking the silence like a cannon shot, came a loud, clumsy thud.

You flinched and spun around, already half-expecting some cursed object to have come to life.

It was just Malfoy.

He’d moved from his spot, probably in an attempt to look like he was actually doing something useful and managed to trip over something. You weren't sure if it was a cracked chest, a cursed goblet, or just his own overinflated ego.

The prat stumbled, flailing just enough to bump against a towering, rickety shelf. And then a rain of old books and scrolls came tumbling down. A heavy, leather-bound tome smacked him right on the head, followed by a second that bounced off his shoulder.

You blinked.

Idiot, you thought flatly, crossing your arms as you watched him stagger back, blond hair now dusted with grime and bits of crumbling parchment.

If you listened closely, you could almost hear the sound of his pride shattering louder than the books hitting the floor.

He scowls, brushing at his robes like they’re stained with disgrace. You roll your eyes and turn back to your task. You’ve got better things to do than gloat, like rebinding sentient books that leak ink and growl when provoked.

-----

Rebinding the fucking books was the last straw.

They weren’t normal books. No, these were cursed little monsters, some with cracked spines that snapped at your gloves like they had teeth, others leaking dark, sticky ink that oozed over your hands like blood from an open wound. It stained the air with a sour, metallic smell, making your stomach churn.

You hated this. So much.

The only blessing in this absolute nightmare? Filch, in his rare flicker of mercy, had at least allowed you and Malfoy to wear thick dragon-hide gloves. Probably because even he knew some of these books might bite your fingers clean off.

You wiped a smear of ink off your chin with the back of your arm, breathing hard as you slapped the freshly rebound book onto your finished stack. Almost done. Almost.

But then, as you counted, you realized it.

One volume was missing.

You frowned, scanning your little worktable, which was already cluttered with half-torn scrolls and leather scraps. No book. No stray volume hidden under the pile of parchment or wedged between the cracked cauldron and rusted goblet.

Your heart sank.

Because Filch had made it painfully clear: if even one task wasn’t completed to his liking, you both were getting dragged right back in here tomorrow. Another full day of breathing in this cursed dust and dealing with him.

You turned around sharply and froze.

Cold, grey-silver eyes were already fixed on you. Sharp and glinting like polished steel. Malfoy stood with his arms crossed, leaning against the shelf with the lazy arrogance that only someone like him could manage in a place like this. His lip curled like your very existence was offensive.

"What the fuck are you looking at?" he hissed, his voice low and venomous, like he couldn't believe you’d dared to meet his eyes.

Maybe to him, you had offended him. A Muggle-born, glaring at him like you were equals. That must have stung, right down to his spoiled little pure-blood core.

You bared your teeth in a humorless grin. "Not your ugly face, obviously," you shot back, already turning away before he could spit out more poison. Your boots crunched against the broken glass and grit on the floor as you stalked toward another shelf.

"Run away from your task, then?" His voice drawled after you, lazily cruel. "Figures.”

You snorted, not even bothering to glance over your shoulder. "I’m not an idiot like you."

The words hung between you, sharp as a knife. And they both knew, if you didn't finish this today, you'd be back here tomorrow. Together.

Again.

You raked your gloved hands through the shelves, coughing as dust puffed up in thick clouds around you. The shelves were chaos, books with ripped covers, tomes stitched back together with fraying thread, strange objects shoved between them like afterthoughts. A cracked mirror, a shrunken head, even a rusted suit of armor missing its helmet.

But not your missing book.

You growled under your breath, shoving aside a stack of moldy scrolls. "Where the fuck is it?" You swore again, voice hoarse with frustration. Your fingers were sticky with ink, your head pounded from the awful smell, and your patience was already frayed thin.

Behind you, Malfoy let out a sharp, derisive sound. "What the fuck are you looking at?" he snarled. "You’re wandering around like a lost dog."

You didn’t even turn this time. "A book," you snapped. "Maybe if you actually helped me find it, we could both get out of this hellhole faster.”

Your voice cracked like a whip through the thick air, and for a heartbeat, there was only silence.

Then you heard a low exhale, l almost like he was biting back a retort and out of the corner of your eye, you saw him push off the shelf.

The blond boy stalked over to your section, grey eyes flicking over the empty gap in your neat stack, and for the first time, he seemed to register that yes, you were missing something. And that yes, it would screw both of you if it didn’t turn up.

Malfoy muttered something under his breath, you caught the words "bloody useless" before he started scanning the shelves too, with an irritated flick of his gloved hand.

The two of you, bitter enemies united by mutual hatred and a shared desire to escape this nightmare, now rifling through ancient shelves like two rats trapped in the same sinking ship.

"How the hell did you lose that?" Malfoy groaned, dragging a gloved hand through his platinum hair in frustration. His voice was gritted, as if this whole situation personally offended him.

Your eyes flicked to the corner of the next shelf, where a flash of green, probably part of his stupid Slytherin cloak, peeked out. "I didn’t," you snapped, voice clipped as you shoved aside a cracked hourglass. "It wasn’t there from the beginning.”

He didn’t argue this time, which was rare enough that the silence throbbed. For once, both of you were focused on the same miserable task: finding that damned book before Filch came back and doomed you to round two of this hell.

"How are we supposed to find that shit in this bloody massive hell anyway?!" Malfoy whined, voice rising in a pitch that made you want to claw your ears off. He sounded perilously close to stomping his polished shoes against the ground like some spoiled, overgrown child throwing a tantrum.

You squeezed your eyes shut against the spike of your headache. "Stop whining so damn much," you muttered through clenched teeth, already feeling the throbbing pain pulsing behind your temples.

But of course, he couldn’t shut up. No, that would be too easy.

"Hah. Whining? You think why we’re here?" he sneered, dragging out every word with that arrogant, lilting tone that made your hands itch.

You didn’t stop searching, fingers flicking through every dusty, cursed object like your life depended on it. Your voice was tight as you hissed, "Because an idiot decided to chase me across the school. To fucking hex me.”

You ducked under a battered old table, spotting a slumped book hidden in the shadows. Your pulse jumped, only to plummet again when you dragged it out and saw the wrong title. Not the one you needed.

Frustrated, you nearly banged your head standing back up. "Brilliant," you muttered bitterly.

And then, like he couldn’t help himself, he spat it out. "If you talked less like a fucking Mudblood, I’d have not done that."

The word cracked through the air like a whip. Cold. Cruel. So casual from his lips, like it cost him nothing while it made your blood boil.

That fucking Mudblood shit. Again.

And today? Today was not the day.

You turned on your heel so sharply your boots scraped the stone. Your glare pinned him where he stood, lounging like he wasn’t two seconds away from getting smacked.

Without even thinking, you surged forward, fueled by pure, furious instinct.

The heavy book clenched in your gloved hand slammed against the shelf right past his perfect, pretty face with a loud thud. The sound echoed in the cramped storage room, making some loose trinkets rattle in warning.

Malfoy stiffened, grey eyes going wide. He’d clearly not expected you to get in his space like that. You’d shoved him so close to the shelf behind him that the entire structure rumbled, heavy with the threat of toppling if this got any rougher.

Your breath was hot against his cheek, your glare sharp enough to slice through steel. "Or you could shut that mouth of yours off for a few days," you snarled, voice low and dangerous, every word dripping with your fury.

His lips parted in shock. You could practically see the gears turning behind those silver eyes. Malfoy, so used to throwing punches with words, hadn’t expected you to bite back this hard.

The room was suddenly too tight, too hot, the tension stretched so taut you could feel it vibrating in the air between your bodies.

Your grip on the book tightened.

Sealed it. Zip it. Shut up.

You stared him down, every inch of you coiled tight as a drawn bowstring. His pale lashes fluttered, just for a flicker of a second but you caught it. Stunned. Rattled. His wide, silver-grey eyes gleamed cold under the dim light as the dust, knocked loose from your shove, floated down in lazy spirals. The golden shafts of light slicing through the air caught on his skin, and for the first time, you noticed it wasn’t just pale, it was flushed. High on his sharp cheekbones, pink bloomed like the rage that made his chest heave.

Malfoy’s breath hitched, the sound sharp in the too-still room as he grabbed at the shelf behind him to steady himself. His glare snapped back to you, sharp and vicious, like you’d hexed him right between the eyes.

"You’re fucking mental-" he hissed, voice rough around the edges.

"No," you cut him off, your voice slicing cleaner than any spell. "I’m fucking sick of you.”

The book in your hand dropped with a thump against the shelf, sending more dust spinning. Your words came low and dangerous, each syllable a match struck against dry kindling. "Every bloody time. Every fucking time you open your mouth, it’s to remind me of what, exactly?" You bared your teeth in something between a sneer and a bitter grin. "That you’re a miserable, spoiled little shit with too much air in your head?”

Your grip tightened against the shelf so hard your knuckles went bone white, but you didn’t care. Didn’t blink.

Malfoy didn’t either. He stared at you, storm-grey eyes flicking over every angle of your face like he was memorizing the rage carved into your features. His chest rose and fell hard, breathing shallow but quick. And that look was infuriating.

Like he was annoyed by you, sure but also like he was satisfied, drinking in your fury like it was fueling him. Like he liked seeing you snap.

His lips curled slow and sharp into that trademark smirk that made your teeth grind. "At least I’m not crawling around like some filthy Muggle maid in here," he sneered, spitting every word like poison. "Merlin, you look pathetic.”

His voice slithered around you, smug and slick like the snake he was born to be.

And worse? That pretty, smug little smile stayed on his face, soft pink lips curled like he wasn’t standing one shove away from a full brawl. You hated it. Hated that his face was still fucking flawless even when he was being the absolute worst.

Your laugh cracked through the silence, sharp, humorless, and cold as steel. "Pathetic?" you echoed, voice rising with every word. "I’m the only one actually doing the work while you trip over your own arrogance. You can’t even stand dust without whining like a fucking infant."

In your head, you marked it down clear:

Not prince.

Not even close.

Stuck-up princess.

Malfoy, the whiny, useless princess of Hogwarts, flapping about at the first sign of dirt and danger.

And it was almost laughable, really, the thought of him anywhere without magic. What would he do? Whine. Throw fits. Pick fights with people weaker than him. It made your fists clench. Embarrassing behavior for someone with that much bark and so little bite.

His jaw clenched so tight you could see the muscle twitch in his cheek. And then he stepped forward.

Closing the space between you with a sharp, defiant movement. His shoulders squared, and his chin tipped up, forcing you to meet him eye to eye.

"Watch your mouth," he ground out, voice lower now. Thicker. His face leaned in, close enough that you could feel the heat rolling off his skin, still stained with that faint, furious flush.

But you didn’t flinch. Didn’t back down an inch.

Instead, you stepped in too, barely an inch between you now, and the air crackled sharp and tense, like a storm ready to break. "Or what?" you challenged, voice soft but lethal. "You’ll call me that again? Go on, Malfoy." You bared your teeth. "Say it again."

His eyes darkened, pupils blown wide in the low light, flickering from your mouth to your eyes like he was caught between lashing out or…

And then his face twitched, sharp and conflicted. You could see it: the word right there on the tip of his tongue, burning like acid. But then his gaze locked on yours, and something about the way you refused to move, refused to break, made him stall.

His jaw flexed once. Twice. 

"You’re not worth wasting my breath on," he spat, though his voice was tighter now. Strained.

You barked out a bitter laugh, sharp enough to cut glass, as you flicked your gaze over him. "Right. Because the great Draco Malfoy ended up in detention with the ‘worthless Mudblood’ he tried to hex-" your grin widened, all teeth, "and failed miserably."

His sneer deepened so hard it looked like it might split his pretty face in half. "No wonder nobody decent wants to be near your kind. All bark, no class."

Your fists curled so tight your nails bit into your palms. "Better bark than being a coward hiding behind daddy’s gold and mummy’s skirts."

His nostrils flared, jaw snapping tight. "Because you don’t have one." He spat it, low and sharp.

That stung.

Not because it was new. But because it cracked open old scars you’d buried deep: the foster homes, the nights with no safe place, the kids who laughed as they shoved you down and called you less than nothing. You’d survived it all, every single bloody nightmare they threw at you. But hearing him spit it out like that. It twisted deep in your chest.

Your hand clenched harder until your knuckles went bone-white. Your voice came out like a razor blade, raw and slicing. "You’re just as filthy as me," you sneered, raising your brow in slow, mocking challenge. Then you took a step back, putting space between you, not because you wanted to retreat, but because you were baiting him now.

"Does that make you feel better about your sad little life?" you shot out, voice fast and hard, not even giving him room to breathe. "Picking on Muggle-borns like it gives you purpose?"

Your grin sharpened as you shoved him, hard, right into the shelf. "Do that again and people will think you just want a bit of our Muggle attention. Need it, even."

His eyes flared, pupils blown wide and blood-hot. In a flash, his hand shot out, fisting in your collar, dragging you forward so fast your back slammed into the shelf with a dull thud.

Now you were close.

Close enough to feel the heat rolling off him, to count every wild silver fleck swimming in that storm-grey glare. His breath hitched ragged against your skin, sharp and angry.

You grinned. Wide and sharp and dangerous. "Touch a nerve, did I, princess?" You rolled the word sweet and high like sugar laced with poison, just to watch him twitch.

His grip tightened, jerking your collar until the fabric bit into your throat. And for one charged second, you swore he was about to lose it, about to hex you in spite of Filch’s no-magic rule, or worse, throw a punch like some pathetic pure-blood who’d never fought a real fight in his life.

Part of you wanted him to. Part of you wanted to crack his perfect nose open just to see him bleed.

His lip curled into that signature sneer, all show, all teeth, and still no bite. "You’re lucky I don’t waste proper magic on trash like you."

Your laugh barked out harsh and humorless. "Really? Or is it because you never learned a proper hex in your life?" You leaned in the inch he gave, your voice crackling between your locked stares. 

His eyes flickered. Something unreadable, something dark and storming behind the silver.

Then his hand dropped away like he couldn’t stand the feel of you anymore. He shoved you back, rough enough to make you stagger a step.

"If I catch dragonpox from this place, I’m blaming you," he scoffed, already brushing dust off his sleeves with an expression like he’d touched filth.

You snorted, turning back to the mess. "If I get cursed by some ancient book because your whining slowed me down, I’m haunting you till you graduate."

Your hands dug back into the pile, but the air between you still buzzed, hot and heavy and unspoken, every word hanging thick like smoke neither of you wanted to breathe.

Ignoring his ass, you both drift to opposite ends of the shelves, each pretending the other doesn’t exist. Both of you tearing through sections like you’ll find the stupid book if you just glare hard enough at the dust.

"You missed a spot, Mud-"

He chokes mid-word, teeth snapping shut.

You’re standing right behind him now. Close enough that your breath ghosts hot against his ear.

"Call me Mudblood again," you breathe low, dangerous. "And I’ll fucking bite you again."

That makes him stiffen. And not because he’s scared, no, because his brain flashes back to that day in the hallway. When you said bite… Did you mean literally bite him? Like some rabid mutt? Or Merlin forbid. Did you mean punching him with your mouth? Or both, because you’re unhinged like that. A feral, contagious little menace. And for some reason, every time you threaten to bite, it scrambles his thoughts like static.

You, on the other hand, know exactly why the threat works. He hates being touched by Muggle-borns, so biting? That’s the nuclear option. The worst thing you could do to his pure-blood sensibilities. You watch with grim satisfaction as he clamps his mouth shut and swallows the slur like it physically pains him.

"Find the bloody book already," he mutters, turning back to the shelves. "I’m not spending another day in this pit with you."

You roll your eyes, but your lips twitch. "Sure, princess."

As if you want to be stuck in this hellhole with him.

"Shut up," he snarls.

"You shut up," you snap back.

-to be continued-

And just like that, you’re both back at it, tearing through shelves like two rabid raccoons, the silence between you sharp and brittle like it might shatter at any second. Dust chokes the air, books groan under their own weight, and somewhere in the back something crashes loud enough to make the walls tremble. Neither of you flinch.

Because now it’s not about the room. It’s about not letting the other win.

Your fingers close around the spine of a half-buried book. You yank and the whole stack above it lurches dangerously.

You barely register Malfoy’s shout. "Oi!"

Before something heavy comes crashing toward your head.

You duck too late. But instead of getting brained by wood and leather, there’s a rough shove at your shoulder. You stumble sideways, slam into the shelf with a curse, and blink just in time to see Malfoy grimace as the stack lands inches from where your skull had been.

"Are you trying to get yourself killed?" he snaps, swiping dust off his sleeve like saving your life was some personal insult. His breath is ragged, and his pale face is flushed an ugly red, so pale he looks almost translucent, every pulse visible beneath the skin.

You stare, stunned for half a beat. "You-"

Yeah. If you had to stay here one more day…

"Don’t start," he growls, jabbing a finger at you. "I only pushed you because if you got knocked out, I’d be stuck here alone with Filch’s bloody chores." He sneers. "No way am I cleaning your corpse off the floor."

Your chest burns, anger, embarrassment, you can’t even tell anymore. "You think I’d die from a couple books? I’m not as fragile as you, princess."

He glares daggers. "Keep calling me that and I might let the next shelf finish you off."

"You keep grabbing my collar like some deranged ferret, and I might actually bite next time."

Now you’re both breathing hard again, standing too close in this narrow aisle. His lip curls. Your fists clench. Same old script. Same old sparks.

This time, something shifts.

Because instead of hexes or insults, there’s a beat of dead silence. Your eyes lock. And then, to your utter disbelief, Malfoy lets out a breath and mutters: "This is fucking stupid."

Your brows shoot up. "Excuse me?" Confused. Caught off-guard by the sudden, jarring words.

But who the hell ever understands Draco Malfoy? He moves through life like he’s the main character in a play only he can see.

He drags a hand through his pale hair, grimacing. "This whole thing. You. Me. This damn room. Stupid." He glares at a random dusty lamp like it personally offended him. "I’m not dying in here because of some missing book."

You blink. And for the first time ever… You almost agree with the little snake.

"Yeah, well," you mutter, crossing your arms tight over your chest, "maybe if we stopped screaming and actually looked-"

"-we’d find the fucking thing," he finishes, voice still sharp but thinner now. Less venom. More tired. Less personal.

Another silence falls. Not sharp this time. Just… awkward.

Your lips twitch, dry and cracked from breathing in dust all day. "Did we just agree on something?"

His head snaps toward you like you just suggested kissing him. "No. We didn’t."

At this point, you’re both too fucking tired to fight anymore. Like two barking dogs who’ve finally realized they’re stuck in the same yard and no one’s coming to let them out. You roll your eyes and look away, arms crossed. Like hell you’re going to start getting along with him.

"Hold the damn ladder," you mutter, already climbing before he can refuse.

Malfoy opens his mouth, ready to spit out some insult about how he’s not your servant, but then just… exhales sharply through his nose. Fine. Whatever. He grabs the ladder with both hands, knuckles white. He just wants out of this nightmare. Fast. And honestly? So do you.

Up on the top shelf, the dust makes your throat itch, but your eyes lock on the one thing you’ve been tearing this room apart for, the missing book, wedged crooked and half-hidden. "Got you," you mutter, snatching it up like it’s some kind of damn trophy.

You turn to climb down. And accidentally stomp right on Malfoy’s hand.

"Ouch! Fuck-" he snarls, jerking his hand back like he touched fire.

You barely glance at him. "Found it."

You stomp back to the shelf, ignoring the colorful curses muttered behind you, and slap the book back into place with a little more force than necessary. The worn leather cover scrapes against the others, and finally, the volumes line up. Perfect. Whole. Task done.

You step back, chest heaving, muscles aching. Finally. Now you can rest. Now you can stop breathing the same air as him. Stop looking at his stupid, punchable face.

----

Ever since that day, Draco Malfoy seems to have vanished from your life. No more snide insults. No more shoves in the hallway. You still catch a glimpse of green robes swishing past sometimes, but you keep your head down and walk. Let him haunt someone else. You don’t have to hide or sneak around anymore. And honestly? Feels like a win.

But the universe, of course, has other plans. Because you still have two classes with that stuck-up blond-haired prince. And worse. You’re failing one of them. Badly.

Potion class has become your personal hell. You have no idea how many times you’ve messed up now. Professor Snape is practically breathing down your neck every damn lesson, his dark eyes like twin daggers stabbing at your soul. Meanwhile, every other student, even the ones who can’t tell a bezoar from a brick, somehow manage to get a grip on this subject. But you? You’re drowning.

Maybe you should’ve known better. Considering your baking and cooking skills back in the Muggle world were… well. Let’s just say, questionable at best. But this? This is next-level sabotage.

Half the time, you can’t even read the bloody ingredient list right. Some of these things sound like they were named by drunk goblins. And don’t even get started on remembering five pages worth of details for a single potion. It’s a nightmare.

You still remember the Shrinking Potion fiasco. The entire class managed to do it. Even Neville. Even Neville. But you? Your test object didn’t shrink. It coughed.... Coughed out a furball.

It wasn’t even alive.It was just a damn ball coughing out another furball like some cursed Russian nesting doll. And you, standing there in horror, actually started wondering if maybe you should’ve just stayed in the Muggle world and become a mad scientist instead. At least there, no one expects your failure to physically multiply.

You still remember the look on Professor Snape’s face. Like he was silently calculating how many laws of nature you just violated in one go. Like he wanted to hex you into another dimension just to make the headache stop.

Five times. You’ve failed that same potion five times. At this point, it’s almost impressive.

You’ve given up, in a way. You don’t even know how many times you’ll have to retake this damn class. All you know is, it means extra hours. More studying. More flipping through page after page until your brain leaks out your ears.

----

Now here you are again. Standing at your usual table in Potions, surrounded by your friends, while the Slytherins lurk on the far side of the classroom like snakes waiting to strike.

And of course, you manage to mess up the Wideye Potion. So badly that the damn thing nearly sets the classroom on fire, if it weren’t for Professor Snape swooping in at the last second to slam his wand down and extinguish the flames.

DETENTION.

Honestly, that’s Snape being merciful. Sure, he still tore into you in front of everyone, his voice like knives dipped in venom.

But honestly? You’ll take detention over the real punishment: Catching Draco Malfoy smirking at you from the corner of your eye. Standing there with his little gremlin gang, Crabbe, Goyle, and Pansy watching you get reamed out like it’s the best show he’s seen all week. Because of course he enjoys it.

You stood hunched over the worktable, scrubbing furiously at the sticky, slimy residue clinging to the wood like it had fused itself there over decades. Your arm ached from the relentless circles, and still, the foul-smelling gunk refused to budge. The shelves behind you? Even worse.

Some ancient potion or maybe several layered on top of each other had congealed into a stubborn crust, welded so solidly into the wood grain it might as well have been cursed. You had to throw your entire weight against the brush, knuckles white as you attacked the stains like they personally offended you. And the worst part?

No magic allowed. Professor Snape's brilliant idea of punishment. "A practical lesson in manual discipline," he'd sneered.

You cursed under your breath, sweat sticking to your hairline. Goddamn it, this class.

As you reached for yet another cloth, already half-drenched in something that smelled faintly acidic, movement flickered at the edge of your vision. You stiffened, glancing sideways.

Pale blond. Tall figure. That telltale aristocratic glide as he stepped into the room.

Your stomach dropped. Fuck. This guy again.

Draco Malfoy. Of course. Because this week couldn’t get any worse.

You clenched your jaw and snapped your gaze back to the table, scrubbing harder. Pretending he wasn’t there had worked for the last few days, ever since that argument that left both of you treating each other like invisible air in the corridors. And you intended to keep it that way. No words. No glares. Just silence.

From the corner of your eye, you saw him glance around before stalking toward his usual seat. He bent and pulled a folded parchment from beneath the bench, probably notes he’d forgotten after class. His movements were precise, practiced, like he did even this with some inherited sense of grace.

You said nothing. You kept your head down and focused on your own damn business, scrubbing the table raw like it owed you money.

Then your gaze caught on a cluster of leftover ingredients scattered on the bench, cracked jars, shriveled roots, a few half-empty vials. You remembered Snape’s curt instruction from earlier, anything already opened was useless now. “Once exposed to air, most will lose potency. Dispose of them.”

Good enough for you.

Your eyes flicked to the battered old cauldron squatting at the end of the table. Might as well dump everything in there before tossing the lot. Easier than carrying them one by one.

You grabbed the nearest jar, wormwood twigs, brittle and splintered and pried it open. Next came a pouch of crumbling valerian root, powdery and brown. Then your hand closed around a half-empty vial with a faded label: Hellebore Extract. HANDLE WITH CARE.

Reaching out, you snatched up a fistful of porcupine quills that lay scattered nearby. Might as well chuck those in too. Clean table, clean conscience. Right?

Just as you tipped the first scoop of ingredients into the blackened cauldron, a sharp voice cracked through the air like a whip.

"Are you actually that thick?"

You spun around, jar still in your hand, and there he was, Draco, standing barely a few steps away now, silver-grey eyes narrowed and glittering like a storm about to break.

"What?" you snapped, your voice a mix of annoyance and alarm. Your fingers nearly fumbled the jar, and suddenly every scenario flashed through your mind: Malfoy picking another fight, or worse you accidentally blowing something up because of this interruption.

He stepped closer, closing the distance with that same prowling grace that always put you on edge. His sneer curled sharp as a dagger.

"If you combine wormwood and hellebore without stabilizing it first-" his voice dropped low, dangerous, as he grabbed your wrist with surprising force, freezing your hand mid-air before you could drop in the quills, "and then you add porcupine quills on top? You'll blow the whole classroom sky-high. Wipe out both you and half the bloody hallway."

Your pulse thundered. Your eyes darted between him, the ingredients in your hand, and the cauldron. Your stomach turned cold. Shit.

You hadn’t even realized. Because, of course, you didn’t remember the lesson. That was last month. Or was it last term? 

Of all people. Of all fucking people, it had to be Draco Malfoy catching you on the brink of catastrophe.

Your throat worked, trying to form words as you blinked at him. Then at the jar. “I was-”

He cut you off with a scoff, already plucking the quills from your hand with exaggerated care, like they might bite. His face twisted into a familiar scowl, eyebrows arching high in mock disbelief.

"Just about to get us both killed, clearly." He set the quills aside with a sharp clatter, like they personally offended him. "No wonder you’re rubbish at Potions."

Heat surged to your face, cheeks burning so hot you wanted to crawl under the table. Because he wasn’t wrong. You were rubbish at Potions. Everyone knew it. Even you.

Your jaw clenched so hard your teeth ached. Your lips pressed into a thin, brittle line.

Draco’s hands moved deftly now, reorganizing the leftover ingredients with practiced efficiency, like the whole disaster you nearly caused was just another Tuesday for him. His pale fingers, slender and pale like fresh snow, slid the jars back into some order you couldn’t even begin to make sense of.

"Hellebore and valerian, mixed directly too." His voice was laced with biting annoyance as he worked. "Should I go warn Madam Pomfrey to prep for burns now, or do you want to see how big the explosion gets first?"

You followed the motion of his hands, unable to tear your gaze away. Each movement was precise, cool, almost elegant. Like he wasn’t even thinking about it, just muscle memory. And all you could think was how you should’ve paid more attention in class instead of doodling in the margins.

But still. This was Malfoy. And Malfoy never missed a chance to humiliate you. Was he actually trying to help, or just using this to twist the knife deeper? Your embarrassment fed his amusement.

You felt your ears heat up next, throat tight with a mix of shame and growing anger. Because now, not only did you almost blow up the room but you also had to stand here and let him fix your mess.

You muttered stiffly, jerking your hand back from the table as if burned. Your voice came out low and defensive. "So what, you’re an expert now? Come to gloat?"

Even as the words left your mouth, you winced internally. Because, deep down, you needed the clarification. You needed to know if you’d really almost caused an explosion.

His reply came sharp as a slap. "If I wanted to gloat, I’d wait until you actually set your hair on fire."

His smirk stretched, sharp-edged and cruelly amused, silver eyes glittering like he was thoroughly enjoying this little scene. "I just don’t fancy breathing in poison fumes because you can’t follow basic instructions."

The derision in his tone cut deep, every syllable like he was scraping your pride raw. He let out a soft chuckle, low and mocking, as if your very existence was a joke he’d been waiting to laugh at.

His lip curled as he glanced back at the scattered ingredients. "You toss those sopophorous beans in there next and we’ll both find out."

Your eyes darted to the beans on the table, sitting right next to where your hand had been reaching moments ago.

And your stomach dropped all over again. Because, yes. You had meant to dump them in too.

Your chest tightened as the realization crashed down like a weight. Fuck. He was right. He was making more sense right now than your entire year of Potions lessons combined.

You stood there, frozen in place, caught between mortification and reluctant gratitude. Your fingers still curled around the empty air where the quills had been. Your face burned hotter.

He turned and shot you a sharp look before snatching the jar straight out of your hands and setting it aside with careful precision — like you were some toddler about to set the curtains on fire.

"Yeah? And you’re so perfect at it then?" you muttered, voice low and tight as you crossed your arms over your chest.

"I'm not the one getting detention for nearly blowing up half the classroom," he snarled back, his silver eyes flicking around the room like he couldn’t believe the disaster he’d walked into.

You stood there, heat crawling up your neck. Humiliation, frustration, a tangled, ugly knot in your chest. And he noticed. Of course he noticed. But for once, Draco Malfoy didn’t even bother to rub it in properly. No dramatic name-calling. No smug lecture. Just a clipped, sharp explanation as his hands moved, reorganizing the mess on the table like it physically offended him.

"You neutralize this first, genius. Separate from everything else. Valerian residue reacts with half the ingredients in this room." He shot you a sideways glance, all sharp angles and cold disdain. "Even you should know that. Or were you asleep all of last term?"

Your shoulders slumped in defeat as your arms dropped limply to your sides. "I hate you."

"Get in line," he shot back, smooth as ever.

Then, to add salt to the wound, he grabbed a grimy rag from the table and shoved it hard against your chest. "Here. You clean the residue out first. Dry. No liquids. No mixing. Wipe every trace of valerian powder before you touch anything else." His silver eyes pinned you in place, cool and sharp enough to cut.

He gestured at the wreckage on the table like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Separate the ingredients. Hellebore goes in the waste bin, sealed. Valerian gets wiped away dry. Sopophorous, you bag and toss after."

You blinked at him, momentarily forgetting to breathe. Draco Malfoy. Cleaning. With his hands. The same Draco Malfoy who whined about dirt in his nails during Herbology while wearing two pairs of oversized gloves like the world’s most dramatic germaphobe.

What the actual hell.

For one delirious second, you wanted to hurl the rag right back in his smug, aristocratic face. But no, instead, you swallowed your pride like it was acid and muttered something foul under your breath as you bent down to scrub. The classroom stank of old herbs and vinegar, and every scrape of the rag made your skin crawl not because of the mess, but because that insufferable bastard just stood there. Watching. Supervising.

"Would you mind?" you shot him a glare from the corner of your eye, scrubbing harder out of sheer spite.

"If you like the idea of Snape skinning you alive after you wreck half his supplies..." He crossed his arms and leaned back against the table, voice lazy but laced with warning. "Then by all means, I can leave."

Meaning: I’m only still here because I don’t trust you not to blow up the damn school.

You gritted your teeth. "I can handle it."

His laugh echoed, cold and sharp, slicing through the room.

A proper, mocking Draco Malfoy laugh.

His mouth twitched, half sneer, half something nastier as he turned away. "Try not to choke on your own stupidity before you finish," he muttered, grabbing his forgotten notes.

Then he left without a backward glance.

Stupid, infuriating Draco Malfoy.

You cursed him silently, scrubbing until your hands ached and the stink of herbs clung to your skin.

-to be continued-

Just when you thought you might finally catch a break, a little peace of mind, you bumped right into your least favorite Slytherin at the greenhouse.

Fuck me sideways.

You almost forgot. Of course the Slytherins take Herbology too. They skip so often, it's easy to pretend they don’t exist in this class. You were walking with your friends, chatting about nothing, when you spotted Draco Malfoy.

Inside the greenhouse, laughing and tossing his stupid head back as he joked around with his gang. Through the glass, you could see that ridiculous blond hair catching the sunlight, gleaming like fresh snow under the winter sun.

Even his dumb smile seemed to glow, like the universe itself decided to make him look good while surrounded by greenery. His green-lined cloak fluttered as more students pushed through the door, the air stirring around him like it was doing him a favor.

You grit your teeth, forcing yourself to look away as you made your way to your usual seat. You weren't going to let him get under your skin today.

But then when you glanced up. Silver-grey eyes locked on yours.

Both of you snapped your gazes away like idiots caught staring.

Before you could stew in that awkwardness any longer, Professor Sprout bustled into the greenhouse. Her warm but shrewd eyes swept the room and lingered just a second longer on the cluster of green robes. She sighed under her breath, the kind of sigh you could tell she'd let out a thousand times over. Probably wondering how these boys were still scraping by when they skipped more classes than they attended.

But Sprout, ever the patient soul, let them off the hook again. Whether even she could salvage their grades was another matter.

"L/N," she called, voice carrying just enough authority to make your spine straighten.

You looked up quickly, hands fidgeting by your sides. "Yes, Professor Sprout?"

Her lips lifted in a soft smile, kind, but also the kind that made you suspicious.

"We're grouping up today. You'll be reporting on Venomous Tentacula." She spoke to the class, but her eyes stayed on you. "As one of my outstanding students, I’m trusting you to get these boys to produce something... decent this time."

Your stomach dropped.

Before you could even process what that meant, she clapped her hands and called out, "Group three: Malfoy, Crabbe, Harper, Nott, and L/N."

Your head whipped around so fast it almost cracked. And there they were, silver-grey eyes snapping right back at you, jaw tight, expression matching your own exactly.

You’ve got to be kidding me.

It was written all over both your faces, clear as day. Across from Malfoy, some curly-haired Slytherin let out an amused snort, you couldn’t even remember his name, but you’d seen him trailing behind Malfoy before.

You didn’t bother glaring. You just dropped your eyes back to the table, shoving your irritation down deep. No time for this.

"We're stuck with the Ministry's little herbologist today, I suppose," Malfoy drawled, voice dripping with that familiar smugness, arms crossed like he was posing for a portrait.

And I'm stuck with a plant murderer.

You had no clue how this disaster of a group functioned, but judging by their attendance record and the weary look on Sprout’s face, you could guess: they were a collective nightmare.

Instead of rising to his bait, you just grabbed your gloves and yanked them on, focusing on the task like every other sane student.

"Be careful, dears," Professor Sprout warned as she wheeled over a massive pot brimming with dark, twitching vines. "They bite. The pus is highly valuable, but also highly dangerous if mishandled!"

She plucked out two sections of the plant with gloved hands and held them up for everyone to see.

"Make sure you distinguish the feeder roots from the runners. Mix them up, and the plant will strangle itself." Her voice grew sharper on that last part, making sure everyone, especially your group, was paying attention.

And just as you leaned in to listen, he had to open his mouth.

"Try to keep up, will you?" Malfoy muttered, that punchable smirk pulling at his lips again.

You didn’t even look at him. "Try not to kill the plant this time, Malfoy," you shot back, voice cool and sweet as poison.

He sniffed, wrinkling his nose in disgust as he gingerly picked up a root ball. "It’s just dirt and weeds."

You smirked, finally sliding him a glance. "Says the boy who can’t stand dirt in his nails."

His eyes snapped to yours, narrow and irritated, but you didn’t give him the satisfaction of looking away this time.

When you looked up, your face went pale.

Malfoy had grabbed a thick handful of red feeder roots and yanked, hard. The Tentacula twitched, its vines curling dangerously.

"Those are the feeders! You’re supposed to untangle the runners first!" you snapped, slapping his hand away. Hard.

The table went silent. Every eye locked on you and Malfoy.

"Don’t touch me!" he barked, yanking his hand back. Not fast enough, the Tentacula lashed out, nearly snagging his sleeve.

Across the table, Harper was busy dumping bone meal directly into the soil, making the Tentacula hiss and rear back with bared fangs.

"Stop! Are you trying to poison it?!" You barely finished scolding one idiot before you had to scold another.

"Professor said nutrients," Harper grunted, but at least he stopped, shoving the pot away like it had bitten him.

"Not that kind, you troll!"

Malfoy scowled at the plant like it had personally offended him. "This is stupid. Who cares about roots? Just stuff it in the pot and be done with it."

"You stuff it wrong, it’ll choke and die." You shot him a glare. "Or worse." Honestly, you didn’t even want to imagine what ‘worse’ looked like.

Next to the Tentacula sat the Bubotuber, its pale green pustules pulsing faintly. Beside it: two soil bags and a tray of root cuttings.

The curly-haired boy poked a pustule with his wand. It wobbled ominously.

"You do that again and it’ll explode in your face," you muttered. Bubotubers didn’t just pop, they vomited, and their vomit burned. Acid. 

Malfoy grumbled but stayed quiet, grabbing for the root cuttings instead. He squinted at them, one pale, one thin with red veins.

"Which one are we supposed to use again?" he muttered, voice low, like asking physically pained him.

You blinked at him. "Are you serious? The pale one. The red-veined one’s toxic until it matures." How did he even pass first year?

Malfoy stiffened, then flung the red-veined cutting back onto the tray a little too quickly.

Meanwhile, Harper tried scooping soil into the pot with his bare hands, sending dirt flying.

You closed your eyes for a beat. "Stop." Grabbing the bag from him, you bit back a sigh. "You’re supposed to mix in the flobberworm compost first, or the Bubotuber won’t root properly."

You and Malfoy locked eyes, both clearly a hair away from snapping but the sting from last week’s detention must’ve lingered, because you both grudgingly turned back to the plant.

Nott and Harper were now poking at it. Crabbe, bless him, picked up a root cutting and sniffed it.

"Smells like troll feet," he muttered. "Is this the right one?"

How the hell does he know what troll feet smell like?And no. That was not the right one.

Before you could answer, Malfoy snatched it from him. "Obviously, you idiot. It’s thicker, must be stronger." He turned to drop it straight into the soil.

You smacked his hand with your trowel this time. "Are you trying to kill all of us?! That’s Baneberry root, genius. One drop of sap and this plant will melt."

Malfoy recoiled like he’d been burned, overdramatic as ever. Lucky he wore gloves or he’d be screaming right now. "Don’t touch me with that filthy thing-"

"Then stop waving deadly roots around like a brainless peacock!" you snapped, slamming the correct cutting on the table. "This is the one. White. No veins. Try using your eyes for once."

Malfoy sneered down at the root like it offended him. "You must feel so clever right now."

You gave him a thin smile, sweeping your gaze over all of them, standing there, having contributed absolutely nothing. "Compared to you lot? I feel like Dumbledore."

Malfoy leaned in slightly, ignoring your words. Rare sight but here he was, hovering over your shoulder. His usual sneer twitched at his mouth, muttering small grumbles under his breath.

You ignored him. As always. Kept your head down and your hands busy.

Then he grabbed the watering can.

"Do we water it now?" he asked, already tipping it toward the plant.

Your eyes went wide. "No!"

Too late. A single drop splashed onto one of the Bubotuber’s pustules. It quivered… then burst, sending a jet of yellow-green pus across the table.

Nott yelped and ducked. Harper cursed, swiping at his sleeve in horror.

Malfoy recoiled, face twisting in disgust and fury as the watering can clattered to the floor near his feet.

"Are you trying to blind us all?!" you snapped, panic surging as you grabbed a rag and mopped up the mess before it could drip onto the roots. "That stuff's acidic!"

"How was I supposed to know?" Malfoy barked back, face flushed pink. "Sprout didn’t say anything about-"

"Because you’re supposed to use mooncalf dung to water it, not regular water..." You bit down hard, trying not to grind your teeth.

Malfoy crossed his arms, glaring down at you. "Fine. You’re such an expert, you do it." He stepped back, finally giving you space.

Good. You preferred it that way. They should just stand there and not touch anything.

You muttered under your breath, almost groaning. "What the fuck did you do? Can’t tell roots apart, can’t water the plant properly…"

Malfoy scoffed, loud enough for his friends to hear. "Like you’d know."

"Unlike you, I read the chapter," you shot back, snatching the trowel up before he could even reach for it.

His lips curled. "Not so much on Potions, then."

Your jaw clenched.

"Shut your mouth or I’ll shove the Tentacula in it," you snapped, grabbing the pot and shoving it close to his face with both hands.

Malfoy yanked back, startled. Nearly tripped over Harper in the process. His friends burst out laughing.

"The fuck are you lot laughing at?" Malfoy snarled, his voice sharp and offended. The others quieted instantly, except for one. The tall, curly-haired boy still chuckled low and raspy.

"Come on, Malfoy," he drawled. "You’re not scared of a couple plants, are you?"

Malfoy scowled. "I don’t waste my time with filthy weeds, Theo. That’s their hobby." His eyes flicked toward you when he said it, cold and cutting.

You just rolled your eyes. "Whatever." You had no time for this. They were all going to fail anyway.

...And you? You were about to fail Potions.

The thought made your stomach sink. You already had too much on your plate and the image of Snape’s unimpressed face when he raised his brow at your last disaster of a potion? Burned into your brain. The sheer disbelief that anyone could be that bad in his class.

Meanwhile, this pale blond bastard? He was bound to fail Herbology just as spectacularly.

And right then as you scraped pus off the table and shoved the right cutting into the soil, an idea sparked.

-to be continued- 

You’ve been moping.

And not in a dramatic, sigh-into-the-rain kind of way. No, this was the real kind, the kind where your soul slowly seeps out of your body over the span of a week while your eyes glaze over textbooks you’ve read ten times too many. You’ve haunted the dorms, drifted like a ghost through the common room, groaned your way through classes, and even stared blankly at a plate of mashed potatoes in the Great Hall until your friends were half-convinced you were about to start weeping into the gravy.

And now? Now you were camped out in the study room, the table in front of you a battlefield. Books lay open like wounded soldiers, parchment scattered with half-legible notes, and your quill bent at a strange angle from being chewed on, was leaking ink in slow, tragic drips. Dark circles sag beneath your eyes as you try, desperately to memorize the tiny, blurry text in front of you.

You looked a mess. No, worse than a mess. You looked like the ghost of a mess who had failed its Potions exam and came back to haunt its own GPA. 

Your eyes burned, your brain felt like mush, and your fingers trembled slightly as they hovered over yet another paragraph about draught stability and the ideal temperature for infusing powdered bicorn horn. You blinked once. Twice. Sighed. Loudly.

“That's your tenth sigh, babe,” your friend said flatly, snapping her book closed with a sharp thwap. Her voice sliced through the silence like a knife through day-old treacle tart. “What’s going on?”

You didn’t answer immediately. Instead, you groaned, long and loud and slammed your face into your open notebook, sending a flurry of parchment fluttering and smearing ink across your cheek.

“Ughhh, I have to retake that bloody exam again!” you whined, muffled by parchment and despair. “Fifth time this term. I’m going to die in that dungeons surrounded by cauldrons and shame.”

Your friend raised an eyebrow and surveyed your study disaster zone. Her nose wrinkled. "Well..." she said slowly, dragging the word out like it offended her. "Maybe... maybe you should ask someone to tutor you?”

Of course, she knows how much you suck at Potions. She’s just too kind-hearted to say it outright. 

You groaned again, face still mushed into the pages, and she reached over to affectionately ruffle your tangled hair, fingers combing through the chaos with practiced ease. You knew what she was getting at.

And yes, obviously, you had considered it. But most people in your year struggled with Potions too. The last time someone tried to help you, they accidentally created a mild acid that burned a hole through their robes and earned you both a week of detention.

The only students who seemed to breeze through Potions?

Slytherins.

Specifically, the insufferable, smug little group in green who treated the dungeons like their throne room.

Especially him.

The brief thought of asking that smug, pale, arrogant blond snake for help in exchange for tutoring him in Herbology had flitted through your head once. But you’d rather fail Potions twelve times over. No way in hell were you asking Draco bloody Malfoy for help.

You let out a sound that was somewhere between a grunt and a sob. “I’m not desperate enough to ask any of them.”

She said nothing, just looked at you in that way that made it clear she knew exactly where your mind had gone. And then, very carefully, she said, “Mattheo’s decent at Potions… maybe I could-”

“Thanks but no thanks,” you snapped, sitting upright so fast your chair creaked in protest.

The last thing you needed was to ask Mattheo Riddle, your friend's crush, no less, for help. Not only would that be third-wheeling incarnate. Not happening. 

You lean back in your chair, arms crossed, and try to shut your brain up but his stupid pretty face pops up anyway, complete with that smug grin.

You leaned back in your chair, arms crossed, glaring at the textbook like it had personally insulted you.

Her gaze stayed on you, silent and knowing. And your mind, traitorous and spiteful, conjured up his face anyway.

That stupidly symmetrical face of DRACO MALFOY. That sharp jaw, silver rings glinting on his fingers, lazy smirk that always looked like he knew a secret you didn’t.

He was awful. Arrogant. Condescending. Always slinking around like he ruled the castle, picking fights with Golden Trio whenever he passed them in the corridor.

Weasley? “Poor.”

Granger? “Mudblood.”

Potter? “Orphan.”

Oh, and sometimes Longbottom, too. “Stupid,” apparently.

And you? You were lucky enough to be all four in his eyes.

Poor. Mudblood. Stupid. Orphan.

The memory stung, sharp and acidic but also familiar. Because the worst part wasn’t even the words. It was the fact that he wasn’t technically wrong. That was your reality. But that didn’t mean he got to mock it. That didn’t mean you’d let it define you.

You took a slow breath and reached forward, snapping the Potions book shut with more force than necessary. You leaned forward again, stewing in a mixture of frustration and fatigue.

“Uhm… if you don’t mind… maybe asking…” your friend tried again, hesitating when you shot her the look.

“I-I mean because Matt said he’s one of the top students in Potions…” she muttered, voice shrinking.

Matt? Oh.

Your lips curled into a small smirk as the Badger girl in front of you flushed pink, shrinking into her seat as she realized she’d just outed herself.

“Lenny, I’m not gonna ask your prince charming to tutor me,” you teased, your tone light, a knowing smile on your lips.

“I- I wasn’t-!” she stammered, and you laughed quietly, trying to suppress the sound as she dissolved into a flustered puddle.

“I didn’t mean Mattheo!” she whined, reaching over to cover your mouth before you could say more.

“She means Malfoy,” a low, raspy voice drawled behind you.

You both froze.

Turning slowly, you found none other than Mattheo Riddle standing there, tall and languid with his trademark lazy smirk. You shot your friend a quick glance from the corner of your eye, her cheeks were on fire.

Riddle didn’t elaborate. He just strolled over and dropped into the seat across from your friend like he owned it. Like he always sat there. Like this was his damn study room. His dark eyes didn’t even glance at you, they were focused on her.

Great. Now you are a third wheel.

“If not him, then Theo’s also one of the top students in Potions,” he said smoothly, glancing at you now. “You could ask one of them.”

You scoffed. “Yeah, right. I’m not insane, Riddle.”

He didn’t flinch. “You’re failing. Don’t have a lot of options, do you?” he replied, voice casual but it landed like a slap.

You opened your mouth to argue, but your friend patted your shoulder gently.

“Maybe it is a good idea…” she offered.

You looked at her like she’d grown two heads. “Babe, half of me wants to strangle him.”

“And the other half?” Riddle asked lazily, leaning back, eyes gleaming with amusement.

“Wants to hit him with a fucking truck,” you deadpanned without hesitation.

“What’s a truck?” your friend asked, blinking in confusion.

You forgot sometimes, they weren’t Muggle-born.

“It’s… a Muggle transportation thing,” you muttered quickly, already starting to pack your stuff.

You were not about to sit here while those two made heart eyes at each other. Third-wheeling was not on your to-do list. You shoved your books and notes into your bag as fast as you could.

“Where are you going?” your friend asked, frowning in confusion.

“To kill myself,” you replied flatly, forcing a half-hearted smile.

Joking, obviously. Mostly.

In truth, you just needed to be alone to think. Maybe you were insane enough to consider asking for help… from one of them.

You waved her off before she could say more, turning on your heel and walking out of the room, your thoughts a blur of spite, exhaustion, and, worst of all, possibility.

-----

Holding one of your books, you wandered through the empty hallway, flipping through page after page in a desperate attempt to memorize the lesson.

Your head was so buried in the book that you nearly walked straight into the wall. You stopped just in time, scowling at the cold stone as if it had personally offended you. With a small, frustrated kick, you let out a groan.

“This is so stupid. I’m so stupid,” you mumbled, sliding down to sit right there on the stone floor.

That’s when you heard voices. Familiar ones.

You peeked around the corner, lowering your book slightly. Crabbe and Goyle, green-trimmed robes, bulky frames, unmistakable. Malfoy’s ever-loyal tag-alongs.

“Where’s he been lately?” Goyle asked, sounding more curious than usual.

“Who, Malfoy?” Crabbe replied, barely paying attention as usual.

“Yeah. He hasn’t come looking for us.”

“He said his grades are in danger,” Crabbe muttered, lowering his voice slightly.

Grades? Your ears perked up.

“Really? I thought he was one of the top students in our House.”

“Not in everything. Said his father won’t be pleased if he finds out.”

“So he’s been skipping out on us to study?”

Crabbe shrugged in that typical ‘I-don’t-know’ way, and the two of them disappeared down another corridor.

You were still processing what you’d just heard when.

“What are you peeking at?”

“GAH!” You practically jumped out of your skin.

Two very familiar voices. Very close to your ears.

You turned around, clutching your chest as your heart tried to launch itself out of your ribcage.

Tall. Lanky. Identical grins. Red hair. Freckles. Mischief practically radiating off of them. Fred and George Weasley.

“Nothing!” you squeaked, trying to look casual, your heart still racing. “What are you doing here?”

Fred (or was it George?) raised a brow as George (probably?) grinned.

“Testing our new pra- products,” one of them answered smoothly.

“We heard a few Slytherins came down with a green slurg. Nasty cold. Took them out for the whole week.”

George chuckled while Fred leaned closer. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

They both stared at you with identical expressions of amusement and mischief.

You gave them a shrug. “I was just paying them back. That’s all.”

Fred nudged your shoulder. “Good thing we taught you that little trick, eh?”

“Yeah, yeah. Thanks for that, by the way,” you muttered, but a satisfied smirk crept across your lips. The memory of those gremlins sneezing green goo for days still filled you with joy.

If you had the chance, you’d hex their entire dorm. But compared to these two redheads? Slytherin boys were tame. Fred and George practically were chaos in human form. Their pranks weren’t just clever, they were art.

And that’s when the idea hit you.

You turned to the twins, eyes wide with a sudden spark. “Fred. George. You two are geniuses. Everybody knows that.”

They exchanged a look, eyes narrowing with interest.

“What do you want?” they asked in perfect sync, arms crossing.

You clapped your hands together. “Well… I need a favor.”

Fred tilted his head. George leaned in. “And what’s the price?”

“I’ve got no Galleons,” you said honestly, “but I can owe you a favor. Anything you want. Within reason.”

They glanced at each other again, then back at you. Twin smirks spread across their faces like matching sins.

“Deal,” they said together.

-----

You waited outside the Slytherin locker room, loitering in the shadowed corridor just beyond its arched entrance. The castle was quieter here, darker, colder. The air held that faint scent of stone and something sharper, like tension before a storm.

Honestly, you hadn’t known they had Quidditch practice today. You owed Lena for that unexpected intel when you’d asked why she bailed on her usual afternoon hangout with Riddle.

“He’s got practice,” she’d said with a shrug. “Whole team’s out.”

That, of course, meant Draco Malfoy was out too.

You leaned back against the damp wall, one foot crossed lazily over the other, flicking your eyes down to the fresh parchment in your hand. Crisp. Untouched. Smelled like mischief.

Those two redheaded devils could sneak into the Department of Mysteries if they wanted, of course they could nick the school’s academic records.

Your eyes zeroed in on the top left corner.

Draco Lucius Malfoy.

Even the way it was written annoyed you. Clean, pretentious, sharp like a blade to the ego. The name prickled your skin. It stung your pride just holding it, like venom soaked into the parchment itself.

But this… this was your weapon.

Because you knew, asking Malfoy for help? That was laughable. He’d sneer, roll those stupidly silver eyes, and toss you to the side like lint on a silk robe. Soft talk didn’t work on boys like him. For Draco, manipulation worked better than manners.

You had no plans of being involved with him after this, hell no. One last deal, and then you’d wipe your hands clean.

You nearly crushed the parchment in your grip as footsteps echoed down the stone corridor, laughter, teasing voices. Here they come.

You straightened, pushing off the wall and folding your arms just as a wave of Slytherin green spilled into the hallway. Loud, chaotic, obnoxious. None of them paid attention to anything but each other, jostling, joking, voices bouncing off the stone like echoes in a cave.

Then, amidst all the black and green, you spotted it.

Pale blond. Disheveled hair, a sheen of sweat on his temple, strands clinging to his forehead. Draco was laughing, loudly, carelessly, as if he hadn’t a single worry in the world.

The boy was definitely failing Herbology, so what the hell was so funny?

Your eyes narrowed.

Then his silver gaze lifted, just as someone nudged him on the shoulder. His laughter died mid-breath. His smile faded. Instantly.

The look he gave you was familiar, cold, razor-sharp, pure venom. The smirk gone. The chill in his eyes crawled up your spine. He didn’t even acknowledge you beyond a glance, just kept walking, brushing past you with a shoulder-check so deliberate it might as well have been a hex.

“Malfoy,” you said, cool and clear.

He stopped.

You saw the way his shoulders stiffened, his back straightened like a cord had pulled taut. Then he turned, slowly, his eyes locking onto yours like they were made of steel and loathing.

“The fuck do you want?”

Merlin. The veins on his neck looked like they were about to burst. You raised your chin, wearing your best nonchalant smirk.

“I just want to talk.” You held the parchment up casually.

The Slytherins surrounding him perked up, eyes flicking toward the parchment with curiosity. You didn’t miss the way Draco’s pupils dilated, wild, as though you’d just cast a spell he didn’t know how to counter.

His face paled dramatically.

Then it bloomed with red.

It crept up his throat, crawling over his neck and into his cheeks like ink in water. He stomped forward, shoving his broom straight into Mattheo’s chest without breaking eye contact, and then grabbed your wrist so hard you almost yelped.

“What the-?!” you managed, but he wasn’t listening. He yanked you down the corridor like you weighed nothing. You barely managed to stumble after him, your boots scraping stone.

His fingers were steel. Long, pale, and currently attempting to break your wrist in half.

“Let go, you psycho,” you snapped, twisting out of his grip with a sharp smack to his arm. He halted in an empty corridor, still fuming. His brows were knotted, his jaw locked so tight you could hear the quiet grind of his teeth. His lips pressed into a deadly thin line.

You caught the scent of his sweat and some expensive cologne, fresh cedar, something smoky, something forbidden and tried not to inhale too deeply.

“How dramatic,” you muttered, rubbing your wrist. A faint red mark already bloomed across your skin. You tugged your sleeve over it.

“I thought you said filthy Mudbloods shouldn’t touch you,” you added flatly, brushing imaginary dirt off your robes.

His nostrils flared.

“How the fuck did you get that?” he growled, lunging forward.

You lifted the parchment just out of reach.

“I have help from my favorite felons,” you replied sweetly, enjoying every flicker of panic behind those silver eyes.

“What do you want?” he gritted, eyes flickering between your face and the damning piece of paper.

You grinned.

“Turns out I’m not the only one failing something,” you said in mock surprise, swaying the parchment like a fan. “You. Me. Friday. Greenhouse.”

He blinked.

“You teach me Potions. I teach you Herbology. We save each other’s asses.”

Your voice was firm, commanding. You weren’t asking. You were telling.

He let out a low, sarcastic laugh and crossed his arms across his chest.

“Why the fuck would I help you? You-”

“I can always ask Nott if you’re not interested,” you cut in coolly. “But I don’t think your father would be thrilled when he sees that.” You gave the parchment a little shake.

His whole body snapped forward like a striking snake.

“You dare”

You raised your eyebrows, arms folding to mirror his.

“Why wouldn’t I? What are you going to do? Send my score to my parents?”

That made him freeze. Just for a second. You caught it, barely perceptible but it was there. A flicker in his gaze. A crack.

You were still pissed about what he’d said to you weeks ago, about blood, about worth, about things that still stung when you tried not to think about them. You were petty. And you weren’t sorry for it.

Not with him.

He stared at you. You stared back.

Then he pinched the bridge of his nose, muttered something under his breath, and let out a long, slow, pained groan that came from somewhere in his soul.

“Fine.”

Victory had never tasted so sweet.

-to be continued-

“I said, for the seventh time, you only put that crushed Snargaluff pulp in when the liquid is boiling with bubbling blue sparks!”

His voice echoed through the greenhouse, sharp and agitated, cutting through the still, humid air. Sunlight spilled through the glass ceiling, dancing on his snow-blond hair and casting golden highlights over his sculpted face. His silver-grey eyes locked onto yours, lashes fluttering slightly in the heat.

A vision, really. Shame about the attitude.

“Sorry I don’t instinctively know the boiling point of moonstone-infused murtlap essence like I’m part human, part thermometer!” you snapped back, glaring down at the cauldron bubbling aggressively in front of you.

He groaned, head falling back dramatically before he stomped his foot like an angry child. “How have you not blown up the school by now?”

“Only half, if I’m lucky,” you muttered under your breath.

His brow twitched dangerously. His arms crossed. His fingers tapped impatiently against his robes. You could feel the irritation radiating off him in waves.

“Stop.” He reached out and grabbed your hand mid-motion. His grip was firm but not rough, stopping you in place. “Show me how you prep the dried Billywig stings before mixing it with the roasted Flitterbloom fibers.”

“Okay…” you said, not with confidence, but resignation. You picked up the ingredient, beginning to cut it with some hesitation.

He watched for all of five seconds before reaching out again, catching your wrist.

“No.” His voice was low now, tight. “You grind the Billywig stings first. And you charcoal the Flitterbloom. Then you mix them together. Honestly, have you even read the chapter?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he snatched the textbook and flipped through the pages with swift, practiced movements, grabbed a quill from the inkwell nearby, and started scribbling.

You stepped a little closer to peek. His handwriting was clean, elegant, even artistic, like every stroke had been planned with precision. He moved with an ease that made you realize he’d done this kind of thing a hundred times. Maybe more.

He even took the time to open your notebook, divide the page into sections, and carefully jot down step-by-step notes. Clear. Simple. Obvious. All for you.

Maybe he wasn’t the worst teacher after all.

Your gaze wandered, just slightly, to him instead of the book. He was concentrating, brow furrowed, the end of the quill tapping against his lip for just a second before he resumed writing.

“The text is in the book, not on my face,” he said without looking up.

Your eyes snapped away instantly.

You didn’t answer, just shifted your focus back to the bubbling cauldron and the open page, determined not to give him the satisfaction of knowing you were actually kind of impressed.

Maybe.

A little.

------

"That's not the right root..."

You tried, tried, to be patient, but this blond boy was just so... infuriatingly dense.

"Use that again and this whole room will need containment,” you snapped, voice barely holding back a sneer as you glared at the Thistlewort root in his hand.

He blinked at you, utterly perplexed. “What? You said it’s red!” he protested, waving it like it made a valid point.

You snatched it from him before he could do any more damage and tossed it into the reject pile. “Red, yes. But the long one. Do you see this one? It’s short. Use your eyes!”

“I am using my eyes!” he growled, grabbing another root in defiance and jamming it into the pot.

“Stop, stop! You can’t use that soil!”

You practically dove across the table to stop him, switching out the pot just in time.

“This is Scorchroot Clay,” you explained, trying to calm your rising temper. “It’s good for Fireseed shrubs, but not for Mooncalf root.”

He rolled his pale eyes so dramatically you thought they might get stuck.

“Then I’ll water it,” he said, already grabbing the watering can.

Your hand shot out to stop him but you were too late.

The root gave a sneeze-like wheeze before letting out a high-pitched giggle and then boom. The pot cracked clean in half, soil and fragments exploding across the workbench.

You both stared at the wreckage.

You brought a hand to your forehead, pinching the bridge of your nose as the headache formed. “Are you really this stupid?”

His jaw dropped. “Or maybe you’re just a very bad tutor,” he snapped, slamming the watering can down with a thud.

Oh, he was definitely more impatient with the subject than you were with teaching it.

“Whatever.” You were too exhausted to fight. Grabbing his notebook, you yanked it toward you and started scribbling, trying to make your notes as clear and foolproof as possible. You even added rough sketches of the plants and roots, circling the differences with exaggerated arrows.

“There.” You shoved it back across the table. “Five pages. Learn it. I’m testing you tomorrow.”

When you looked up, he was watching you, arms crossed, head tilted slightly, as if assessing whether you were the problem. His skeptical eyes narrowed in silent judgment.

“What?” you asked, brows furrowing.

“I think…” he said slowly, rubbing his chin with a kind of dramatic seriousness that made your eye twitch, “we need more... extreme methods.”

“What do you mean?” you asked warily, but he didn’t answer. Instead, he began swiftly packing up his things, snapping his bag closed and swinging it onto his shoulder.

“You’ll find out tomorrow. Don’t be late.”

And just like that, he pushed through the greenhouse door, the golden light of sunset casting long shadows behind him as he disappeared down the path.

You stared after him, confused, annoyed and just the tiniest bit intrigued.

What the hell was he planning?

------

You were standing at the desk, quietly flipping through your notes when the creak of the greenhouse door pulled your attention. You turned slightly, just enough to see the pale blond boy saunter in with one hand tucked in his pocket.

Without a word, he pulled out a small paper bag and tossed it onto the table. The contents scattered across your open book.

Candies?

You blinked, picking up one of the brightly wrapped sweets with suspicion. “What is this?”

“Try it and you’ll know,” he said with a casual shrug, his voice unusually nonchalant.

Too nonchalant, actually.

You stared at him, doubt prickling the back of your mind. But... he was your tutoring partner. You were supposed to trust each other. Sort of.

With a sigh, you unwrapped the candy and popped it into your mouth.

Sweet. Peppermint. Cold and clean, very him, honestly.

But before you could even swallow, your stomach twisted violently.

You doubled over.

The nausea hit like a rogue wave. Gagging, you clutched your middle and just as you opened your mouth to curse, a bucket was shoved under your face. Malfoy stood beside you, his nose wrinkled like he was looking at a rotting mandrake.

You heaved into the bucket. Violently.

By the time it was over, your eyes were bloodshot, your throat raw, and your soul partially detached from your body.

“WHAT. THE. ACTUAL. HELL. WAS. THAT?” you croaked, glaring up at him from behind the rim of the bucket.

“Puking Pastilles,” he replied calmly, hands in his pockets. “Courtesy of the Weasley twins. Modified version.”

Your jaw dropped.

“Every time one of us makes a mistake or gives a wrong answer,” he said with the most smug look you’d ever seen, “we take a candy.”

You stared at him, horrified.

He looked entirely too pleased.

“That's disgusting,” you muttered, wiping your mouth with the sleeve of your robe.

“But effective,” he countered, already reorganizing the candies into neat rows across the desk.

You protested at first. 

But in the end, you agreed.

And from that day forward, your study sessions took on a new level of fearsome intensity. Neither of you wanted to touch another peppermint candy ever again. By the time you returned to your dorms each evening, you looked like you'd survived a natural disaster, pale, wrecked, and reeking of mint and shame.

Still…

You were getting better.

Both of you were.

And oddly enough, between all the vomiting, the yelling, and the ridiculous competition… you kind of looked forward to it.

------

His POV

That night, I was sprawled out on the couch in the common room, flipping through that stupid notebook.

Their stupid notebook.

Full of neatly written notes, little doodles of roots and plants and whatever else they thought might help my idiot brain retain information for the dumb Herbology exam I had to retake.

Merlin, I hated this.

I hated studying, I hated Herbology, I hated the fact that one more failed attempt and I’d be off the Quidditch team.

But the notes, they weren’t bad. Actually… they were brilliant.

Annoyingly brilliant.

Clean. Organized. Far more useful than the mess of textbooks we were forced to use in class. I flipped a page, squinting down at their handwriting, trying to memorize the difference between Flare Root and Redvine when. 

“Oh, what are you reading?”

Pansy’s voice cut through the calm like a knife. Before I could react, the notebook was plucked from my hands.

“Oi-” I started, already sitting up as she squinted down at the page.

“Are you seriously studying?” Enzo’s voice followed, his tone somewhere between amusement and disbelief as he leaned over the couch. “Right now?”

Pansy passed the notebook to him before I could snatch it back.

“I have to retake Herbology,” I muttered, running a hand through my hair. “One more fail and I’m benched for Quidditch.”

That got their attention. Enzo raised an eyebrow as I snatched the notebook back, flipping it open again. It was already becoming worn from overuse. Great.

Behind me, someone else chimed in, annoyingly close to my ear. “Oh, your notes are so well-organized. Let me borrow them for just a-”

“No.”

I didn’t even bother to turn around.

“Oh come on, why not?”

“Because they’re mine,” I snapped, not even glancing up. My patience was wearing thinner by the second. The exam was creeping closer, and the last thing I needed was half the common room breathing down my neck.

And the one person who should be here, nagging me with that high-strung voice and waving roots in my face? Nowhere to be seen. Not since we nearly choked ourselves to death on vomit candy.

“Hey, Malfoy,” Enzo said, voice sly. “The one you usually pick on hasn’t been around lately, huh?”

I looked up for a second. Then back down.

“I’m tired of them.”

Which was a lie.

A weird lie.

But easier than explaining the strange ache in my chest.

Crabbe chimed in before the silence could settle. “Wasn’t it because they hexed us really bad that one time?”

I sat straighter at that, glancing sharply at the shorter guy, and he immediately looked away.

Then his taller counterpart, Goyle, came stomping in and dropped something on the floor in front of me. Something dirty. Muddy.

Shoes.

Pansy let out a shriek. “Ew, what the hell?!”

I blinked, then stared. The shoes were completely wrecked, mud-caked, laces ripped, one of them even looked burned.

“These are theirs,” Goyle said proudly, as if he’d just gifted me a new broomstick. “I stole them and, you know, wrecked them a bit.”

My blood ran cold.

“Who the fuck told you to?” My voice dropped, sharp as a curse. I shoved the notebook aside, barely resisting the urge to throw it across the room.

Goyle faltered, taking a small step back. “I just thought… you’d want revenge, or-”

“Shut up.”

I didn’t even know why I was this angry. But I was.

The room shifted with the mood. People knew better than to stick around when I was like this. A few of them slunk away, while others pretended to be deeply invested in their chess games or whispered conversations.

I didn’t move.

Just stared at the ruined shoes.

The shoes they probably wore every time we were in that greenhouse together, stomping around bossing me with that insufferable voice. The ones they probably kicked me with when I messed something up.

And now they were destroyed.

I should’ve laughed.

But instead… I wanted to kill someone.

-----

You were sitting in the empty greenhouse, notebook open in your lap, the pages fluttering gently under the breeze slipping through the cracked windows. It was quiet here. Safe.

This old, abandoned place had become your hideout.

The only other person who knew about it was Draco Malfoy and today, you didn’t even have a tutoring session with him. So when the door creaked open, your head stayed down, eyes focused.

Until a pair of clean shoes were placed into view.

You slowly looked up.

It was him, of course. Same scowl and same stiff posture.

“What?” he said flatly, nodding at the shoes. “Don’t recognize your own?”

Your brows knit together as you looked down again.

Wait… those are your shoes

Cleaned and fixed.

They were your shoes. Just newer and cleaner than the fraying one you used to wear. 

Before you could ask, he walked past you and dropped a few textbooks onto the table with a dull thud.

“This’ll be our last lesson,” he muttered, pulling jars of ingredients from his bag. “Consider that my way of not owing anything to a Muggle.”

You raised a brow. “We don’t have a lesson today.”

He didn’t even look up as he started sorting the supplies. “I’m busy tomorrow.”

Typical Malfoy, short answers, zero elaboration. You could tell he was in a bad mood. But then again… when wasn’t he in a bad mood?

Still, you didn’t press. You moved closer, flipping to the page you had last marked.

The air between you two was oddly calm.

No bickering, no sarcastic jabs. Just quiet concentration. The greenhouse, with its old glass panels and filtered sunlight, cast soft shadows across the room.

And there you stood, side by side, under the gentle glow of the sun, surrounded by the faint scent of soil and herbs.

It was strange. But not unpleasant.

You had a feeling he wasn’t telling you everything.

But for once, you let it be.

Because somehow…

The silence said enough.

-to be continued- 

The sky feels a little grayer as you step onto the station platform. You glance down at the clock on your wrist. Something about today itches at your nerves more than usual. It’s hard to explain but the air feels heavier, the atmosphere more suffocating than it normally is.

This platform is usually packed with life, chatter, rushing feet, noise but today it’s eerily quiet. Isolated. As you look around, you notice other students waiting too, shifting restlessly, whispering in hushed tones.

You catch fragments of their words.

You don’t know who he is, how dangerous he really is. But if he broke out of the wizarding prison, then he must be someone to worry about. You remind yourself to stay cautious once you’re back in the wizarding world.

Still… Hogwarts is safe.

Right?

You shouldn’t have to worry.

Right?

The train pulls in with a familiar screech, snapping you out of your thoughts. You board, the corridor already crowded. In the distance, you spot your friends waving from a cabin, their faces lighting up when they see you. You push through the bustle of students, ducking past luggage and bodies, making your way toward them.

And then, your shoulder bumps into someone.

“Sorry-” you begin, your voice trailing off as your gaze lifts.

Familiar, piercing silver-grey eyes stare down at you. Cold, unreadable.

Pale blond hair, neat and effortless. A tailored black suit.

Draco Malfoy.

For a moment, you just look at him. This is the first time you’ve seen him wear something other than his school robes, and, well, if you’re being honest, he looks annoyingly good. Too good. The kind of good that pisses you off.

He doesn’t say a word.

No snide remarks. No arrogant sneer.

Just… silence.

Normally, by now, he’d be whining. “Watch where you’re going!” or tossing some ridiculous insult “Don’t touch me, filthy Mudblood” even when no one fucking touched him.

But today, nothing.

His lips are pressed into the same tight line as yours. And he just… stares. His Slytherin friends behind him are watching too, eyes scanning you with vague amusement or curiosity.

You look away first, unwilling to feed whatever that stare might mean.

You step past him and slip into the cabin, closing the door behind you with a soft thud. The hum of conversation dies for a brief moment as your friends glance outside, then back to you. No one says anything about the Slytherins. The tension dissolves as they turn back toward each other.

“Hi! How was your holiday?” Lena’s voice cuts through the silence, drawing your attention.

You smile faintly and sink into the seat next to her, finally allowing your shoulders to relax.

It’s better to focus on the now. On your friends. On the comfort of the moving train.

Whatever that moment with Draco was, it's over.

-----

Your friends are deep in conversation, voices overlapping with laughter and snippets of stories from their summer. But your gaze drifts to the window, dazed. The sky outside is a thick blanket of grey, clouds bloated with the promise of rain, or maybe something worse. A cold breeze curls through the thin cracks of the window frame, and you pull your robes tighter around your arms.

“You heard, right? Sirius Black broke out of Azkaban!” someone suddenly blurts out, snapping you back to the present.

You glance up, eyes following the voice.

“Yeah, it’s all over the Daily Prophet!” another chimes in, worry lacing their tone. “That means… the Dementors will be around, right?”

Their voice drops to a whisper. You can hear the subtle tremble in it.

“What’s a Dementor?” you ask, frowning. You’ve never read about them (in wizard world at least). It sounds like some kind of Ministry official.

Everyone turns to look at you.

Lena is the one who answers, softly. “They’re… not very friendly creatures.”

“They’re stupid, is what they are,” a boy with short hair cuts in with a scowl. “Can’t tell who they’re after. They just attack whatever’s in their path.”

The cabin goes quiet. Someone coughs awkwardly.

“Let’s stop talking about it,” a girl in a soft cardigan murmurs. “We’ll be safe at Hogwarts.”

Everyone nods, but you can feel the unease lingering like fog in the air.

You don’t press the topic further. It’s clear they don’t want to talk about it. Lena yawns beside you before eventually leaning her head on your shoulder and drifting off to sleep. You stay still, letting her rest, as your eyes return to the window. The sky has darkened even more. You rest your chin on your hand, watching the storm begin to build.

A while later, Lena shifts and sits up, rubbing her eyes. “I need to go to the bathroom,” she mutters, standing.

“You want me to come with you?” you ask, already half-rising.

She shakes her head with a small laugh. “I’ve got a cold, not some undiagnosed disease.”

You smirk lightly as she slides the cabin door open and disappears down the hallway.

The others seem drowsy too, heads leaning against windows and shoulders, slowly drifting into shallow sleep. You sit quietly, gaze fixed on the window again.

And then.

The train jolts violently.

You immediately grip the edge of your seat to steady yourself.

“What the fuck?!”

Several of your friends jolted awake, startled.

Your eyes snap to the window. The train… has stopped.

“What happened?” someone asks, voice rising with panic.

The lights in the cabin flicker once, twice before going out completely.

Darkness swallows everything. The gloomy sky outside offers no help.

You feel it, a coldness spreading in your chest, like ice curling around your ribs.

“I don’t know,” you answer, slowly, the unease tightening in your throat.

“Maybe some malfunction?” the girl in the cardigan says, though she doesn’t sound convinced.

Your brow furrows. No. This doesn’t feel like a technical error. This feels… wrong.

You stand up, wand already in your hand.

“Hey! Where are you going?” one of the boys asks, sitting up fully as he notices you heading to the door.

“I’m going to check on Lena,” you reply quickly, hand already on the handle. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

You slide the door open.

No students. No noise. Just the sound of your own breath and the distant, mournful wail of the wind outside the train.

It’s so quiet. Too quiet.

The kind of silence that doesn’t just settle over a place, it seeps into your bones.

No chatter, no laughter, not even footsteps. Just an eerie stillness broken only by the distant groan of metal as the train shifts uneasily on the tracks. The grey sky outside presses against the windows like an omen, its weight making the hallway darker, heavier.

You press on, every step heavy as you walk deeper into the dim corridor, darkness closing in around you like a second skin.

A gust of cold air hits you as you step into the hallway. Your footsteps echo sharply through the silence.

That feeling.

That terrible, creeping sense.

It gnaws at your chest again, sharp and icy.

You quicken your pace, footsteps echoing softly as you make your way toward the bathrooms, wand gripped tighter in your fingers.

Another jolt.

The train shudders violently. Your body lurches forward. The world tilts. You barely get a sound out before.

Before you can hit the floor.

Arms catch you.

Warm. Steady. Familiar.

You freeze in place.

Your face is pressed into a warm chest, and that scent, oud wood, smoke, something dark and expensive wraps around you instantly.

Silver-grey eyes meet yours. Cold. Sharp. Recognizable.

You stumble back the second your balance returns, stepping away from him quickly.

He doesn’t say anything. Just stands there, hands by his sides now, as if he hadn’t just caught you from falling.

His expression is unreadable. No smirk. No sneer. Just quiet… awareness.

The hallway lights flicker faintly, casting shadows on the sharp edges of his face, making him look even more haunting in the dark.

You part your lips to say something, maybe "thanks," maybe "what are you doing here" but your voice catches in your throat.

A sudden, soul-deep chill that wraps around your spine, leeching the warmth from your skin like a vacuum. Your breath comes out in a shaky puff. Frost curls faintly on the inside of the window nearby.

------

“What the fuck are you doing, lurking around?”

His lip twists in an irritated grimace, voice sharp and cutting. Even in the muted, grey gloom, you can make out the exact shape of his narrowed eyes, the sculpted precision of his face.

“Checking on my friend,” you reply shortly, barely sparing him a glance before your eyes flick toward the nearest cabin. Potter and his friends are in there, peering out the windows with tense expressions. You don’t stop, just walk right past.

But you hear it. Footsteps.

Right behind you.

You pause, turning your head slightly, skepticism in your gaze.

“Why are you following me?”

“Who the fuck’s following you?” he snaps immediately, eyebrows drawing so tightly together you wouldn’t be surprised if a fly dropped dead right between them. “This is the way to my cabin.”

You don’t answer. Just keep walking.

But you swear.

There’s something wrong with the silence.

It’s so deep it’s unnatural, like the air itself is holding its breath.

And Malfoy must feel it too. His pace slows. You can practically sense him looking over his shoulder, unsettled.

“It’s just a blackout,” he mutters behind you, trying too hard to sound annoyed, arms crossed over his chest. “Your friend can’t handle a little darkness?”

“I just want to make sure. Who knows how long this will last?” you say softly, your pace not slowing.

He scoffs behind you, clearly gearing up to be a pain.

“Such a weak-ass person. Are all Muggle-borns like this? Always so bloody dramatic?”

You let out a breathy chuckle.

The irony is so rich it’s practically bleeding.

Draco Malfoy.

Calling someone dramatic.

If the position of Drama Queen were a monarchy, he’d be wearing a twelve-foot cloak and a jewel-studded crown, sitting on the throne, ordering everyone to talk about how tragic his life is over tea and scones.

“The fuck are you laughing about?” he hisses.

“I don’t know,” you say, eyes forward, smirking slightly. “Maybe you should look in the mirror more often.”

You don’t need to look back to know he’s pissed.

The silence behind you buzzes with tension, and if you listen hard enough, you can practically hear the grinding of his teeth.

But that tension.

It shifts.

Because then you stop. Dead in your tracks.

The hallway ahead is darker now, almost unnaturally so. These cabins are nearly always empty, students rarely sit this far up the train anyway. And the air… it has that feeling. Like when lightning’s about to strike. Your neck tingles. Every hair stands on end.

Malfoy nearly walks straight into you.

“Why did you stop-”

“Shhh,” you whisper, slicing through his words with a sharp hiss.

That sound.

That wasn’t your breath.

It wasn’t his either.

It’s a low, dragging rasp.

Like… breath sucked through a wind tunnel. Or worse, like a faint wail. Thin. Hollow. Wrong.

Your body reacts before your brain catches up. Pure instinct.

You grab Draco’s wrist, his skin cold against your palm and yank him hard into the nearest compartment.

“Oi!” he starts to snap.

But you’re already shutting the door. Locking it with a flick of your wand. And then you stand there, tense, wand pointed straight at the door, heart pounding so loudly it drowns out everything else.

Draco stares at you in stunned silence, pressed against the other end of the small space.

“What the hell are you-?”

You don’t answer.

Because you don’t know what it is out there.

But your instincts, those sharp, quiet whispers inside you, they’re screaming.

Something is very wrong.

And it’s getting closer.

“What t-”

He almost lets out one of his usual complaints, that familiar whining tone rising in his throat.

“Don’t say anything,” you whisper, your voice sharp and urgent enough to cut stone.

To your surprise, he obeys. His mouth snaps shut, his jaw tense. Maybe it’s the tone. Maybe it’s the look on your face. Or maybe, even Draco Malfoy knows when it’s time to shut up.

Because something is wrong.

So deeply, viscerally wrong.

The pressure in the hallway shifts like a heartbeat skipping a beat. The air grows dense, heavy, as if the train itself is holding its breath. The hairs on your arms rise. A shiver drips down your spine.

Then, a shadow moves.

No footsteps. No sound.

Just moves.

It glides into view outside the compartment window, slow and deliberate. Long, spindly limbs. Shredded black fabric drifting like smoke. Nails, inhumanly long, dragging through the air. You don’t know what the hell that is. You’ve read about Dementors (of Muggle world), sure. You’ve seen the drawings.

But this... this is nothing like you imagined.

This is worse.

You’re frozen.

Not metaphorically, literally frozen.

Your body feels numb. Like your own blood is turning to ice. Your chest tightens, your vision dulls, and a cold emptiness starts curling inward from your edges.

You can’t breathe.

You grip Draco’s wrist harder, as if he’s the only solid thing left in the world. You don’t look at him, you can’t but you feel him, completely still, breathing shallowly. And the tremble that runs through his body matches yours. He’s scared. Just like you.

Both of you stare at the slow-shifting darkness behind the glass.

Neither of you dares to move.

Neither of you even blinks.

The longer it lingers, the worse it feels.

Your thoughts start slipping.

Faces, memories, hope, all draining away.

And then, you realize.

This is what fear really is.

Not panic. Not screaming.

Just emptiness.

Just the terrifying knowledge that you can’t stop it, can’t fight it, can’t breathe.

Slowly… the shadow drifts past.

It doesn't stop. Doesn’t turn.

It simply fades into the darkness ahead, like mist pulled by an invisible tide.

You don’t move until it's completely gone.

Then, finally, your lungs suck in air, like surfacing after almost drowning. Your knees nearly buckle. Your skin is soaked with sweat, despite how cold you feel. You slowly turn around, your hand still clutching Draco’s wrist without realizing.

And then you see him.

Draco Malfoy, pure-blood prince, arrogant menace, silver-tongued bastard.

Looks haunted.

His eyes, normally sharp with cruelty, with pride, are distant. Dim. Like someone blew out the light inside them. His features, usually so composed and theatrical, are slack. His shoulders slouched, as if some invisible weight is pressing on him.

He’s still staring at the door, not even blinking.

And in that moment…

You realize something else.

This wasn’t just fear for either of you.

It was something taken.

Something broken inside both of you.

----

“Malfoy,” you call softly, your voice trembling as your eyes study him.

No reaction.

“Malfoy!”

Still nothing. He’s standing completely still, like a statue carved in marble. Not blinking. Not breathing. His body is locked, too stiff, too quiet.

At first, you think it’s fear. But no, this is something else. Something worse.

“Hey! Draco!”

You step closer and, with a sudden flick of worry, you gently slap his cheek.

His head jolts slightly, eyes blinking rapidly as if surfacing from underwater. He turns to look at you, and for the first time, you see genuine confusion swimming in those silver eyes.

“What. The. Fuck. Was. That?”

His voice is quiet but jagged, every word broken by disbelief. There’s a tremble in it too.

“I don’t know…”

And you really don’t.

You just know you never want to see that thing again.

But that thought vanishes the moment you remember Lena.

Your chest tightens.

You drop his wrist and turn for the door. Panic overriding every rational thought. “I have to find my friend.”

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” Draco’s voice calls after you, hard-edged with confusion.

“I have to find her.” You don’t look back, but you hear his footsteps behind you, quick and reluctant.

“Are you mental? That thing is out there and you want to-”

“I can’t leave her alone,” you snap, speeding down the corridor, breath hitching. The hallway feels endless, warped somehow, stretched by the lingering darkness.

You reach the bathroom door and pound on it.

“Lena! Are you in there?”

You twist the doorknob. Locked.

“It’s me! Open the door!” you plead.

No response.

You glance back, wand already raised to cast a spell. 

But your heart drops.

That thing is coming again.

The shadow, twisting, drifting like torn cloth in water, slides toward you down the corridor. You can’t move. Can’t scream. You’re trapped in your own body.

You hear Draco curse softly beside you, voice low and sharp.

And then. 

A blinding flash of silver light bursts down the hall.

It crashes like a tidal wave, slamming into the creature with such force it seems to dissolve into air. Your eyes squeeze shut against the brilliance, and the world becomes heat and sound and light.

You open your eyes.

He’s wrapped his arms around you.

Not tightly but enough to shield you, his body angled in front of yours without a second thought. You hadn’t even noticed him move. Maybe he didn’t notice either.

Your hands are curled into the fabric of his blazer. You’re not sure when they got there. Neither of you says a word. Just frozen in place, breathing the same sharp breath, hearts pounding like war drums.

A click.

You both jolt at the sound of the bathroom door unlocking.

Lena steps out, blinking innocently.

“Uhm… do you guys need to use it?” she asks, brows drawn in confused amusement. Her eyes flicker between you and Draco, standing tangled and breathless in front of the door like something out of a weird rom-com.

She has no idea.

You and the pale boy lock eyes.

You both pull away from each other as if you'd just realized you were holding burning coals. Hands drop. Breaths stutter. The space between you fills with awkward silence, thick and heavy.

Neither of you says anything.

You avert your gaze first.

Without a word, you step toward Lena, still standing in the doorway, blinking in confusion.

“Are you okay?” you ask, voice unsteady as your hands find her shoulders. You can’t stop the tremble that leaks into your tone.

“I’m… fine?” she replies, brows furrowing as her eyes flick over your pale face. “Why do you look like you’ve just seen a ghost?”

You force yourself to breathe.

“Let’s just get back first,” you murmur, not wanting to explain what even you can’t understand.

Thankfully, she doesn’t push.

She simply nods and follows your lead.

As you guide her back toward your compartment, your eyes briefly flick toward the boy still standing in the hallway. His figure is stiff, posture unreadable. But before you can say or even think anything else, movement catches your eye.

At the far end of the corridor, a few familiar figures rush toward him, likely his friends, faces pinched with worry.

You quickly shift your gaze away, pretending you didn’t see them, pretending none of this happened.

And then, in silence, you and Lena slip back into the cabin.

-to be continued-

The accident on the train wasn't something anyone could have expected. Even now, it clings to your soul like a second skin, impossible to shake, impossible to forget. The creature hadn’t even touched you, hadn’t had the chance to do anything truly monstrous, yet the memory of it haunts you in a way no ordinary fear could.

You remember it all too clearly. The moment when the air turned so bitterly cold that every hair on the back of your neck stood on end. Your hands, your feet, even the breath in your lungs seemed to freeze as you stood there in the narrow hall of the train, gripping your luggage for dear life. You couldn’t place that breath, that shiver in the air, it didn’t belong to you or to anyone human. It was… other. Alien. A monster, yes. A creature so far beyond human comprehension that your mind refused to shape it into anything familiar. And you were no different from anyone else, people fear what they don’t understand.

The image of it, blurred yet piercing, burns in your memory. Even though you only caught the briefest glimpse, it’s as if it had been burned into the back of your eyelids. The creature lunged at you, a shadow of nightmares coalesced into form. Like a haunted place given life, all the old, blackened souls that had ever died there fusing together to become a single, horrifying shape. An echo of death that tasted of cold metal and old, forgotten sorrows.

“Y/n!” Lena’s voice jolts you from your thoughts. You turn, eyes wide and unfocused, to see her worried face peering at you.

“Are you okay?” she asks, her brow furrowed in concern. The two of you are still standing on the platform, luggage in hand, waiting to step off the train. The windows beside you rattle as rain pelts them in sheets, the droplets racing down the glass in frantic rivulets.

The storm outside seems to echo the storm in your head, dark, loud, relentless. Thunder growls somewhere distant as you step carefully down from the train onto the slick, rain-slick platform.

“I’m fine…” you murmur, though your voice is hollow. It takes you a moment to find the words, and even then, they come out more like a sigh than anything reassuring. Lena doesn’t look convinced.

“You’re as pale as a ghost,” she says softly, her cardigan pulled tight around her shoulders as she glances around the crowded platform.

You don’t answer. Instead, you look around, your eyes tracing over the other students. Most of them look just as shaken as you feel, ashen-faced, eyes wide, clutching their trunks like lifelines. Maybe you’re not the only one who came face to face with that thing. Maybe you’re not the only one it tried to claim.

You find out later that the light was caused by a spell cast, the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, Remus Lupin. He’d been in the same compartment as Potter’s group. Rumor has it that Potter had actually fainted when he saw the creature. You’re not sure what these monsters are truly capable of, and honestly, you don’t want to find out.

Your palms are damp, sweat slicking your grip on the handle of your trunk as you follow the slow-moving line of students towards the carriages waiting beyond the station. You barely hear the chatter of your friends, their voices blending into the dull roar of the rain and the occasional crack of thunder overhead. No one seems to want to break your silence, and you’re grateful for that, your thoughts are too loud already.

The carriages creak and sway as you climb in, the air inside cold and damp, every breath a shiver in your lungs. The darkness of the night presses in on you from all sides, far more menacing than it used to be. Even the familiar shapes of the carriages, creaky wood and flickering lanterns seem more sinister tonight.

Through the carriage window, you can see Hogwarts rising up in the distance. The castle, usually so warm and welcoming with its glowing lights, looks ancient and forbidding beneath the storm. Lightning forks across the sky, illuminating the towers and turrets in stark, skeletal relief. For a moment, it’s like you’re looking at a ruin, a haunted shell of stone and shadow.

----

Once you finally make it to the castle, everything seems to slip back into the usual rhythm. Students hurry through the corridors, laughter and chatter rising above the echo of footsteps on stone floors. You return to your dorm, unpack your trunk with mechanical motions, and change into your uniform. The familiar swish of the fabric, the worn softness of your robes, feels almost comforting, but you’re still wrapped in the cold shiver of what you saw on the train.

The Great Hall is warm and bright when you enter, lanterns flickering and food laid out in tempting abundance. You take your seat at the long table, the usual noise of the feast rolling around you, clinking cutlery, the rustle of parchment, and the low hum of conversation. Laughter and joking echo down the table, but your mind feels far away, distant and foggy.

You turn your head slightly, catching sight of Malfoy and his cronies further down the other table. Their laughter is sharp, and you realize they’re picking on Potter, mocking him for fainting on the train.

So the rumor was true, then. 

You’d heard it whispered in the corridors and common rooms, but to see it confirmed in Malfoy’s smirk felt different. Still… who wouldn’t faint in the face of a creature like that? If you’d had less presence of mind, you’re certain your soul would have fled your body entirely before the Dementor even had a chance to finish the job.

Your eyes drift over to Potter. His face is pale, still drawn with the echo of that icy terror. In that moment, you feel a flicker of kinship, one that vanishes as quickly as it arrives when you sense someone else’s gaze.

You look up and your eyes lock with a familiar pair of silver-grey ones, piercing and cold as moonlight. Malfoy meets your stare for a heartbeat too long, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. Normally, you’d have met his gaze with a quip or a roll of your eyes, but not today. Today, you just turn back to the table, your appetite gone entirely.

The idiots who make fun of fear like it’s a weakness, they’ve never met a Dementor face to face. They don’t know how it feels when every memory of warmth and happiness is stripped from you, leaving only a bone-deep chill and a mind gone blank with horror. They don’t know what it’s like to stand there, unable to move or think, your very soul held hostage.

A sudden hush falls over the hall as Dumbledore rises from his seat at the staff table. Every head lifts, every conversation dies as he surveys the room, his presence calm but commanding.

“Attention, everyone,” he says, his voice firm and resonant, echoing through the hall.

You watch him intently, his long fingers resting on the table, his eyes grave.

“As per the decree of the Ministry of Magic,” he continues, “Hogwarts will, until further notice, be host to the Dementors of Azkaban. Their presence is intended to ensure the safety of all students and staff until Sirius Black is captured.”

A ripple of whispers races through the hall, students turning to each other with alarm and curiosity. But Dumbledore’s gaze is steady, and silence falls again as he goes on.

“The Dementors will be stationed at every entrance to the grounds,” he says. “I assure you that their presence will not interfere with our day-to-day activities.”

You’re not sure how to feel about that. You doubt any of the other students are either. The thought of those creatures lurking at the edge of the forest, drifting through the gates like wraiths, sends another shiver racing up your spine.

“But be cautious,” Dumbledore warns, his voice dropping to a grave tone. “Dementors are vicious creatures. They do not distinguish between the one they hunt and the one who simply stands in their way.”

A heavy silence settles over the hall, so thick you can almost feel it pressing against your skin. Your hands tighten slightly on the edge of the table, knuckles whitening as you look at the headmaster. His blue eyes seem to pierce straight through you.

“Therefore, I must warn each and every one of you. Give them no reason to harm you,” he says, his words slow and deliberate, each syllable etched with quiet urgency. “It is not in the nature of a Dementor to be forgiving.”

He pauses, letting that sink in. Then, his tone softens, warming like the first flicker of a hearthfire in winter.

“But remember this,” he says, his voice growing gentle, almost tender. “Happiness can be found even in the darkest of times… if one only remembers to turn on the light.”

As he finishes speaking, he lifts his wand and with a small, deliberate flick, the candles overhead flare to life, their flames bright and warm against the gloom. For a moment, the Great Hall seems to glow, the golden light dancing across every face.

You breathe in deeply, the sudden warmth of the flames almost enough to thaw the chill in your bones. Almost. But you can’t forget the cold, no matter how many candles flicker. Not yet.

-----

“The fuck do they mean by that?” the boy in your group grumbles, his eyebrows scrunching together in confusion and unease.

“Meaning dangerous creatures are protecting us from a criminal on the loose,” you murmur, your voice a touch sharper than you intend. He lets out a scoff at that, and you can’t really blame him.

“Do we feel safe?” he mutters, and for a moment, the only answer is the silence that settles over your group. Everyone just stares at their plates or shifts in their seats, unable to offer anything more reassuring.

“Well… as long as we don’t have to come across them, we’re safe, right?” someone else pipes up, trying to plaster a fragile smile over her own unease. You nod absently, but her words do little to ease the tight feeling in your chest.

You glance over and notice Lena sitting quietly beside you, her shoulders hunched and her gaze distant. She’s usually so quick to chatter, but tonight she’s almost ghostly.

“Hey, you okay?” you ask in a hushed voice, falling into step with her.

She lifts her eyes to meet yours, worry flickering in their depths. “I’m fine,” she says, but the way she fidgets with her sleeve betrays her. “Just… you know, I feel uneasy.”

You nod, understanding exactly what she means. Who wouldn’t? The air itself seems colder tonight, even inside the castle’s thick walls. Still, if the school says you’re safe, maybe you can cling to that. At least for now. Because the alternative, paranoia, dread, would eat you alive if you let it.

When the meal is done, you and your friends part ways, slipping back to your dorms. Outside the windows, rain pounds against the glass, a steady drumming that echoes in your chest. Beyond the watery blackness, you know those creatures are out there, gliding silently through the darkness.

May Merlin help me sleep soundly tonight, you think, a quiet plea that feels almost childish as you climb into bed. You tuck yourself tightly beneath your blanket, the familiar softness a thin barrier between you and the cold dread outside. Your roommate snuffs out the last candle, and the room is swallowed by darkness, deep and absolute, like the forest beyond the castle walls.

You lie still for a moment, staring up at the ceiling you can’t see, listening to the rain’s steady rhythm. Then you squeeze your eyes shut and pull the blanket up over your head, rolling yourself into a small, tight ball. You focus on the warmth of your own breath, the press of the sheets around you, anything to banish the memory of those hollow, rotting figures and the cold that clings to your bones.

You tell yourself you’re safe. You tell yourself to sleep.

-----

And it was no surprise that you’d barely gotten any sleep last night. You yawned all the way from your dorm to the Great Hall, then at the table for your morning meal, and now… in class.

It was a new subject today, one that felt alien to you, even after poring over the assigned reading. Divination. You’d skimmed through the book and had no idea what any of it actually meant, cloudy prophecies, cryptic symbols… It all felt so far removed from the concrete charms and potions you were used to.

You looked up as the professor introduced herself. She had a look that made you think of a hippie, though you weren’t sure if that was the right word.

“In this room, you shall discover the signs!” she declared, her voice soft yet oddly intense. She stood abruptly and nearly knocked over the small table in front of her, sending a couple of students jumping back in their seats.

Every student in class looked at one another in confusion. Even the brightest in your year looked completely lost, shifting awkwardly on their cushions.

“Hi, I’m Professor Trelawney,” she continued with a bright smile that made her eyes shine behind her enormous glasses. “Together, we shall explore the mysteries of the future!” She seemed genuinely excited, her enthusiasm radiating off her in waves, even if the rest of the class only stared blankly in return.

You and Lena shared a look, half bemusement, half amusement before quickly focusing back on the professor.

“In this term, we shall begin with the art of reading tea leaves,” she said, her voice becoming a bit sing-song as she gestured to the mismatched teacups set before everyone. “Switch cups with your partner and let your inner eye open. The leaves will reveal what the heart knows, even if the mind does not.”

She moved around the room in a swirl of shawls and jangling bracelets, repeating softly, “Broaden your mind… Broaden your mind…” The class shuffled, exchanging cups and glancing down at their now-murky tea.

The tower classroom smelled faintly of burning incense, the air a bit too warm from the braziers scattered around. A soft mist curled in the corners of the room, and light filtered through the heavy crimson curtains, tinting the room in a reddish glow that only added to the surreal atmosphere.

You shifted on your overstuffed cushion, crossing your legs and cupping your teacup in both hands. Across from you, Lena wrinkled her nose at her own cup, clearly just as puzzled.

Professor Trelawney floated from table to table like some ethereal specter, calling out in that dreamy voice of hers. “The future speaks through the leaves… let it reveal itself to you!”

She snorted, peering into your cup with exaggerated seriousness. “Let’s see… a blob… another blob…”

“Charming.”

At that moment, Professor Trelawney drifted by your table, pausing like she’d felt a sudden chill. Her large, magnified eyes settled on Lena. “You, dear… read your partner’s cup aloud,” she instructed softly, as if delivering some cryptic truth.

Lena squinted at the leaves, her lips pursing, trying to focus. “Uh, alright. There’s… something that looks like a flower? No, wait… wings? No… um, Professor?”

But Trelawney only widened her eyes further, her voice dropping to a hush. “No, no… go on. Trust what you see.”

You felt your shoulders tense. “Well?”

Lena hesitated, her brow furrowing. “Okay.” she said slowly, tilting the cup back and forth.

You were already bracing yourself. “What? Did I get, like, a lifetime of bad luck?”

“No, no! Nothing like that. It’s just… odd.” She leaned in, peering closer. “There’s a serpent. Coiled at the bottom, almost… circling this jagged shape.”

Your eyebrows knit together. “Jagged?” you echoed, unsure what to make of it.

“Yeah. It looks like… a snake? It’s all warped and twisted. Kind of unsettling, to be honest.”

Professor Trelawney inhaled sharply, her fingers gripping the edge of the table as if the teacup had whispered secrets only she could hear. Her voice dropped to a breathy, trembling hush, eyes widening behind her enormous spectacles.

“A serpent,” she murmured, hand hovering above the rim of your cup, fingers nearly shaking. “An ancient symbol of transformation… danger… wisdom.”

Your stomach tightened as you tucked your hands under the table, knuckles white with unease. “Is that a bad omen?” you asked cautiously, your voice low.

Trelawney turned her gaze to you, her tone shrouded in cryptic mystery. “No, no, dear… it doesn’t always mean that.” She swept her shawl closer, her bracelets jingling softly as you and your friend exchanged a wary glance.

She peered at you intently, eyes watery and unsettlingly focused. “You, my dear… are on the cusp of great change. But you must be careful. The serpent can either bite… or coil around you. And sometimes… it’s too late when you realize.”

Your friend shot you a nervous look. “I swear I didn’t make that up,” she whispered, as baffled as you were by the sudden gravity of it all.

You didn’t answer, just stared at Trelawney as she paused, hand lifting in a warning gesture. Her eyes seemed to glaze over, as if she were slipping into a trance.

“...you may not like what rises from the bottom of the cup.”

Then, with a final flourish of her shawl and the faint scent of patchouli swirling around her, she drifted to the next table, leaving behind an air of vague foreboding.

You looked back at the cup, the faint shape of a serpent coiling at the bottom. Despite the cryptic drama, you had no idea what it meant beyond what she’d said.

Your friend leaned in closer, voice low and teasing. “So… basically, yes to caffeine addiction, right?”

You gave a one-shouldered shrug, eyes following Trelawney across the room. She stopped in front of Harry Potter’s table, asking him something you didn’t catch until she suddenly shrieked, dropping his cup and staring at him like she’d seen a ghost.

“You have… the Grim!”

A hush fell over the room. Someone read aloud from the book, voice quivering: “It takes the form of a giant spectral dog… an omen of death.”

You blinked, your gaze dropping to Lena’s cup in your hands. Thankfully, no dogs or Grim-like shapes appeared there, only the gentle curve of a crescent moon.

-to be continued-

After the Divination class. 

You make your way down the stairs and out onto the field as the class gathers for Care of Magical Creatures, a subject you share with those green-robed gremlins from Slytherin.

You swear to Merlin this is exactly where it all began: all the nasty little tricks that silver-tongued snake has played on you.

The last thing you want is to see his face. You stand beside your friends, instinctively keeping your distance from the Slytherins as you fall in line with your House. You don’t even bother looking for that familiar flash of pale blond hair in the crowd.

At first, the class gathers behind Hagrid’s hut. Then he leads everyone deeper across the grass, closer to a dark pond. Beyond it, the edge of the Forbidden Forest looms, but at least the sky is a little brighter than it was yesterday. You glance warily at the forest’s shifting shadows, your nerves prickling, then quickly look away as Hagrid’s booming voice fills the air.

“Now, you lot! Do not cross the white line I’ve drawn,” he warns. Everyone looks down, spotting the long chalk line encircling the pond, frowning in confusion.

The pond water is murky and still, the air cold and damp. No one wants to be near it, especially not after the Dementor scare on the train. You’re not going anywhere near that water if you can help it!

“Today,” Hagrid announces, his huge hands clasping together with a loud slap, “we’ll be learning to recognize and handle a Kelpie!”

Your breath hitches. A Kelpie. You’ve read enough in the textbook to know it’s a shapeshifting water demon, usually appearing as a horse with a bulrush mane to trick riders into mounting it. Once they do, it drags them down to the icy depths, devouring them until their guts float on the surface.

You instinctively step back, even though you’re already behind the white line. That’s when you bump into someone. “Sorry,” you blurt out before even turning to look, only to find yourself staring up at the infamous green-eyed, glasses-wearing boy with red hair beside him.

You quickly step away, creating a safe distance between you and the Golden Trio. Bad things always seem to happen when you’re too close to them, it’s not that you blame them exactly, but… you’d rather stay out of their orbit.

Hagrid’s voice draws your attention back. “Now remember. The Kelpie is a vile creature. It can take on any harmless shape it wants to lure you in. So I highly recommend you stay behind the line.” He pulls a large burlap sack onto the table with a grunt.

The stink of raw meat wafts through the air, so strong that everyone immediately covers their noses and turns away. On the other side of the table lies a pile of shiny objects, coins, mirrors, and other bits of bright metal.

“You can lure the Kelpie out with either of these,” Hagrid continues, grinning. “Just remember, using the Placement Charm will help you subdue the Kelpie once it appears.”

The class breaks into a nervous buzz of whispers. Hagrid looks around, still smiling. “Now, who wants to go first?”

This time, no one moves. Silence hangs over the pond.

Hagrid’s eyes twinkle as he scans the group. “Well, don’t be shy,” he urges, gesturing for everyone to come and choose an object to use as bait.

Your eyes flick toward the Slytherins as they elbow their way through the crowd to grab the shiniest trinkets, acting like they own the place. You and your friend exchange a nervous glance, you’re both trying to look brave, but your tight grip on each other’s sleeves betrays your unease.

----

Hagrid calls a few students at the front row, and instinctively, you take a few steps back. Some students clutch the silver charms in their hands, others have their wands out, everyone’s eyes fixed on the dark, pitch-black pond, breath held tight, waiting for what might emerge.

The water ripples and the Kelpie lets out a horrible, horse-like growl. Several students shriek and stumble backward, including you and your friend. Your palm is clammy, but you clutch your wand tighter than you ever have before. It’s as if the wand is the only thing anchoring you to sanity. Even your jaw is set in a stiffness you can’t ease.

Hagrid focuses on a different group as they’re called up, leaving the rest of the class to watch with bated breath. You stand silent, eyes on the water, when that familiar, drawling tone cuts through the air.

The pale-haired silver eyes boy, Malfoy, snickers, his friends sniggering along. His gaze flicks lazily to Harry, who’s shifted nervously at the sound the Kelpie made.

“Careful, Potter! Wouldn’t want you fainting again, would we? Merlin forbid a splash of water knocks you out cold this time,” he sneers, loud enough for everyone to hear.

A ripple of laughter runs through the Slytherins as if it’s the best joke they’ve ever heard. You can see Harry’s jaw clench, and Hermione’s brown eyes flash with fury. She steps forward, voice firm.

“Leave him alone, Malfoy.”

He barely glances at her. “Don’t you dare speak to me, you filthy Mudblood.” The word cuts through the air like a blade.

It’s almost jarring to hear it again, the reminder of who he is. As if you’d somehow let yourself forget what he was raised to be: bloodline pride, prejudice, and that toxic legacy.

And you feel… disappointed. Disappointed in yourself for forgetting, even for a moment.

“Leave her alone.” Harry snaps, eyes narrowed, and it’s clear he’s done with the insults.

For a second, you see Malfoy’s smirk fade. His silvery eyes narrow sharply, and he steps forward toward the trio, that sharp edge of something cold and dangerous in his gaze.

You’re not sure what he plans to do. He can’t possibly think he’d come out on top in a real fight with Potter. And honestly, you don’t want to see that beautiful face of his get broken because let’s face it, that’s the only thing enjoyable about him.

Malfoy steps closer, but then something shifts. You see his expression change in an instant, he looks up, eyes wide with sudden terror. He goes paler than he already is, stumbling back as his voice cracks out, trembling.

“DEMENTORS! DEMENTORS! DEMENTORS!”

You feel your own heart seize in panic, turning with Harry to see… nothing.

Nothing but the grey sky and the dark line of the forest.

Malfoy and his gang burst into loud, raucous laughter. They’ve all pulled their hoods up like Dementor cloaks, howling with delight at their own joke. Malfoy’s eyes crinkle at the corners as he doubles over laughing, his friends in stitches.

Your wand almost slips from your sweaty hand. That word, Dementors, isn't funny. Not to you. Not after that day on the train. Those things had left you cold to your bones and shivering for hours. Dumbledore said they were vicious. They could kill. And Malfoy? He’d been terrified too, back then, you remember how white his face was.

How the hell can he stand here laughing now? Making fun of that nightmare as if it’s nothing?

Your knuckles are white as you keep fisting your palm around your wand, trying to keep from shaking. This isn’t funny. This is the sort of fear that doesn’t ever really go away and seeing Malfoy sneer at it? That only makes it worse.

----

The silver-grey eyes didn’t stop their taunting. “Honestly, what kind of wizard faints at the sight of a Dementor? Pathetic,” he scoffed, turning to his friends. The laughter that followed echoed across the clearing, making you shake and tremble. Before you even realized it, you were stepping forward, planting yourself firmly between the trio and the Slytherins.

Malfoy raised an eyebrow at you, clearly surprised. “What do we have here?” he seemed to ask silently, though his smirk stayed in place.

“You think it’s funny? You think Dementors are a joke?” you demanded loudly enough for everyone to hear. His smirk widened as he shot a quick look at his friends, then back at you, his silver-grey eyes narrowing, cold and sharp.

“Oh? Touched a nerve, did I? Don’t tell me you fainted too,” he sneered.

You almost laughed, almost, but this wasn’t the time for it. Your jaw tightened as you met his gaze, refusing to back down.

“No. But I wanted to. You think I wasn’t scared out of my mind? You were too. I saw you, all stiff and white as a ghost, like you’d pissed yourself. Don’t act like you’re so brave.” you snapped back, calling him out in front of everyone.

His smirk faltered, replaced by a sneer. Honestly, who wouldn’t be terrified of Dementors? Everyone was, and mocking someone for that fear was downright cruel. We were just kids. What else could we do?

You jabbed your finger in the air, pointing at each of the Slytherins around him as your voice rose. “We all felt it. That icy, sick feeling. Like dying. So shut the fuck up about it. Who the fuck wasn’t scared? You’re not fooling anyone, all of you are just cowardly pricks!”

Draco’s face went from pale to flushed red in an instant, part anger, part embarrassment. Even his friends fell silent, looking like pathetic bullies caught in the act. He stepped forward, his eyes dark.

“Watch your mouth. No one asked you to jump in, Mu-”

“Say it again and I’ll feed you to the Kelpie,” you snarled before he could finish. His eyes flared with fury, but he hesitated. If he backed down, he’d be admitting you were right. And he couldn’t do that.

Instead, he shoved you hard, knocking the breath from your chest. Hermione stepped forward, blocking him. “Hey! What the fuck is wrong with you?” she shouted, only to be shoved back as well.

“Fucking Mudbloods, always defending each other,” Malfoy snapped, his eyes wild.

Seeing Hermione pushed was the last straw for Harry. With a shout, he lunged at Malfoy, shoving him back. You scrambled to your feet, heart pounding, as the boys collided. Ron tried to get between them, but the fight was already in full swing, fists and curses flying, students around them screaming and backing away.

The chaos was explosive, Hagrid’s lesson completely forgotten as everyone watched the two boys try to tear each other apart. Even the Slytherins looked unsure, glancing nervously at the scene they’d helped create.

And that’s when you saw it, the Kelpie, massive and dark, thrashing through the water, lunging toward the fighting boys because they fell out of the chalked line. 

“Fuck!” you gasped, instinct kicking in. Your fingers clenched around your wand, and in a split second, you cast the charm Hagrid had just taught.

“Ad-haereo!”

The spell struck true. The Kelpie let out a shriek, stopping mid-lunge as if frozen in place. The sudden silence that fell was as sharp as the cold water of the pond, your breath ragged in your chest.

The two boys on the ground looked panicked and shocked, their hair messy and their robes disheveled, dust smearing their faces and clothes. Hagrid stepped forward, his expression tight with displeasure as he clapped his hands together and turned to you.

“Good job, good job! You’ve just successfully bridled a Kelpie, L/N,” he rumbled with a laugh, and the class joined in with applause.

Then he folded his massive arms across his chest and shifted his focus to the two boys who were just getting to their feet, their faces bruised and their expressions a mix of defiance and discomfort.

“And as for making a scene in class,” Hagrid continued with a stern look, “I’ll have to follow the rules. You two will serve detention.”

You saw the disbelief flash across Malfoy’s face, his eyebrows furrowing as a vein throbbed visibly at his temple. Potter, on the other hand, just looked… lost. Like he’d spaced out completely, unable to believe what had happened.

You quickly averted your gaze when Malfoy shot you a glare.

Merlin, he couldn’t go a single day without causing trouble.

----

You let out a quiet sigh at the back of your mind, only to be startled when Hagrid reached out his hand to you. He wore thick gloves, and you looked up at him in confusion.

“You cast the Placement Charm on him,” he said in his gruff voice, nodding toward the black horse behind him.

“Pussy,” someone sneered from behind. You turned sharply to find Malfoy watching you with that infuriating smirk twisting at the corner of his lips. His face was still slightly bruised from the fight, and even his usually immaculate robes were rumpled. Hands in his pockets, he looked as if he was enjoying every second of mocking you.

Childish as it was, you met his stare with a flicker of defiance. His eyes were full of challenge, and you hated that he’d seen how scared you’d been on the train. It wasn’t that you didn’t want people to see you as weak, it was just that you were picky about who got to see that part of you.

You didn’t bother to reply to him. Instead, you turned back to Hagrid, who still had his hand outstretched. You took it, stepping forward over the white line. He gave you a small, encouraging smile as he slowly guided you closer to the Kelpie.

It stood there, eerily still, letting out a low, almost bored huff as it watched you. Every so often, it pawed the ground restlessly, and you could feel your body tensing up, instinctively wanting to back away.

Its black fur shimmered under the sun, its inky eyes locked onto yours. It looked like something out of an old, haunting painting, an illusion that was both beautiful and terrifying. The sunlight glistened on its velvet-dark hide, casting a spell of its own.

And you? You’d always loved beautiful things. No matter what they were, if they were pretty in your eyes, you were easy to tempt. Easy to lure. Easy to trap.

As you stood in front of the Kelpie, your fists clenched so tightly at your sides that they bunched up the fabric of your robe, Hagrid let out a soft laugh.

“Relax,” he said, his deep voice soothing. “A Kelpie won’t do anything to you with the bridle already over its head.”

You gave the bearded man a small nod, though your heart still thumped like a drum. “Come,” he urged, gesturing for you to move closer.

Step by careful step, you obeyed, until you were standing right in front of the creature. Its presence was magnetic, a quiet danger that drew you in despite every instinct telling you to run.

“Now,” Hagrid continued, his tone matter-of-fact, “if a Kelpie allows you to ride it without trying to eat you, that means it’s completely tame. If it tries to eat you… well, consider yourself unlucky.”

You could almost feel the collective gulp of the class behind you, their sharp intake of breath echoing in your own chest. Your heart pounded so hard you were sure it was visible, and your face had probably turned ghostly pale. But you reminded yourself: Hagrid was here. It had to be safe.

Hagrid took out a pair of thick, well-worn gloves and carefully slipped them onto your hands. “These’ll help you avoid sticking to it when you touch it,” he said with a wink.

The leather felt sturdy, nothing like the plain gloves you were used to. They looked ordinary, but knowing they were made for handling magical creatures gave them an aura of quiet power.

Your gaze shifted back to the black horse. It bowed its head low, as if offering itself to you or maybe luring you in with that almost hypnotic stillness. Step by careful step, you moved closer, the ground beneath your feet feeling like it was ready to give way.

“Go on,” Hagrid encouraged, standing steady beside you.

Slowly, you extended your hand, the leather of the gloves creaking softly as your fingers brushed the side of the Kelpie. It let out a low huff, and you nearly yanked your hand back in panic. But then you caught sight of its bulrush mane, each strand catching the sunlight and swaying like water grass in the breeze.

The mane almost seemed to reach out to you, drawing you closer. The Kelpie stared straight into your eyes, and for a moment you froze under its intense, liquid-black gaze. Your throat went dry, and you quickly looked away, choosing instead to pat it gently on the side. Nothing more.

The Kelpie let out another low breath, then turned away from you, disinterested but calm. You glanced at Hagrid, who gave you an approving nod.

“Well, that’s one step forward,” he said with a huff of laughter. “You’re not ready to ride him yet, taming a Kelpie’s no small task. You need to build a bond with him. Make sure he trusts you enough not to… well, try to eat you.” He laughed again as you carefully pulled your hand back.

Leading you back to the group, Hagrid offered a broad grin. The others clapped for you, their applause ringing out in the chilly air. But Malfoy… he just stood on the sidelines, arms crossed, lips twisted in that usual smirk, and surrounded by his cronies. His eyes flicked up to meet yours, full of cold, silent disapproval.

-to be continued-

As you made your way to the Great Hall for lunch, you couldn’t help but notice that Lena was sneezing more than usual.

“Are you okay?” you asked, taking in her red nose and watery eyes.

“Yeah, it’s just a cold,” she said, her voice nasal as she dabbed at her nose with a tissue.

“Did you take your meds? It sounds more like the flu than a simple cold,” you pressed, frowning slightly.

She shook her head and spoke in a raspy voice. “I forgot them at my dorm. I’ll take them later.”

You frowned deeper, your concern outweighing your usual reluctance to play the caretaker. She didn’t look like she’d last through the afternoon.

“Where are you going?” she asked, confusion flickering in her tired eyes as you set your bag down beside her at the table.

“You’re not going to make it to your next class like this. I’m going to ask Madam Pomfrey for something. You go ahead and eat,” you said firmly, turning on your heel before she could argue.

You walked through the corridor, the chill of the castle’s stone halls biting at your cheeks, until you pushed open the door to the Hospital Wing. The familiar scent of herbs and disinfectant rushed up to meet you, and you had to stifle a cough. Hospitals had never been your favorite place; this part of the castle always felt colder, emptier.

Madam Pomfrey was standing with her back to you, her neat hair bun bobbing slightly as she moved. She turned as she sensed you enter, her warm but brisk voice greeting you.

“What brings you here, young one?” she asked, her eyes scanning you quickly for any obvious injuries.

“My friend has a cold,” you said quietly, stepping into the room. “Can I get something for her?”

She raised an eyebrow. “A flu, perhaps?”

You nodded. “Yes.”

“I’ll be right back, dear,” she said, not needing any more details as she bustled out of the room.

Left alone, your gaze drifted to the two figures in green Slytherin robes across the room. One, tall with dark curls and hands stuffed casually in his pockets, watched you with lazy curiosity. The other, pale blond and bruised, sat on a bed, staring into the distance.

“Your friend is sick?” drawled the dark-haired boy, his tone as unbothered as always.

“Yeah, Lena’s got the flu,” you replied, giving him a sidelong look.

“She didn’t tell you,” 

He mused, his tone light but his eyebrows knitting together.

“She’s… mad at me,” he added after a beat, rubbing the back of his head awkwardly.

That surprised you, and he clearly saw it, because he shifted uncomfortably, as if regretting saying anything at all. But you didn’t pry.

Madam Pomfrey returned just then, a small brown paper bag in her hand. “Three times a day, after meals, for three days,” she instructed crisply.

“Yes, ma’am,” you said, taking it gratefully.

She turned her attention to the blond boy on the bed. “I trust you’ll survive, Mr. Malfoy,” she said dryly before disappearing again.

As you turned to leave, the dark-haired boy’s voice stopped you. “Is she okay?”

You hesitated, then said honestly, “Could be worse, since she hasn’t taken her meds yet.”

He frowned, clearly worried, though he didn’t know how to put it into words.

You could see the pale-haired boy still lost in his own world, not paying any attention to the two of you in the room. 

“She’s in the Great Hall,” you said finally, holding out the bag of medicine. “How about you bring this to her for me? I have something else I need to do.”

His eyes widened, the faintest glimmer of relief and something almost like excitement flashing across his face. He took the bag from you quickly, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

“I’ll make sure it gets there safe and sound,” he said lightly, turning and heading off down the corridor with that same lazy confidence.

You watched him disappear around the corner and let out a small sigh, the weight of worry settling on your shoulders again as you turned and headed back inside the room.

-----

Then your gaze shifts back to the room, and you approach the bed where the silver-grey-eyed boy is sitting.

Noticing your footsteps, he turns to look at you.

“What the fuck do you want?” he snarls, his eyes narrowing with that familiar spite as you come to stand in front of him.

“Can you just stop being a bitch for a moment?” you retort, exasperated, sitting down on the edge of the bed and picking up the small jar of salve on the table.

You look at his bruised face, the corner of his lip still bleeding and a deep purple blotch blooming on his forehead. You open the lid, ignoring his glare as you start to help him apply the balm.

He recoils instantly, letting out a groan. “I don't need your help!” he snaps, smacking your hand away.

Your eyebrows furrow as your patience wears thin. You grab him by his collar, yanking him close so your words come out in a low, dangerous hiss.

“Sit fucking still when I’m being nice to you. Or do you want me to hex you again?”

His eyes widen, the silver in them catching the light as your grip wrinkles the neat white collar of his shirt. He looks away then, a tired scoff escaping his lips, as if resigned to this forced truce. He doesn’t even bother with eye contact anymore.

Stuck-up prince.

That’s exactly how he looks to you. Even with his face all battered and bruised, he still carries himself like a sulky statue, sharp cheekbones, pretty eyelashes, pale skin marred by bruises that somehow only enhance his marble-like beauty.

You catch yourself pausing, your anger giving way to something gentler. Despite everything, you find your fingers softening as you dab the salve along his bruises, as if he might shatter under a harsh touch.

You force yourself to pull back, to fight the sudden, ridiculous urge to lean in and kiss that sulky mouth.

He lets out a sharp hiss when your fingers brush over a bruise.

“That hurt!” he snaps, wincing.

“Oh, it hurts?” you retort, your voice dripping sarcasm as you tilt his chin to get a better look at the other side of his face. “If you learn how to mind your own business maybe it won't hurt.”

He flinches away, his mouth set in a stubborn line. “Why do you keep defending that Scarhead?” he mutters, still refusing to meet your gaze, sulking like a child.

“Why do you keep picking on him, then?” you counter, your words gentle but firm.

He doesn’t answer, his silver eyes flickering away as silence falls between you.

You sigh. The tension seems to settle in the room like a thick fog, and you finally give in first.

“Listen… I’m sorry for what I said to you in front of everyone.” You hate that the words leave your mouth, but it’s true, you’d been harsh.

His silver-grey eyes flick back to yours, the faintest hint of surprise in his expression as he registers your apology. He says nothing, just raises an eyebrow as if to challenge you to say more.

“…And… thank you. For… shielding me… on the train,” you mutter. You can’t meet his gaze. You definitely don’t want to say this to him, but he deserves it, whether you like it or not.

He doesn’t react for a long moment. It feels like forever, the air taut between you. And then, ever so slowly, his lips curve into a smirk, deep, wicked, and infuriatingly smug. You immediately regret every word you said.

“What? I didn’t do anything,” he drawls, that lazy tone curling around every syllable as he leans back slightly, letting the smirk deepen. “You were just fucking stupid for jumping around knowing those Kissy Wraiths were there.”

His words drip with arrogance, and you can practically feel the self-satisfaction radiating off him. You want to punch him and kiss him all at once.

You look at him, at a loss for what else to say to this stubborn boy. Shaking your head, you pull your hand away from his face and start to stand up, done with the entire scene.

But his slender fingers catch your wrist, stopping you.

“What?” you snap, impatience biting through your tone.

“Your grade?” he says, the words clipped and short, his eyes holding yours with an intensity that only annoys you further.

A small smirk curls on your lips as you answer.

“Thanks to Professor Malfoy here, I had quite a decent mark,” you say in a mocking, sing-song tone, your chin lifting with a self-satisfied confidence.

He lets out a short, sharp laugh, that mocking edge to his voice. “Hah, and here I thought you were too stupid to even figure out what to do.”

You roll your eyes, retorting with a smirk of your own. “That would make you a bad teacher then, wouldn’t it?”

His jaw tightens, the words hitting their mark. He stands up from the bed in one smooth motion, his silver eyes locked on you.

“You are so owing me for this,” he growls, his grip on your wrist tightening.

You smack his hand away, yanking your wrist free. “Yeah, right. As far as I know, you also managed to pass Herbology. We’re even now.”

Your eyes flicker over him one last time before you turn and head for the door.

At the threshold, you pause, glancing over your shoulder with a wicked little sneer.

“Have fun with detention… Malfoy.” You make sure to emphasize that last word, watching the faint twitch at the corner of his lips.

And with that, you walk out into the hall without another glance back, humming a small, satisfied melody under your breath.

-to be continued- 

After lunch, you and your friends lingered in the Great Hall, the scent of roast beef and treacle tart still hanging in the air. Around you, voices rose and fell in the typical hum of midday chatter, but your group had already shifted focus to parchment and ink, quills scratching out lines of homework.

At the far end of the hall, Malfoy swaggered in with his usual entourage. He dropped into his seat with an exaggerated flick of his blond hair, his voice rising in a tone thick with self-importance.

Across the room, Harry and his friends exchanged a look of tired disgust but didn’t bother to retort. Ron muttered something under his breath, while Hermione kept her nose in a heavy-looking book.

You and your friends ignored the Slytherin drama, heads bent low over your essays. The topic, The Uses of Moonstone in Potions was dull enough to make your eyelids droop.

Then, without warning, the doors to the hall slammed open with a bang. Heads turned as Seamus Finnigan stumbled in, breathless and wild-eyed, a crumpled copy of the Daily Prophet clutched in his hand.

“Keep in sight! Keep in sight!” he shouted, his Irish accent slicing through the calm like a knife. He rushed straight to Harry’s table, slamming the newspaper down with enough force to rattle cups and plates.

You and your friends shared a quick, confused glance before curiosity pulled you out of your seats. Along with dozens of other students, you crowded around Harry’s table, eyes scanning the headline.

“Who?” someone asked, their voice high with anticipation.

“Sirius Black!” Seamus declared. The name fell into the hush of the hall like a dropped stone. Your breath caught in your throat, your fingers tightening around the edge of the table.

A chill ran through you as Hermione’s sharp voice cut through the whispers. “Dufftown?! That’s not far from here at all.”

Your friends shifted uneasily, exchanging worried glances. The chatter grew, voices low and anxious.

Neville’s voice cracked as he spoke the fear that was on everyone’s mind. “He… he won’t break into Hogwarts, will he?”

“With Dementors here? No way,” someone said with forced confidence, but the word, Dementors sent a fresh shiver down your spine.

You bit your lip, glancing out the window to where the sky hung heavy and grey. The thought of those soul-sucking creatures patrolling the grounds made your skin crawl.

“With Dementors around, he’d never make it!” another student insisted, but Seamus looked grim.

“He got past them once,” he said softly. “Who’s to say he won’t do it again?”

His words sank into your chest like ice, feeding the growing knot of dread in your stomach.

“Catching him is like trying to hold smoke with bare hands,” someone murmured, and that was enough. You backed away from the circle of worried faces, the room suddenly too small, too close.

Lena noticed your retreat and followed, catching up with you near the tall windows that lined the hall.

“Hey,” she said gently, resting a comforting hand on your shoulder. “We’ll be okay. Hogwarts is the safest place in the world, remember? Dumbledore’s here. Nothing’s going to happen to us.”

You tried to smile at her reassurance, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes. It wasn’t Sirius Black that haunted your thoughts, it was the Dementors. The idea of them gliding through the castle grounds, their unseen faces hidden beneath those hooded cloaks, their presence heavy and cold… it made you feel like you couldn’t breathe.

It was the knowledge that these creatures didn’t just attack, they devoured happiness, sucked the light out of every corner of the world. 

“Yeah,” you murmured finally. “I know.”

Lena gave your shoulder a reassuring squeeze before turning back to the table. You took a deep breath and closed your eyes, willing the chill to leave your bones. The Great Hall, with its floating candles and chattering students, felt suddenly less like the safe haven it was supposed to be.

You pressed your lips together and shook your head, trying to banish the darkness from your thoughts. Hogwarts was safe. You had to believe that.

For now, at least, you would go back to your homework and your friends and pretend the world outside didn’t feel quite so cold.

----

The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom as you slipped in with the rest of the crowd, your shoulders brushing against friends and strangers alike. This was your first lesson with the new professor, Remus Lupin, and curiosity hummed in the air like an electric current.

Lupin stood at the front of the class, tall and lean, his threadbare robes draped over him as if he’d forgotten they were supposed to be worn with dignity. His hair was tousled and a bit wild, the way a man’s hair might be if he’d run a hand through it a thousand times without ever smoothing it down. There was a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, and when he spoke, his voice was warm but carried a depth that made the room fall still.

The female students around you whispered to one another, eyes bright with an interest that had little to do with the lesson at hand.

“Have you seen his mustache? So distinguished,” a girl behind you murmured dreamily.

Apparently, older men were more appealing to some than you’d realized.

At the front of the room, a large wardrobe rattled and shook violently, the hinges groaning as though the thing might burst open at any second. The noise was so sudden that you jumped, your breath catching in your throat.

“Intriguing, isn’t it?” Lupin’s calm voice cut through the nervous murmurs, drawing every eye to him.

Intriguing, you thought wryly, though unnerving might be the better word. You clutched the sleeve of your robe a bit too tightly, your knuckles whitening as you stared at the wardrobe. What the hell is in there? You didn’t really want to know, but your curiosity wouldn’t be ignored.

Lupin’s eyes swept the room as he continued in that low, steady voice. “Would anyone like to venture a guess as to what is inside?”

The class shifted, glancing at one another nervously. Then a boy with dark skin and a confident tilt to his chin stepped forward. “That’s a Boggart, Professor,” said Dean Thomas.

“Very good, Mr. Thomas,” Lupin praised with a small smile.

The wardrobe shuddered again, louder this time, and the class collectively tensed. Your heart skipped in your chest, and you swallowed hard.

“Now,” Lupin continued, pacing with easy confidence, “can anyone tell me what a Boggart looks like?”

For a heartbeat, silence reigned. Then, Hermione’s voice piped up from the front row. “No one knows,” she said with certainty, and even Ron, who stood beside her, looked startled to find her there.

She pressed on, her tone calm and unwavering. “Boggarts are shapeshifters. They take the shape of whatever a person fears the most. That’s what makes them so-”

“So terrifying,” Lupin finished for her smoothly, his voice gentle but edged with something more. He had made his way to the wardrobe now, standing with his back to it as if he trusted it completely, his hands resting in his pockets.

Your eyes flicked back and forth between him and the rattling wardrobe. His calmness in the face of that ominous shaking was… strangely comforting.

“Luckily,” he continued, “a very simple charm exists to repel a Boggart. No wands yet, please.” His eyes twinkled as he lifted one hand, palm open. “Repeat after me: Riddikulus!”

“Riddikulus!” the class echoed, a little unsteady at first.

“Again! Louder and very clear, everyone: Riddikulus!”

“Riddikulus!” you shouted along with the others, this time with more confidence.

A small smile curved Lupin’s lips. “Excellent. Remember, what really finishes a Boggart off is laughter. You need to force it to become something funny. Fear shrinks in the face of laughter.”

“This class is ridiculous,” a drawling voice muttered beside you.

You turned and found yourself eye to eye with Malfoy, who leaned lazily against the stone wall, his silver-grey eyes half-lidded with boredom. A faint smirk played at the corner of his lips, though it didn’t reach his eyes. Under the flickering lamplight, you could see the faint bruises on his cheekbone, remnants of some scuffle.

For a brief moment, your eyes locked. His gaze sharpened ever so slightly, and then he looked away as if the moment had never happened, his expression settling back into that cool mask of disdain.

Around you, the classroom buzzed with nervous laughter and excited chatter. Lupin began to explain how they would each have a turn against the Boggart, his voice calm and reassuring. But your attention was half-snagged on Malfoy, his disinterest in the lesson clear in every flick of his eyes and shift of his weight.

With a small sigh, you pushed those thoughts away and focused on the lesson, determined to keep the tremor in your hands hidden from view.

Students eagerly follow Lupin’s lead, forming a line that snakes around the room as Malfoy stands tall and straight against the cold, ancient stone wall. His Slytherin green robes, sharp and elegant, brush against the floor, and he doesn’t hesitate to shoulder his way through the crowd. The other students part before him like water around a rock, and his friends fall in line beside him with practiced ease.

You catch the flicker of amusement in his cold, pale eyes as he shoves a Hufflepuff out of the way, then flicks his gaze to you. “What are you staring at?” he sneers, his voice low and smooth, his lips twisting into that familiar smirk you’re so used to.

You meet his icy gaze for a moment, then look away without a word. His attitude is as constant as the Hogwarts staircases. Without another glance at him, you slip into the line, right before your friends, your heartbeat steady but your pulse a little faster than you’d like to admit.

Professor Lupin stands at the front, adjusting the old gramophone perched on his desk. With a soft crackle and a faint scratch of the needle, the sweet, gentle melody of a waltz begins to fill the air, washing over the class and turning the room into a little pocket of calm. The soft strains of violins and the gentle beat of piano keys make the air feel less stifling, almost like a lullaby.

One by one, students step forward, faces set in determination as they face the looming wardrobe. Each time the door bursts open, the Boggart emerges, twisting and shifting into a new form with every shriek and spell. A giant spider. Even a pair of howling banshees. But each student stands their ground, muttering, “Riddikulus!” with wands raised, the creature shrinking and spinning away in a shower of laughter and relief.

Yet the closer the line inches to you, the heavier your chest feels. Your palms turn slick with sweat, your wand slipping a little in your fingers. You swallow, feeling the prickling at the back of your neck as you watch the Boggart swirl back into the wardrobe, waiting for the next turn.

You realize with a jolt that you don’t even know what you’re most afraid of. The thought sends a shiver down your spine. What will it reveal? What secret part of you will be laid bare for everyone to see? The idea of it, your fear, your vulnerability, paraded in front of the whole class, feels like a weight pressing down on your ribs.

You take a shaky breath and roll your shoulders back. You’re not even sure you’re ready to see what’s inside you, let alone share it with everyone else. You’ve never spent much time thinking about your fears, too busy keeping your head down, too busy being the quiet observer in the corner. 

Finally, it’s your turn. The professor waits patiently, his eyes meeting yours with gentle encouragement. A cold sweat slides down the side of your face as you hesitantly step forward, your every movement feeling weighed down by dread. The Boggart twists and contorts, forming into the shape of your deepest fear.

Your hands fumble as you open your robe, drawing your wand and pointing it shakily at the creature. Your grip tightens, slick with sweat.

And then, with a blink.

The Boggart in front of you is a child. Small, maybe six or seven years old. They wear an oversized, threadbare jumper, barefoot and dirty. Their thin, pale cheeks and vacant stare cut right through you. And in an instant, you recognize them.

It’s you. You, back in that wretched foster home, the worst place you’d ever known. The memory you’d tried so hard to forget, now exposed for everyone to see.

You freeze, breath caught in your throat. Your wand almost slips from your trembling fingers as you stare, transfixed. The class falls silent, the sweet melody of the gramophone suddenly distant, like a haunting echo. The professor notices, stepping closer with a kind expression.

“It’s alright not to cast the spell,” he says softly, lowering his voice to offer comfort. “Some fears aren’t meant to be laughed at.”

You meet his eyes and let out a shaky breath, trying to hold yourself together. Stiffly, you lower your wand. The professor gently motions for you to return to the line, and you turn away without meeting anyone’s gaze. You can feel the curious stares, but you force yourself to ignore them, moving to the very back.

----

You stand at the edge of the room, focusing on steadying your breath and calming your racing heart. The professor carries on with the next student, and the class’s attention shifts away from you. But one pair of cold grey eyes lingers.

“You’re scared of a little child?” Malfoy sneers, his silver gaze cutting into you.

You turn to face him, the heat of embarrassment and anger flaring in your chest. “Are you all so brave, hiding in the back like this?” You scan the green-robed Slytherins grouped together, avoiding the front of the line.

“It’s a ridiculous creature,” Malfoy says, his voice dripping with disdain. “Who’d waste their time on this class anyway?”

You step closer, a smirk tugging at your lips. “I’d say you’re too scared to face it yourself.”

His eyes narrow. “I have no fear. Facing that thing means nothing.”

“Really? Then prove it.”

“Why would I prove anything to a Muggle like you?” he snaps, stepping closer until you’re forced to tilt your head slightly to keep eye contact.

You snort, your tone mocking. “Just admit you’re afraid.”

He’s about to retort when the room is suddenly filled with a chilling, hollow sound, like ice in your veins. Your eyes widen in shock as you see Harry’s Boggart take form: a Dementor, gliding forward, all darkness and cold.

Your breath hitches, and you stumble back, bumping into someone behind you. A hand shoots out, grabbing your wrist to keep you from falling. The cold of the Dementor seeps into your bones, but then Professor Lupin steps in, intercepting the creature. The Boggart shifts, the Dementor dissolving into a silvery full moon hanging in a dark sky.

Your friend Lena rushes to your side. “Y/N-”

“I’m fine,” you say quickly, trying to steady your voice. “Just startled, that’s all.”

“Or scared,” Malfoy’s voice cuts in, and you turn your head to see him smirking, still holding your wrist.

“Shut your mouth,” Lena snaps, her voice sharper than you’ve ever heard it. Both you and Malfoy blink, startled by her sudden anger. Her brows are furrowed, her mouth set in a tight line.

“Who do you think you’re talking to-?” Malfoy begins, his voice rising.

“Draco.” A calm, icy tone interrupts him. You both turn to see the dark-haired boy, Mattheo Riddle, resting a hand on Malfoy’s shoulder.

“Just leave them alone,” he says quietly.

Malfoy shrugs his hand off, looking irritated, but he doesn’t push it further. Lena stands beside you protectively, her attention already turned back to the front of the room. The professor locks the Boggart away, his voice dismissing the class despite the collective groan of disappointment.

You and your friends don’t wait around, you slip out of the room, leaving the tension behind.

----

It was the weekend at Hogwarts. Honestly, ever since the Dementors had arrived at the school, you hadn’t been able to sleep well. What happened in the Defense Against the Dark Arts class only revealed old wounds you’d tried so hard to forget, to the point where you found it hard to even breathe.

You looked down at the permission slip in your hand, sighing quietly. You needed a signature from your guardian to visit Hogsmeade, but you’d forgotten to ask the caretaker at your foster home, your mind was too occupied by the news that you’d be moving to another foster house soon.

You’d heard that Lena’s mother was visiting today, so you made your way through the halls, hoping she might sign the form for you. As you walked, you heard heavy footsteps and the sharp clack of a cane striking the stone floor behind you. You turned just in time to see a tall man with long, silver-blond hair stride past you, not even glancing your way. His robe and hair shifted with his determined stride, and the strong scent of expensive cologne lingered in the air.

You didn’t pay much attention to who he was, though based on his features and what you’d heard around the school, he had to be Lucius Malfoy. That hair was impossible to mistake.

You let it go and kept moving. When you reached the heavy door to Dumbledore’s office, you were about to knock when you noticed it wasn’t fully closed. You peered inside and saw Lena’s mother, Aurelia Cresswell, standing before Dumbledore. And in the corner, you saw the pale-blond man you’d just passed.

“I cannot accept this,” Lucius Malfoy was saying, his voice echoing off the stone walls. “A dangerous man is lurking near Hogwarts, and Dementors are flying above my son’s head. The school must do something.”

“I understand your concern, Mr. Malfoy,” Dumbledore said calmly, “but Mrs. Cresswell was here first. Please wait until she has finished.”

Lucius gave a curt nod, his pale eyes cold. Aurelia placed something on the table, but you couldn’t quite catch what she said, until your foot accidentally knocked against the door. The thud was impossibly loud. You panicked as all heads turned your way.

You tried to step back, but Lucius Malfoy was already moving. His icy stare made you freeze, until, in the next instant, someone grabbed your wrist and yanked you out of sight. You stumbled behind the curve of the hallway, nearly crashing into Draco Malfoy. His familiar scent, oud wood and lemon, filled your lungs.

He didn’t say a word, just held you there and peered back at the hall until he was sure no one had seen you two. When the door slammed shut, he finally let go of your wrist.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” he snapped, his voice a low hiss.

“I should be asking you that!” you shot back. He looked like he was about to tear his hair out.

“I’m obviously following my father,” he muttered. Bingo. That really was Lucius Malfoy.

“What?”

“Nothing.” You held up the permission slip. “I needed Mrs. Cresswell to sign this so I could visit Hogsmeade this weekend.”

“Hah, you don’t have anyone else to sign it for you-” he started, then cut himself off too late.

You shoved past him, not even bothering to respond. You were used to that kind of dig anyway, he wasn’t the first to remind you that you didn’t have parents.

“Yeah, unfortunately, no one’s sending me care packages every damn week,” you muttered, moving down the hall. Footsteps followed.

“Stop following me,” you said sharply, glancing back at the defensive look on his face.

“I’m not. I’m just waiting for my father, and it just so happens that he’s in the same room as the person you need,” he retorted, rolling his eyes.

You didn’t answer. You sat down on the stone steps, determined to wait until Aurelia was done. Draco stood there, arms crossed, watching you like you were some puzzle he couldn’t figure out.

“Why are you always moping around?” he asked suddenly.

“Why can’t you shut up for a single day?” you snapped back, too tired to care about his attitude.

The truth was, you hadn’t even planned to go to Hogsmeade. But with the Dementors circling Hogwarts, you’d rather hide in the crowded village than spend another day feeling the icy fear in your bones. Hiding wouldn’t last forever, but maybe you could find a little fresh air, just like Lena had said.

“Why was it a kid?”

“What?” His sudden question confuses you, and you look up to meet those silver-grey eyes. He seems genuinely curious, his soft lips slightly parted. 

“Why are you scared of a small child?” he repeats more clearly.

Oh, he’s talking about that moment in the DADA class.

You wonder whether you should stay quiet or tell him it’s none of his business. It’s not something pleasant to talk about anyway, and you don’t even know why he’s curious enough to ask.

“Are you caring?” You toss the teasing words at him, knowing it’s the best way to shut him up.

As expected, he looks defensive and disgusted. “Bloody hell, no!”

“Draco.” Someone suddenly calls from behind, making him stiffen and turn.

“Father.”

You stand up as well when you see the man. Bowing slightly at Mrs. Cresswell and Lucius Malfoy. “Mrs. Cresswell.”

“L/N,” the woman says gently when she sees you. “You look paler than the last time I saw you. Are you eating okay?” She lifts your chin slightly, her eyes scanning your face.

Feeling embarrassed to be treated like a child in front of others, you awkwardly shift away from her hand. “I’m fine, Mrs. Cresswell,” you answer softly, holding out the permission paper. “Can you please sign this for me? I forgot to ask my caretaker.”

She pats your head lightly before taking the paper and signing it.

“Draco.” Lucius’s cold voice cuts through the moment, and your eyes flicker up, peeking at him.

“Yes, Father.” Draco looks deeply uncomfortable under his father’s gaze.

“I have enough headaches with your scores. You should stay out of trouble and stop getting yourself in detention,” Lucius says lowly, his tone full of warning.

Then his cold gaze shifts to you. You almost choke as his eyes pin you down, making you feel like a snake has coiled around your neck, squeezing tighter and tighter.

“And don’t meddle with any Mudblood like this,” he says, each word dripping with disdain.

Mrs. Cresswell immediately steps between you and the man, shielding you from his heavy stare. “I must say, I won’t allow you to speak to my child like that,” she says firmly, pulling you behind her. You keep your head low as the adults exchange tense words.

“Your child? Since when did you have a Muggle-born child?” Lucius asks in mockery, his tone sharp.

“Since I was signed up to be their guardian in the magical community. L/N is under my care, and Hogwarts’s, until they’re old enough,” the woman answers, her voice growing colder. “And as long as that stands, L/N is my child. I will not tolerate anyone treating them with incivility.”

Lucius doesn’t respond. The air grows heavy around you until he finally turns and walks away, not sparing either of you another glance. You and Mrs. Cresswell watch his back recede down the corridor.

She doesn’t say much afterward, only reminding you to take care before she rushes off. You don’t linger either; the presence behind you is enough to keep you moving.

You turn to see Draco still standing there, looking oddly small and lonely. His head dropped lower than usual. You sigh inwardly.

“Aren’t you coming?” Your voice echoes down the hallway, pulling him from his thoughts.

He looks up, your eyes meeting. Slowly, he begins to walk, and you head for the entrance, both of you keeping your distance.

-to be continued-

Lena waved her hand at you when she saw you down the hall. You approached, waving the permission paper in your hand before handing it to the professor.

“Remember, the trip to Hogsmeade village is a privilege,” Professor McGonagall reminded everyone firmly before leaving. “If you misbehave at school in any way, that privilege will be taken away.”

You saw the familiar bespectacled boy step forward and hand out his permission paper. But Professor McGonagall spoke quietly to him.

“No permission without a signed form, Potter. That’s the rule,” she said curtly, then walked past him. The boy didn’t seem ready to give up and followed her.

Your friends gestured for you to come along, so you averted your gaze and joined them. You all made your way through the crowded students and finally arrived at Hogsmeade village.

It was bustling, packed with people left and right. Shops were full of students, and you and your friends felt almost suffocated.

“I need to buy something, so you guys go ahead,” Lena said, and the others waved as they parted ways. She noticed you still standing by her side and tilted her head.

“You’re not going with them?”

“No, I’ll go with you.”

She let out a small laugh at that as the two of you navigated the crowd. “What are you buying?” you asked, noticing how she fidgeted with her bag.

“Uhm, a gift…” she mumbled so quietly you almost couldn’t hear her.

“Oh? For someone special?” you teased lightly, more out of instinct than genuine curiosity.

Her ears turned red at the edges, and you quickly looked away, stifling a laugh. Okay, maybe for today, you wouldn’t tease her too much.

She stopped in front of Bludger and Quaffle, a famous Quidditch supply store in Hogsmeade. The door’s bell chimed softly as she opened it, and you both stepped inside.

Brooms lined the walls, some balls hovered in display, and helmets gleamed under the lantern light. You glanced around at the spacious interior.

“Oh, young lady, what can I help you with today?” the tall, bearded man behind the register greeted warmly.

Lena smiled back shyly. “I’m looking for a pair of gloves… for a friend.”

The man chuckled and stepped out from behind the register, gesturing for you to follow him deeper into the store. “Boyfriend, I suppose?” he teased. Lena didn’t even deny it, and her blush only deepened.

As you followed him, you noticed more students browsing the displays. He pulled open a compartment, revealing several pairs of gloves lined up neatly. Lena’s eyes lit up at the sight.

“Take your time, young lady,” he said kindly, before turning to help another customer.

“What exactly are you looking for?” you asked as she began to inspect a pair.

“I don’t even know… you know?” she said, her tone faltering. “I don’t know anything about Quidditch,” she admitted, looking at you like she was completely lost. “I don’t even know why I’m here.” Her words almost stumbled over each other, and you couldn’t help but laugh.

“Relax. I’m just asking. Take your time.” You gave her a reassuring smile and wandered away to browse the other displays.

But something caught your eye.

Past rows of flashy broomsticks, new Quaffle polishes, and enchanted pads that adjusted themselves automatically, there it was.

A pair of gloves, different from the rest. The leather was cracked at the knuckles, the silver detailing faded, initials barely visible on the wrist strap. They were in a glass case, hanging high and framed at the center of the store, clearly for display only.

A well-worn, limited-edition Quidditch captain’s glove, something no longer produced.

“Nice, isn’t it?” a deep voice rumbled beside you. You nearly jumped in surprise as the bearded man appeared at your side.

“I got it from the World Cup match about ten years ago,” he said, his tone full of nostalgia. His eyes sparkled as he looked at the gloves. “That belonged to Cassian Vale. Caught it myself when he tossed it into the crowd at the final game, Bulgaria vs. England. Last goal he ever scored, last time he ever touched a broom in public. They don’t make Chasers like that anymore.”

You looked up at the frame again. You didn’t know much about sports, Muggle or wizarding, but you understood the way some people spoke of these things. The reverence in his voice was enough to make you feel like you were looking at something special.

“I know someone who has a similar pair,” you speak up quietly, your voice almost lost in the gentle hum of the shop.

The owner’s bushy eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Oh? And how could they possibly have one?” His tone is a mix of curiosity and faint offense, like you’ve suggested the impossible.

You can’t help the amused chuckle that bubbles up. The memory of the delicate gloves tucked inside a box, buried so deep within that familiar green locket, flickers in your mind. “Maybe… with a lot of galleons.”

At that, the old man lets out a deep, rumbling laugh that fills the cozy shop. “No amount of galleons can buy these, young one.” His voice holds the kind of pride that makes you believe him.

You smile at his words but leave it at that, returning to your friend’s side. She’s already chosen a pair, her eyes bright as she beams at you.

“I’m done, let’s go-” she starts, but her voice cuts off abruptly. Her entire body goes rigid, eyes widening.

You turn to see what’s caught her attention, the faint chime of the shop’s bell still ringing in the air. The tall, dark-haired boy with those impossibly perfect curls steps through the door, flanked by a few of his friends. His presence seems to swallow the air itself.

Great. They haven’t made up yet, have they? 

You think with a resigned sigh, glancing back at your friend. Her jaw tightens. Without a word, she grabs your arm and pulls you towards the register. You feel his gaze, sharp, persistent on your backs as she pays, shoving coins into the shopkeeper’s hand a little too roughly.

She doesn’t look at him. Doesn’t even spare him a glance. She’s practically dragging you out of the store.

“Girl-” you start once you’re outside, but she cuts you off with a sharp shake of her head.

“Don’t. Don’t talk about him,” she snaps, her voice lower than usual. There’s a tremor in it that makes you swallow back the rest of your words.

Lena is never like this. She’s warm and even-tempered, never one to let anger cloud her face. Whatever he did… it must’ve been bad. Really bad.

You’re just about to ask anyway when you feel a sudden presence beside you. He’s there, like a shadow that’s always just a step away. That tall, dark-haired boy from the shop, now matching your friend’s pace.

Lena stops abruptly, her lips pressed into a thin line. “What are you doing?” she demands, her voice low and icy.

“Helping you carry your things,” he says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. His tone is infuriatingly calm, almost amused.

“I don’t need your help,” she snaps, turning away from him as if to end the conversation.

But he just grins, leaning down so he’s closer to her eye level. “Come on. I just want to spend time with you.” His voice is soft, the kind of teasing warmth that would normally make her smile.

This time, though, she stiffens like he’s cast a freezing spell on her. You bite back a laugh, pressing your lips together as she shoots you a desperate glare.

“I’m with my friend right now. You’re being rude,” she says, her voice tight and controlled. But he doesn’t budge.

His dark eyes flick briefly to you, then back to her, the corners of his lips curling up. “I’m sure L/n doesn’t mind,” he says confidently, like he already knows the answer.

Before she can protest, you jump in with an easy smile. “Yeah, I don’t mind.” Her head whips around, her eyes going wide with disbelief as she shoots you a silent plea. But you just shrug and grin.

She looks ready to combust from frustration as the three of you continue down the busy street. The boy walks so close to her, his shoulder brushing against hers like he’s staking a silent claim. You can see the pink creeping up her neck every time he leans down to whisper something in her ear, every time his laughter rumbles low and soft beside her.

Honestly, you feel like a complete third wheel. You glance around as you step into the bookstore, deciding it’s the perfect moment to slip away. The place is busy enough that they probably won’t notice if you disappear for a few minutes.

Sure enough, they’re so caught up in their quiet, tense dance that they don’t even notice when you drift towards a quieter section. You weave through the shelves, fingers brushing along the spines of worn books. You’re just starting to relax when you collide with someone.

“Sorry!” you gasp, stepping back.

You look up, heart sinking as you see who it is. The impact had been enough to make him drop the book he was holding, and you immediately lean down to retrieve it.

As you pick it up, a pale, slender hand reaches out at the same moment, fingertips brushing yours. You glance up and there he is. That familiar blond boy with those elegant features and that same infuriating calmness.

Of course. Of course it has to be him. Of all the people in all the corners of this store, why him?

Your mind races as you hand him back the book, heat creeping up your neck. You know Hogsmeade is small. Running into people is inevitable. But does it really have to be him, in this cramped aisle, with all these people around?

He takes the book from your hands, his eyes meeting yours with a flicker of amusement. And you can’t help but wonder if fate has a twisted sense of humor… or if this boy just has a way of finding you wherever you go.

-----

The boy only narrowed his eyes when he saw you, but said nothing at first. Neither did you. You tried to walk past him, but he noticed the book in your hand.

“If you don’t want to fail Potions class again, that book won’t help you,” he drawled, his gaze flicking to the thick volume in your hands before settling back on you.

“Yeah? And how so?” you raised an eyebrow, feigning curiosity. The pale boy’s lips curled into a smug smirk.

“Idiots like you shouldn’t bother with these kinds of books,” he said as he plucked it right out of your hands. You scowled, ready to object, but he was already flipping through the pages.

“What’s wrong with it?” you asked, watching him scan the dense text.

He rolled his eyes, clearly exasperated. Then, almost shoving the book in your face, he pointed to a line of text. “‘Refractory stabilisation of volatile decoctions under lunar influence…’” he read aloud.

“What does that even mean?” you blurted out before you could stop yourself. That smirk of his deepened, and he snapped the book shut, sliding it back onto the shelf with a sigh.

“This one’s a nightmare,” he said lazily. “Half the terms are Old Latin, and it assumes you’ve been brewing since birth. Which, clearly, you haven’t.” His eyes flicked to the small ink stain on your sleeve, and you tugged it down.

Without waiting for your retort, he pulled two thinner books from the second row and dumped them into your arms. “Try these: ‘Practical Potioneering for Beginners’ and ‘The Illustrated Guide to Brewing Without Explosions.’ Much more your level.”

“Oh, so you think you’re so smart, don’t you?” you snapped, but still cracked open one of the books he’d thrust at you. To your chagrin, the text was simpler and actually made sense.

“I think,” he said, raising an eyebrow in that insufferably confident way, “that if I left you with that encyclopedic disaster, you’d end up mistaking wolfsbane for wormwood and take out half the class… again.” His tone was dry, the smirk on his lips itching under your skin.

You looked down, then lightly kicked his foot. Draco jerked back, eyes wide as he looked at you. You ignored him, pretending nothing happened, and kept reading.

“How generous of you to help a Muggle like me, Malfoy,” you said, your voice laced with mockery.

“I know,” Draco replied smoothly, turning his attention back to the shelf. “It’s a real burden, being the only competent one around here.”

You glanced at the books he’d given you, brightly colored covers, plain language, and one even had little doodles of cauldrons. Embarrassingly childish, but still… if it worked, it worked.

----

You looked up when you heard your name being called, your friend’s voice cutting through the noise. She wasn’t very tall, and the crowd made it hard for her to spot you. But the tall boy with her had already seen you standing at the Potions section. His gaze met yours, and you raised a finger to your lips in a silent plea. He didn’t react, just leaned down to whisper something to your friend that made her move to another section.

You breathed out a relieved sigh as Draco raised an eyebrow. “Hiding from your friend?”

“She has some… unfinished business, and I’d rather not be the third wheel,” you said as you turned on your heel and made your way to the register to pay for the books.

Stepping out of the crowded store, the crisp air hit your face, making you sigh with relief. You stretched your arms, wondering where to head next. Your galleons were running low, so you needed to be careful with your spending.

As you walked down the street, you felt someone fall into step beside you. You glanced up to see him again.

“Why do you keep following me?” you asked, pulling your hood up to shield yourself from the wind.

“I’m not,” he said with a hint of laughter. “It just happens to be my path here.”

You looked around, not sure what he meant by path.

“Where are you going, then?” you asked. The boy just laughed, and you had no idea what was so funny.

“What? Everyone goes to the treat shop in Hogsmeade,” he said, stepping past you with that infuriating confidence.

You stared at him, suspicious. “Aren’t you coming?” he asked over his shoulder, that familiar smirk sliding across his lips.

Motherfucker.

----

You must be insane because you’re following this blond snake into a treat store. The bell rings so loudly as you step inside, and it’s absolutely packed. Students everywhere, sweets in their hands, some moving around the store.

You glance around in wonder. The whole shop seems carved from candy, gingerbread houses stacked at the center, a crowd gathered to gawk at them. Meanwhile, the boy in front of you heads straight for a specific section.

“Watch it,” someone snaps, bumping into you. You haven’t even said anything, but the blond boy already sneers at them.

He tosses a small bag in your direction, and you catch it firmly.

“Serpent Silk Bites,” he explains, a piece rolling on his tongue. He suddenly starts hissing in that strange language again, and you can’t catch a word of it.

He sees your confusion and bursts out laughing, clearly delighted at your bewilderment. His fangs almost seem to peek out as his eyes crinkle in laughter.

You open the bag, peering inside. Glossy green-wrapped chocolate with a shimmer like enchanted snake skin. When you pop a piece into your mouth, it’s silky smooth with a crisp snap.

He sees you try one and smirks wider. Then he starts speaking that same weird language again. This time, though, you understand every word. Your eyes go wide in surprise.

“It lets the eater understand Parseltongue for sixty seconds,” he explains, pointing to his mouth. “Only works once a day.”

You raise your eyebrows at him. “I didn’t know you liked sweets this much,” you remark. He just gives you a silly smile and doesn’t answer, clearly lost in the sugar rush.

“Who wouldn’t like sweets?” he says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. And in that moment, you see him not as the icy, sneering boy you’re used to, but as just another kid, laughing and enjoying sweets with everyone else.

You watch him put a galleon in a machine, and it rattles and spits out a small, colorful ball. He pops it open, peers inside, and his face immediately scrunches in disgust. Without warning, he shoves the ball into your hands.

“What’s wrong?” you ask, peering at the butterscotch candies inside.

“I don’t like the texture,” he says, sticking out his tongue in distaste as he walks away. You trail after him, slipping the candy into your pocket. The sky is already darkening, almost time to head back.

You watch him in the distance, joining his friends. They’re laughing and joking around, and you look away, fingers brushing the small bag of Serpent Silk Bites in your pocket.

“Y/n!” you hear your name called in the distance, a group of students waving.

“There you are! We’ve been looking for you everywhere,” a boy says with a laugh, balancing bags in his arms.

“Where’s Lena?” another asks, glancing around for your friend.

“She’s with her friend,” you answer shortly. The group exchanges doubtful glances but doesn’t press further. You just slip into their midst as you all start the walk back to Hogwarts.

-to be continued-

As you and your group of friends returned to Hogwarts, the castle felt unusually tense. The entrance hall was a scene of barely contained chaos, students rushing back and forth in frantic clusters, voices overlapping in alarm. Everywhere you looked, there were anxious faces, pale, wide-eyed, lips drawn tight. It was as if the entire school had seen a ghost. Though, at Hogwarts, ghosts were nothing new.

“What’s going on?” you asked, pushing your way through the throng until you spotted the Weasley twins standing with Harry’s group.

“The Fat Lady’s gone,” Fred said, his voice pitched low but urgent.

“Gone?” you echoed, brows knitting together in confusion.

“She claims she saw Sirius Black in the castle,” George added gravely.

Your stomach dropped at his words, your pulse quickening in your throat. Around you, your friends fell into stunned silence.

“What?” you breathed out, voice catching. “With Dementors around?”

A flurry of worried questions buzzed through the air, crackling like static.

“The Dementors… they’re supposed to be guarding the castle. They won’t let him in, right?” someone asked, their voice trembling with unease.

You didn’t like that thought at all. The idea that those soul-sucking wraiths might wander the same halls you walked each day made your skin crawl. This was supposed to be the safest place in the world, wasn’t it?

Suddenly, a voice boomed over the chatter, cutting through the din like a crack of thunder. “Attention, everybody!” Professor Dumbledore’s commanding tone echoed across the hallway, immediately drawing every pair of eyes. He stood at the top of the marble staircase, his tall frame straight and his silver beard glinting in the flickering torchlight.

“Our school has been placed on high alert due to an intruder,” he said, his deep voice calm and resolute. “For your safety, every House will evacuate to the Astronomy Tower tonight.”

The words washed over the crowd in a heavy wave. You felt your breath hitch. Even in the charged air, Dumbledore’s presence was oddly comforting, his clear blue gaze sweeping over the students with measured calm.

“The Heads of House will guide you to the dormitories to gather your things. It’s inconvenient, but it’s for your own safety,” he emphasized. “Please cooperate and remain calm.” 

With that, the students around you broke into a new kind of chaos, dashing to retrieve their belongings and find their friends.

Chaos returns in an instant—students jostle and elbow one another, darting down corridors in a frantic scramble to obey. Your heart pounds as you glance around for your friends.

“Lena! She’s not back yet,” you blurt out, voice tight. 

Your friend, one of the girls you’ve always trusted to keep a level head, grabs your wrist and tugs you away from the throng, her face tight with concern. 

“Y/N, come on! We need to get our stuff.”

“But Lena-” you start to protest, glancing over your shoulder anxiously.

“She’ll be fine,” she said firmly, shoving you along as she forged a path through the crowd. You swallowed your unease and followed her back to your common room.

You hurried through the winding corridors, the air thrumming with anxious energy. Thunder rumbled in the distance, the storm outside pressing against the ancient stone walls as if to remind you that tonight was no ordinary night.

Inside your common room, you threw your things into your bag, wand, spare clothes, a battered book of spells before joining the flow of students heading towards the Astronomy Tower. The castle’s flickering candlelight cast long shadows along the walls, and you couldn’t help but shiver at the thought of the Dementors lurking somewhere out there, beyond the gates.

Finally, with your belongings slung over your shoulder, you follow your House Prefect as he leads the group toward the Astronomy Tower. The castle feels even older tonight, every echoing footstep, every flickering torch seems to whisper of something watching. You pause at the foot of the grand staircase, eyes scanning the shifting crowd for a familiar face.

As you stepped into the corridor again, your eyes darted across the heads of students streaming past. Relief bloomed in your chest when you finally spotted Lena, making her way through the throng with Mattheo at her side.

“Lena!” you called out, weaving through the students until you reached her. “Are you okay?” you asked breathlessly.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” she reassured you, though her voice trembled faintly. You let out a shaky sigh of relief.

The Prefect’s voice rises above the murmur of the crowd, drawing your attention. “Listen up. There’s limited space in the Astronomy Tower,” he announced, his voice carrying over the restless whispers. “some of you may have to share sleeping quarters with students from other Houses. We’ll do our best to organize it, but you’ll have to be flexible.” he says, his tone careful but firm.

You exchanged a glance with Lena, then peeked inside the Astronomy Tower’s main room. Younger students had already claimed most of the floor, nestling close together in sleeping bags. The atmosphere was one of forced calm, an undercurrent of fear in every tight-lipped smile.

“Who are we sharing with?” you asked the Prefect quietly.

He let out a long sigh, his brow creasing in mild frustration. “It’s a mix-and-match situation, I’m afraid. Whoever doesn’t have a place will be paired up with other Houses.”

“We wouldn’t mind,” Lena said softly beside you, her hand brushing yours in a quiet gesture of reassurance.

The Prefect’s eyes flickered to Mattheo, who stood silently behind you, arms folded across his chest. The Prefect’s lips thinned. “Good. Just make sure you behave and don’t cause any trouble,”

He moved on to help another group, leaving you and Lena standing side by side in the hushed corridor. Lightning flashed outside the high windows, casting ghostly light across her face.

“It’s okay,” Lena said, her voice calm but her hand warm against yours. “We can lie next to each other.”

You squeezed her hand and followed her into the crowded Astronomy Tower, the storm raging outside as Hogwarts hunkered down for the long night ahead.

You nodded, drawing a deep breath to steady the thrum of your heart. “Right,” you said, your voice a little stronger now. “We’re together.”

----

You and Lena step into the room, your sleeping bags clutched in your hands. The moment you cross the threshold, the tension is palpable, a charged electricity crackling through the air. Slytherin green dominates the room, and it’s as if the very walls are bristling with rivalry. The Gryffindors scattered among the green look like stubborn flames flickering in a sea of emerald, and every glance exchanged is a silent battle. You swear you can almost smell gunpowder and steel, this room feels like a warzone.

You and Lena share a quick, wordless glance, a silent agreement. Stick together. Neither of you wants to be the first to crack under the weight of all these suspicious stares.

Finding a small, relatively unoccupied spot by the wall, you carefully unroll your sleeping bag, its quiet rustling feeling far too loud in this tense room. Lena follows suit, her movements precise and neat, but you can see the way her hands are just a bit too quick, her eyes flickering anxiously around the room. She had reassured you earlier with a bright smile, but now… now you can see the worry on her face.

The rest of the students are settling in, laying out their sleeping bags and whispering to each other in low, careful tones. Just as you’re about to lie down, a loud thud startles you, someone’s sleeping bag dropping unceremoniously right next to Lena. You lift your head, eyes narrowing.

A tall boy stands there, his dark curls a little mussed from the day, but his posture radiating calm control. He crouches down beside Lena, his voice low as he says, “I’ll be sleeping here.”

“What? Why?” Lena’s voice cracks with surprise as she turns to him, wide-eyed.

At first, you’re just as confused by his sudden intrusion. But then you glance around again, really see the room: most of the other students here are boys, and the cluster of sleeping bags in your section feels unbalanced. Lena, surrounded by strangers, would be more at ease with someone familiar beside her.

You don’t say anything as you watch him lean closer to Lena, coaxing her back down. His voice is gentle as he pulls her blanket up to her chin, patting her shoulder lightly in a quiet promise of safety. You’re not sure if he’s doing it for her comfort or for some secret thrill of power, he has that look in his eyes, the one that says he enjoys holding someone’s trust like a secret.

And you wonder if you’re really going to be able to sleep with these two practically breathing in each other’s air right next to you. You shift restlessly in your sleeping bag, listening to the steady, slow rhythm of Lena’s breathing. She’s always been a fast sleeper, and it doesn’t take long for her to drift off completely, her chest rising and falling in peaceful cadence.

You prop yourself up on one elbow, your eyes flickering between Lena’s sleeping face and the dark-haired boy who still watches over her. His expression is unreadable, calm, almost tender, but there’s something sharp in the corners of his mouth, in the way his eyes flick up to meet yours.

You start to roll up your sleeping bag, the quiet rustling of fabric loud in the stillness of the room. You’re done being the third wheel.

He notices. His dark eyes narrow slightly, his tone soft and hushed so as not to wake Lena. “Where are you going?” he asks, eyebrows raised in a silent challenge.

“Finding another spot,” you murmur back, your voice cold as you keep your gaze locked with his. “I’m sure you can take care of her for me, right?”

He glances down at Lena, the barest curve of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. When he looks back up at you, it’s with a glint of something sly and knowing in his eyes. “She will be okay with me,” he says softly, his hand resting on Lena’s shoulder like a claim. “You don’t have to worry, y/n.”

He drops the polite pretense he usually shows around you and Lena, his words suddenly edged with a quiet, confident venom. It’s like you’re no longer a guest in this room, you’re an intruder, and he’s reminding you of exactly that.

The air between you tightens, your stare locked with his. You don’t know how long you stand there, your silence a silent duel of wills. The tension coils tighter and tighter, and the coldness in the room seems to seep into your skin.

A sudden cough from across the room snaps you both back to reality. “Can you two stop?” someone mutters irritably. “Some of us are trying to sleep here!”

You break eye contact with a sigh, your shoulders slumping a little as you finish rolling up your sleeping bag. You glance one last time at Lena, who’s still fast asleep, curled up so trustingly beside Riddle. With one final, warning look at him, you turn to go.

“You can sleep at my spot,” he says suddenly, his voice softer, coaxing. “Only my friends are over there, it’d be fine.” He gestures toward a quieter row, his fingers barely moving as if he’s afraid to wake Lena.

You don’t answer him, just shoulder your sleeping bag and move across the room. You find the row he mentioned, another small pocket of green and silver, but quieter, less charged. You unroll your sleeping bag again, the gentle rustle of fabric a comfort in the cold.

You’re about to slip inside when a sudden voice startles you. “Where did you go-” The boy next to you pushes himself up, his voice low but sharp with surprise.

Your gaze lifts to meet a familiar streak of blond hair, your eyes narrowing as he blinks at you. “Why are you here?” he demands, his tone slipping into a petulant whine that makes your head pound.

“Be quiet,” you hiss, leaning in close. “Do you want to wake up the whole row?”

He gulps, his eyes wide as he realizes he nearly did just that. He slouches back down, still watching you curiously.

“Your friend is with my friend,” you whisper, settling into your sleeping bag. “And I don’t want to be around a pair of lovebirds.” You pull the cover up to your chin, closing your eyes and letting the warmth of your blanket wash over you.

Beside you, the blond boy shifts, but he doesn’t say another word. The soft breathing of the room fills the silence, the quiet crackling of the sleeping bags like a lullaby.

-----

You can feel the weight of his gaze on your face, even though you’re not looking at him. The pale boy’s eyes bore into you like a silent accusation, making the tiny hairs on your arms prickle. After what feels like an eternity, you finally hear a soft rustle, the telltale shift of fabric as he lies back down.

You try to close your eyes, willing yourself to sleep. The Astronomy Tower’s enchanted ceiling glimmers above, a breathtaking cascade of stars and galaxies. Shifting constellations and shimmering nebulas cast a dreamy, twilight glow over the entire room, painting your skin in soft blue and purple hues. It feels almost like the universe is trying to sing you a lullaby, the ethereal light whispering for you to drift off.

But you can’t.

You toss and turn, unable to shake the coiled tension in your chest. The silence of the room is thick, every breath of your classmates a faint echo. You stare up at the ceiling, the velvet black of it speckled with ancient constellations. Yet none of it brings you comfort.

Then, out of nowhere, a flash of white light slices through the window. A deafening crack of thunder follows, echoing so fiercely it rattles the glass. You flinch instinctively, your breath catching in your throat. The storm is sudden and ferocious, each lightning bolt a jagged slash across the sky.

You curl deeper into your sleeping bag, turning onto your side and pressing your face into the soft fabric. But your hands are shaking, fingers clenching so tightly around the covers that your knuckles turn white. The storm outside mirrors the one brewing inside you, chaotic, relentless.

Another crash of thunder booms through the tower, and you can’t help the small whimper that slips out.

A sharp voice cuts through the darkness. “Can you be quiet? I’m trying to sleep here,” the blond boy beside you mutters, his tone clipped and irritated.

Normally, you’d shoot back a snarky retort without a second thought, but tonight, your tongue feels heavy. You’re not in the mood for a spat. Your shoulders tremble as you force out a quiet apology. “...Sorry,” you whisper, your voice so small it barely rises above the rain.

The boy stiffens. You see the way his shoulders tense, the slight tilt of his head as if he’s trying to figure out if you’ve lost your mind. Slowly, he rolls onto his back, silver eyes cutting across the shadows to meet yours.

“What is wrong with you?” he asks, brows knitting together in a frown. “Are you that much of a coward? Afraid of thunder and lightning?” His words are harsh, dripping with the kind of sneering disdain that only a Draco Malfoy can pull off.

“I’m not,” you manage to say, though the words feel hollow. Another streak of lightning flashes, but this time you barely react. “I’m just…not used to sleeping here.” You glance away, your eyes catching the window. Rain lashes against the glass, each droplet a sharp tap that seems to echo in your skull.

He studies you for a moment, his pale lashes casting delicate shadows under the starlight. “How do you normally sleep in this kind of situation?” he asks, his voice lowering. 

Your throat tightens. Memories flood in unbidden. The damp foster home, the smell of mildew creeping into your sheets. The window that never shut fully, letting in icy drafts that cut through your thin blankets. You’d slept through those storms not because you weren’t scared, but because exhaustion had always been stronger than fear. Back then, you’d had no choice.

“I just…sleep,” you answer simply. “I didn’t have much of a choice.”

He narrows his eyes, as if searching for a lie in your words. But finding none, he only clicks his tongue. “Then sleep,” he snaps, though there’s no real malice in it. His nose wrinkles in faint annoyance, but his eyes are less sharp now.

“I’m trying,” you mutter back, frustration and embarrassment swirling in your gut.

“You’re doing a terrible job of it,” he grumbles. His lip curls faintly, but the usual bite in his words seems dulled. “Do you need your stuffed animal or something?” he adds, sarcasm dripping off every word.

“I’ve never had one,” you say softly, the truth slipping out before you can stop it.

His silver gaze flickers, caught off-guard. He swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing as he seems to weigh what to say next. Then, with a sigh that sounds too heavy for someone his age, he reaches for the drawstring of his sleeping bag. His fingers tug at it until it’s free, the small cord coiling loosely in his hand.

He holds it out to you, his expression unreadable. “Hold on to that,” he murmurs, voice low. “And for Merlin’s sake, just sleep.”

You blink at him, then down at the thin cord. It’s ridiculous. It’s a piece of string. You almost laugh, almost, but instead you take it, your fingers curling around it like a lifeline.

He turns his back to you again without another word, leaving you holding onto his sleeping bag’s drawstring like some sort of makeshift security blanket.

You can’t help it, your chest tightens, your eyes sting. Because somehow, in this cold, crowded tower, with the storm raging outside and monsters lurking in the darkness of your own mind, that stupid string feels like the only thing anchoring you to the present.

You clutch it tighter, willing the warmth to chase away the chill. The storm still growls outside, rain hammering the windows. But with the quiet night folding around you and the distant murmur of the rain blending into something almost soothing, you finally, finally, start to drift off.

And as sleep claims you at last, you think that maybe, just maybe, the boy beside you isn’t as heartless as he pretends to be.

-to be continued-

His POV

I was turning in my sleep when suddenly it felt like someone was choking me. My breath caught in my throat, and I opened my mouth, gasping for air as if something had wrapped itself around my neck and twisted tight.

I jolted awake with a sharp inhale, my eyes springing open to an unfamiliar ceiling, definitely not my dorm. The sunlight was too bright, pouring in through the window and forcing me to squint and blink hard to adjust.

Groaning slightly, I pushed myself up in the sleeping bag and looked to the side. They were still sound asleep, half of their face buried in the cover, a hand sticking out just enough to grip the small drawstring of my sleeping bag. So that’s what was choking me, this idiot had grabbed onto it and yanked in their sleep.

I scrunched up my face as the morning light shifted, illuminating their messy hair. It was sticking up in odd angles, like a scarecrow come to life. They looked like a total idiot, their hair a chaotic mess. It was almost enough to make me snort out a laugh but forced it down, turning away instead.  It would be priceless if I could take a picture and and hold it over their head later. Honestly, I was surprised they weren’t drooling in their sleep.

My eyes drifted around the room. A few other students were awake already, though most of them didn’t seem to care about what was happening around them. My gaze returned to the sleeping idiot next to me, and I carefully stood up from my sleeping bag.

“G’morning,” someone said behind me, making me nearly jump out of my skin.

“Ssshhh! Be quiet,” I hissed, turning to see the pudgy boy who’d greeted me.

He immediately swallowed his words, nodding quickly when I glared at him. “Sorry,” he muttered.

They didn’t stir, still gripping the string like it was a lifeline. I took a step away from the sleeping row, starting my morning routine as the others groaned and stretched. None of them seemed used to sleeping on stone floors or in stiff sleeping bags.

I wasn’t either, if I’m honest. But at least I wasn’t clutching someone’s sleeping bag like a goddamn teddy bear.

----

When your eyes flicker open, it’s because of the sunlight spilling across your face. You blink and slowly sit up in your sleeping bag, stretching your arms as you notice the boy who’d been next to you is gone. Most of the row is already empty, so you stand up too.

At the door, Lena meets you. Both of you return to your dorms to start your morning routines before heading to the Great Hall. Her hair is still a mess, cheeks a little flushed. You didn’t get to see the moment when she woke up and realized you were gone and that the one who’d been lying next to her all night, easing her back to sleep, was Riddle.

Of course, you decide not to tease her about it. You’ve had your own fair share of… well, let’s just say you’re not eager to talk about last night either. You’d rather bury that memory deep in the graveyard of your mind, never to see the light of day again.

You walk into the Great Hall, pointedly avoiding the Slytherin table. You don’t want to risk your eyes meeting any familiar green-robed figure, especially one in particular. Instead, you sit with your friends at your usual spot.

“You okay?” one of the girls asks, and you nod.

“We were so worried when you and Lena got split into different rooms,” a boy says, poking at his breakfast with a fork.

“Yeah, and you ended up in a room full of Slytherins, didn’t you?” someone else mutters, their voice low as if to keep the ‘gremlins’ from hearing. “That must have been a nightmare.”

Lena stiffens next to you, her shoulders going rigid at the mention of Slytherins.

“They didn’t do anything,” you say, brushing it off with a small laugh. “We were fine. Nothing happened.”

Your friends exchange skeptical looks but, seeing you both in one piece, they drop it. The conversation drifts away and everyone turns back to their meals.

The Great Hall feels more subdued than usual, the air heavier somehow. Students seem lost in their own thoughts, staring at their plates like ghosts, more ghostlike than the actual Hogwarts ghosts. You figure it’s the tension of knowing there’s a criminal out there, lurking around. It’s unsettling, even for a place like this.

You can almost feel the weight of a gaze on the back of your head, but you know exactly who it belongs to. You refuse to turn around, instead focusing on your friends, joking with them and keeping your head down.

You ignore that slithering gaze, that snake-like presence that seems to coil around your wrist and up to your throat. You should know better by now, no matter how many times he’s helped you, it doesn’t make him… good.

-----

Later, you’re sitting with your friends in Defense Against the Dark Arts. Professor Lupin is running late, so the room is full of quiet chatter. Your friend nudges you, pulling you out of your thoughts.

“Did you sleep well last night?” she asks. You can’t tell if she’s curious or genuinely worried.

You remember last night, and how you’d rather forget it altogether. You avert your gaze and answer:

“Yeah, I can sleep anywhere just fine.”

She blinks at you, as if searching for cracks in your story. You doubt she knows who you were lying next to, if she did, she’d probably make a scene or something.

You’re not sure what she really thinks of Draco Malfoy, but you know she’s not the type to judge too harshly. She’d just… avoid someone like him, probably.

“Looks like you slept well enough,” you tease back, turning the attention to her instead.

Her face flushes bright red, and she lightly stomps on your foot under the desk. You pretend to wince in pain, grinning when she buries her nose in her book, definitely not reading, just hiding her embarrassed face.

----

The door suddenly swung open with a loud bang. Every student in the class turned their attention to the back of the room as Professor Snape strode in, his long black robes billowing dramatically behind him. Without a word of explanation, he swept his wand through the air, and every window in the room slammed shut, plunging the space into an unnatural gloom.

You exchanged a glance with your friend, both of you equally puzzled. Why was he here instead of Professor Lupin? Snape didn’t even glance at you as he walked with purpose to the front of the classroom. He yanked down the projector screen, his narrowed black eyes scanning the room with silent authority.

“Turn to page 394,” he ordered in a low, rasping voice. The class hesitated in confusion, but no one dared to protest. You flipped open your book to the page, feeling your shoulders tense. Snape had already singled you out enough times in Potions; you weren’t about to tempt fate again.

As he moved between the desks, you caught Harry’s hesitant voice. “Excuse me, sir… where is Professor Lupin?” he asked, curiosity and concern in his tone.

Your own thoughts echoed the question as you looked up, waiting for an answer.

“It is not your concern,” Snape replied coolly, his lips curling slightly. “Suffice it to say that your professor finds himself… incapable of teaching at the present time.” He reached the projector, his back to the class, and repeated more forcefully, “Turn to page 394.”

A soft gasp came from Ron as he looked at the page. “Werewolf?!” he said, his voice a mixture of surprise and disbelief.

“But sir, we’ve only just started learning about Red Caps and hinkypunks-” Hermione spoke up, her tone carefully respectful.

You blinked. She hadn’t been there a second ago, had she always been sitting there, or were you just that out of it?

Hermione didn’t even finish her thought before Snape’s cold voice cut her off. “Quiet.”

He surveyed the class again, his eyes glinting. “Now, who among you can tell me the difference between an Animagus and a werewolf?”

Hermione’s hand shot up instantly, but Snape ignored her as if she were invisible. He let the silence stretch, then said with cold disdain, “No one? How disappointing.”

Finally, Hermione spoke again, her voice clear and confident. “Sir, an Animagus is a wizard who chooses to turn into an animal. A werewolf has no choice, under the full moon, he transforms and forgets who he is entirely. He’d kill his best friend if he crossed his path. Furthermore, a werewolf only responds to the call of its own kind.”

As she finished, the projector flickered to life, showing a terrifying image of a werewolf, sharp claws, slavering fangs, eyes glowing with a monstrous hunger. 

Then, from across the room, Draco Malfoy let out a mock howl, loud and exaggerated. He laughed with his friends, smug and self-satisfied. You watched his stupid blond head shake as he laughed, your lips pressing into a thin line. He thought he was so funny.

Snape didn’t even bother to hide his disgust. “Thank you, Mr. Malfoy,” he drawled sarcastically, before turning his venomous gaze back to Hermione. “That’s the second time you’ve spoken out of turn, Miss Granger,” he snapped, his words sharp enough to slice through the air. “Are you incapable of restraining yourself, or do you take pride in being an insufferable know-it-all?”

Your friend shifted uncomfortably beside you. That was too far.

“Five points from Gryffindor,” he announced coldly.

You clenched your fists under the desk. Five points? For answering a question? What the hell?

But in Snape’s classroom, you knew better. It was his way or the highway. 

The man continued to drone on, but your attention was on the stupid blond boy again. He flicked a paper crane across the room to Potter’s desk, and the bespectacled boy caught it. You couldn’t see what was written inside, but you didn’t care either.

Snape was talking about the homework now, and a collective groan filled the room. “But sir, it’s the Quidditch match tomorrow,” Potter said, his voice tense. Snape leaned forward, his voice low and cold.

“Then I suggest you take extra care, Mr. Potter. Loss of limb will not excuse you.”

He straightened and carried on with his lesson, and you let your mind wander. Your eyes drifted across the room, and they locked with those silver-grey eyes, again. You felt like you’d been catching his gaze more often these days. He still wore that sly grin as he raised his eyebrows at you. You didn’t bother to respond this time. You just looked back down at your book.

----

You stayed up nearly all night to finish the essay Snape had assigned. By the time the match came around, you were too tired to even pull yourself out of bed. Unfortunately, Hogwarts had that stupid rule: every student had to attend Quidditch matches, no matter the house. So you dragged yourself to the stadium, half-asleep and half-frozen.

It was Gryffindor versus Hufflepuff today. The sun was long gone, replaced by dark, heavy clouds and a thunderstorm that shook the castle walls. You couldn’t believe they were still playing in weather like this. Umbrellas flew out of people’s hands as the wind howled, and icy rain pelted the stands. You tugged your raincoat tighter, squinting through the downpour as players zoomed overhead, little more than shadows in the dark sky.

You could just about make out Harry and the Hufflepuff Seeker, locked in a desperate chase for the Snitch. The crowd roared around you, half cheering for Hufflepuff, half for Gryffindor, lightning flashing above them like the anger of the gods. You even saw a player get struck by a bolt, falling to the field below like a ragdoll. 

Merlin’s beard, you thought. Sports were supposed to be dangerous, sure, but not like this. You couldn’t help but wonder how that snickering blond git, Draco Malfoy, managed to play in this mess. He never seemed the type to risk a broken arm or leg. He’d whine about a paper cut. Maybe he was some secret masochist. Who knew?

The rain pounded harder, so cold it felt like ice on your skin. Even if someone offered you a thousand Galleons, you wouldn’t be up there, flying through this storm. You weren’t trying to be turned into fried chicken by a lightning strike.

And don’t even get you started on the Dementors.

Those cold, soul-sucking creatures still hovered around Hogwarts while Sirius Black was at large. That alone made you want to skip the match today. Their presence weighed on you like a second skin, damp, cold, and heavy.

But you watched anyway. It was impossible not to, with the crowd around you leaning forward, straining to see. A flash of lightning revealed someone falling from the sky. At first, you thought it was Harry but no, it was the Hufflepuff Seeker. Dumbledore was already there, lowering him gently to the ground with a flick of his wand.

You stared, stunned. Was there no safety code at Hogwarts? How could they let the game continue in this weather? Didn’t wizards know how to make a lightning rod? Apparently not.

Another long moment passed, felt like forever and Harry still hadn’t come back down. The crowd had gone nearly silent, heads craned, everyone searching the clouds. No one even cared about the rest of the game anymore. Everyone just wanted to know: where was Harry Potter?

And when another bolt of lightning tore across the ink-black sky, you saw it, the flash of crimson breaking through the storm. The red robe fell like a streak of blood across the clouds, an unmissable slash of color against the swirling darkness. The figure in red plummeted, limp and lifeless, before Dumbledore’s quick incantation caught him in a shimmering web of magic, guiding him safely to the ground below.

For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. A hush of horror and disbelief hung over the stands, then broke into frantic noise. Screams and shouts echoed through the stadium as students and professors surged forward in a blur of motion.

Your hands clenched into tight fists, cold air burning your lungs as you stood frozen. You didn’t know how to react. And then, almost absurdly, the game ended with Hufflepuff’s victory. Cheers from yellow-and-black clad students rose, a jarring contrast to the sight of Potter lying unconscious on the grass.

As the crowd began to disperse, you made your way back toward the castle. Most of the students were streaming towards the Hospital Wing to check on Potter, the whispers about his broken broom following you like a dark cloud. People murmured about how it snapped mid-fall, unfortunate, but unavoidable in that wretched weather, they said. You kept your head down, avoiding the chaos.

The corridors of the castle felt cold and echoing as you walked alone, your mind still swirling with the sight of that red robe falling like a dying flame. You turned a corner, only to find yourself face-to-face with a group of Slytherins in their green robes, laughter rising in mocking crescendos.

You didn’t look up, just kept walking, ignoring them. Ever since that last spat you’d had with Malfoy, they’d left you mostly alone, like a pack of wolves that had lost interest in the chase. But as you walked past, the scent of oud wood and lemon, a clean, crisp scent that always lingered around him filled your nose.

“And that pathetic idiot fell off his broom right down to the field,” someone drawled, voice slick with amusement. “Fainted like a delicate flower. Must be those Dementors again, what a show.”

A ripple of laughter followed, but you couldn’t help yourself, you glanced back over your shoulder. The pale-haired boy at the center of it all, Malfoy, had paused mid-sentence, his laughter cut short. For a moment, his cold gray eyes flicked to yours, unreadable. Then he turned away as though you were beneath notice, his indifference cutting deeper than any jibe.

You dropped your gaze and kept walking, your fists tightening at your sides.

-to be continued-

“Y/n, y/n!” a voice cut through your dreams, soft and insistent.

You groaned, burying your face in your pillow, your limbs aching from the mountain of essays you’d conquered the night before. But your roommate was relentless, tugging at your blankets until she half-dragged you out of bed.

“What is it?” you finally whined, peeking out from the warmth of your comforter. She was practically bouncing on the spot, her eyes bright with excitement.

“It’s snowing today, it’s snowing today!” she squealed.

Rubbing sleep from your eyes, you blinked at the window. Your other roommates were already crowded around it, their breath fogging the glass. With a yawn, you pushed back the covers and padded over, the floor cold beneath your bare feet.

Lifting the curtain, you were met with a world transformed. Everything outside was blanketed in velvet white, the castle grounds glimmering in the pale dawn light. Tiny snowflakes drifted down from the sky like sugar spun into cotton candy, soft and delicate.

Your friends were already scrambling to get ready for the Hogsmeade trip, their laughter echoing through the room. Excitement buzzed in the air, bright and infectious.

You rushed to the entrance, your scarf wound tightly around your neck, your gloved hands tucked into your sleeves. Your friends were waiting, bundled up and red-nosed, ready for a day of winter magic.

“Ah, I’m giving up! I’m giving up!” a boy shouted as he was tackled to the ground in a flurry of snow, the others roaring with laughter.

“Come on, let’s grab some hot cocoa!” someone called, helping him up and dusting snow from his hair. Their scarves were askew, their hats slipping over wind-ruffled hair.

“Put your scarf and beanie back on,” Lena’s quiet voice cut through the chatter. She fussed over them with gentle authority, her brow creased in worry.

“Yes, mom!” they all chorused in mock obedience, laughter following them as they trudged off through the snow, arms slung around each other’s shoulders.

“I forgot mine!” someone whined from the back of the group. Without thinking, you unwound your own scarf and handed it over.

“Here, take mine. I’m not that cold,” you said with a smile.

“Thank you, y/n! You’re the best!” she chirped, giving you a tight squeeze and blowing a kiss before running to catch up with the others.

“You’re not coming?” a short-haired girl asked as she lingered by your side. You shook your head with a soft smile.

“You guys go ahead. I’ll stay here for a bit.”

Her eyes flickered to Lena, who was sitting alone on a nearby log, her expression distant. The girl gave you an understanding nod before hurrying to join the rest of the group.

You didn’t waste another moment. Snow crunched softly beneath your boots as you crossed to where Lena sat. She barely glanced at you, her gloved fingers twisting in her lap, lost in thought.

“Do you want to talk about it?” you asked, your voice gentle.

She let out a sigh, her breath a pale wisp in the cold air. “I don’t have anything to say,” she mumbled, her eyes darting away from yours.

You let out a quiet sigh of your own. Sometimes you forgot how stubborn Lena could be.

“Well, you’ve been acting strange,” you said, tilting your head to catch her gaze.

“It’s just…” she hesitated, the words sticking in her throat. “I don’t know how to say it.”

“Boy problem?” you teased lightly.

She didn’t answer, but the way her shoulders hunched and her eyes flickered down was all the admission you needed. You just smiled, reaching out to nudge her shoulder in silent understanding.

“What’s wrong? Did he make you mad again or something?” you asked the girl as she drifted back into her own thoughts.

“I don’t know…” she replied, her voice full of confusion and sadness. “Sometimes… boys are just so hard to understand…” she murmured quietly.

Your mind flickered to that pale blond boy again. Yeah, indeed, hard to understand. Actions and words that never seemed to match. You wondered why that was.

You didn’t say anything else, deciding to stay quiet until she was ready to share more.

“If you liked someone… would you want them to take care of you?” she asked suddenly, catching you off guard. Mostly because you’d never really liked anyone, romantically, at least. But of course, if you had feelings for someone, you’d want to care for them and be cared for in return.

“Well, yeah. Isn’t that what most people would feel?” you answered honestly. The girl dropped her head a bit, and you wondered if your answer was wrong.

“How would you feel if someone claimed to like you, but kept hiding everything away from you?” she asked, her voice exhausted. You looked at her thoughtfully.

Your gaze drifted to the white snow gathering at your feet. You weren’t sure what you’d do because you tended to keep things to yourself, too. But if you liked someone, you wouldn’t want to lie or hide from them. At least, that’s what you believed.

“Maybe he’s just not ready?” you said softly, your words coming out more like a question than an answer.

She sniffled a bit, her nose reddened from playing in the cold earlier. “Yeah… maybe,” she mumbled. “Or maybe he doesn’t trust me enough.”

She lifted her eyes to yours, eyes full of worry and guilt. You had never seen her look like that before, and it caught you off guard. You didn’t know how to react.

“I don’t think it’s necessarily like that,” you said gently. “Maybe he just has his own reasons. Or… maybe it isn’t the right time yet.”

She dropped her gaze again at your answer. “I understand that. But if he keeps pushing me away… how can I ever feel at ease when he wants to take care of me?” she said quietly, the sadness heavy in her voice.

“I feel like I don’t deserve any of that… while I have no idea what’s going on with him,” she added, and silence fell between the two of you.

Now this was awkward. You were never good at giving advice, especially relationship advice. You had never been in one yourself.

“I’m not really good at this…” you admitted hesitantly. “But I think you should tell him directly. If he really wants it to work out, he’ll open up to you eventually.”

That was the best you could offer. You didn’t know the guy that well either. You knew he was Mattheo Riddle from Slytherin. He played Quidditch, other than that, you had no clue. But you could sense he was serious about your friend; he didn’t treat her like just anyone.

She didn’t say anything in response, but you could tell she was thinking about your words, though you had no idea what she would decide to do.

“Lena,” a familiar voice called out, and you looked up to see a tall boy with dark curls standing there, his hands in his pockets as he hesitated to approach.

Your friend lifted her head to meet his eyes, then stood up from the log. You rose too, though you stayed silent.

“Would you… excuse us for a moment?” she said softly to you. You nodded.

You let your gaze flick briefly to the boy before walking away, leaving them to sort things out on their own. Whatever they were about to discuss, you hoped they would find a way to fix it.

----

As you walked down the snowy path, you saw figures running toward you in the distance. Squinting, you realized they were boys yelling, slipping and sliding in the snow. One of them slammed right into your shoulder, nearly knocking you both to the ground.

“Hey!” you exclaimed, regaining your balance, only to see the pale blond boy again. The blond snake.

“Why the fuck are you everywhere I go?” the words slipped out before you could stop them. The boy, who’d looked momentarily panicked as if he’d seen a ghost, immediately turned his sharp gaze back to you.

“Or maybe it’s because you’re literally everywhere,” he snapped back, that signature annoyance etched across his pretty face.

You didn’t bother to argue as you pulled your hood higher and tried to walk past him, shielding yourself from the cold. You’d given your scarf to your friend earlier, and now you were freezing as the snow continued to fall.

But he reached out and grabbed your wrist. “Where are your fellow goons?” he asked in mockery, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“None of your business,” you snapped, trying to yank your hand free but he just tightened his grip.

You looked up at him, your hood dusted in snow. He wore a fur hat, snowflakes caught at the edge of his hair and the pale line of his jaw. He looked like a damn snow angel under the white sky.

Okay, so maybe his pretty face was worth the time you were about to waste.

“What do you want?” you asked, exasperation clear in your voice.

“What? You don’t remember almost choking me to death in my sleep?” he said, his mouth curling into a mocking grin.

You frowned, genuinely confused. “Trust me, if I did, there wouldn’t be an almost,” you said coolly. If you wanted him dead, you’d make sure of it. 

He laughed at that, an easy, amused laugh that surprised you. “You owe me for that,” he said lightly, ignoring your glare.

“Can you not?” you snapped. “I owe you nothing. And I’m sure you wouldn’t want anything from a Muggle like me,” you added pointedly, letting the word “Muggle” ring out clearly.

He laughed again, the sound warm and amused in the cold air. Then he suddenly tugged you forward, almost making you slip.

“I’ve changed my mind,” he said, his voice low and his eyes glinting as he looked down at you.

And there it is again, the familiar, slimy, slippery feeling that creeps up on you whenever he’s near. It’s as if a snake has draped itself around your shoulders, coiling tighter and tighter. His silver-grey eyes narrow, the white snow falling between you making his gaze seem even colder, more distant, and somehow more challenging.

“You said you’d bite me if I messed with you again,” he repeats your own words, each syllable dripping with a mocking lilt. He’s treating it like a childish dare, like your threats are nothing. He doesn’t care what you’ll do to him. He’s not afraid.

You should know better. After all the times he’s messed with Harry’s group and never learned his lesson, you’d think you’d understand by now. He always plays with fire, and even if he gets burned, he just comes back again.

“Let’s see if you even dare to after I break all your fangs,” he sneers, his voice low and laced with venom, like poison dripping from the corner of his mouth and seeping deep into every word.

He finally lets go of your wrist and walks past you, bumping your shoulder hard as he goes. He doesn’t even look back, leaving you standing there in the snow, frozen like a statue in a field of white.

Your hands clench into fists so tightly your knuckles turn white. Your whole body trembles, though you can’t tell if it’s from the cold or from the anger and shame that motherfucker always seems to drag out of you. His words, his actions, they never match up, and they always leave you reeling, confused and furious.

And yet you remind yourself, again and again, that he’s just a childish, petty boy. That his words are hollow. That he’s not worth your thoughts. If you can remember that, if you can keep telling yourself that, maybe, just maybe, you’ll be fine.

At least… that’s what you’re trying to believe.

-to be continued-

A couple of days had passed since the snowstorm finally relented, leaving behind a crisp, cold breeze and a greenhouse that buzzed with life. You were helping your friends in the greenhouse today, the winter’s hush replaced by laughter and the rustling of leaves.

You caught sight of Neville, his cheeks pink from the cold, carefully repotting seedlings. He was so engrossed in his work that he didn’t notice the small crowd gathering at the table beside him. One by one, your friends circled around, drawn in by a collective, enchanted “Oh my god, it’s so adorable.”

You made your way over, curious. Sitting in the center of the table, newly transplanted by Neville’s careful hands, was a baby Frostling Bloom. Tiny, delicate tendrils of green curled up from the pot, almost shy. The Frostling Bloom was a rare magical plant that only sprouted baby roots during the coldest nights of winter. Once the snow melted and the sun’s warmth coaxed the world back to life, it would grow at an astonishing speed, demanding constant attention.

The little plant gave a tiny yawn, yes, an actual yawn and everyone around the table let out a collective sigh of wonder.

Neville straightened, wiping his brow. “Once spring is truly here, it’ll grow into a beautiful Frostling Lily,” he said. His voice was warm with pride. “And yes, we’ll be able to gather seeds from it, but it’s delicate work. We need to watch it closely now.”

You nodded, still transfixed by the way the tiny green leaves trembled slightly, as if shivering awake. A girl at the table glanced at you with hopeful eyes. “Y/N, can you help us with this?” She was already holding a watering can, eager but oblivious to the small frown tugging at Neville’s mouth.

“Sure,” you said, moving around to support the pot. It was small enough to cradle in your hands, and you felt the faint tickle of the plant’s roots shifting inside the soil.

The girl tilted the watering can forward.

“Wait! That’s not-” Neville’s warning came a second too late.

A spurt of water splashed onto the Frostling Bloom, and the plant let out a sudden, sharp cough. Before you could pull back, it sneezed, a tiny explosion of yellowish liquid that sprayed across your gloved forearm.

It stung. Sharp and immediate, the liquid seeped into the fabric of your gloves, a prickling burn against your skin.

“Oh god, I’m so sorry!” The girl dropped the watering can, her face pale with horror. She reached out as if to wipe it away, but you waved her off.

Neville and the others crowded in, guilt and worry writ large on their faces. Someone muttered an apology, cheeks flushed. “I- I switched the watering cans earlier. I didn’t realize the one she used was still mixed with Dragonbark sap… I’m sorry, Y/N.”

You tried to laugh it off, even as you flexed your hand and felt the burn pulse a little deeper. “It’s fine, really. I’ll just… I’ll go see Madam Pomfrey. You lot keep working, I’ll be fine.”

They didn’t argue, though their worried glances trailed you as you slipped out of the greenhouse. As soon as the cold air outside hit you, you let out a sharp breath. Fuck, that stings like hell. It was hard to move your hand now, each twitch of your fingers sending a spark of pain up your arm.

You made your way to the Hospital Wing, your boots crunching softly on the stone floor. Madam Pomfrey took one look at your red, blistering skin and tsked softly.

“I’ll be right back, dear. Just let me fetch something for that burn.” She carefully peeled off the glove and moved the fabric from the wound, revealing skin that looked raw and inflamed. Then she disappeared into the back room, bustling with purpose.

You stared at your arm, flexing your fingers experimentally. Great. Just what I needed today.

A sudden noise startled you, someone whining, his voice echoing dramatically through the stone walls. You looked up, irritation already bubbling beneath the surface.

In walked a blond boy, his hand clamped over his nose. You could see a smear of red staining the tips of his fingers. His hair was a mess, his normally pristine coat and turtleneck sweater askew like he’d been in a fight with a particularly savage Cornish Pixie.

He stumbled to a bed across from you and dropped onto it with a dramatic huff. “Where’s Madam Pomfrey?” he asked, his voice thick and annoyed.

“Busy,” you said, flat.

He let out a low groan. “Fuck, I’m dying here and she chooses this moment to be busy.”

You rolled your eyes. Drama queen. “What happened to your nose?” you asked, unable to hide your exasperation.

His head snapped up, blue eyes flashing. “This-” he gestured at his bloody nose “-is thanks to that insufferable Granger. She punched me.”

He pressed a tissue to the bridge of his nose, wincing. His hair flopped forward, a pale curtain over his forehead. Despite yourself, you snorted.

He glared at you like you’d just slapped him. “The fuck is so funny?”

You shrugged, still fighting a smile. “I don’t know. Considering your bitchy attitude, you probably deserved it.”

His lips curled back in a snarl as he gripped the edge of the bed. “Oh, that’s rich, coming from someone who looks like they just lost a wrestling match with a Fanged Geranium.”

You glanced at your burned arm. “No, I was helping with Herbology. Unlike some people,” you added pointedly.

He raised his brows, unimpressed. “You get burned planting trees? Pathetic.”

“Oh, says the boy who can’t identify the two roots with different colors?” you shot back. You were getting under his skin, his sulky pout deepened, and he sank even further down in the bed.

“At least I'm not the one who can't brew a basic potion without blowing up half the classroom,” he snaps back at you with a laugh. 

“At least I never pretended to be good at it.” 

“Because you really are not good at it.” He answered lazily as you see the boy lifted his head up to prevent the blood from dripping down. 

You rolled your eyes, letting the silence settle between you. He really was like a child, sulking and pouting like a five-year-old. Merlin’s beard, you’d met kids half his age in your foster home with better manners.

Before you could snap back, the heavy doors swung open and chaos burst into the Hospital Wing. A swirl of black robes and the distinct scent of rain-soaked earth, Professor Snape swept in, carrying Ron Weasley in his arms. Ron’s face was pale, twisted with pain, his leg clearly broken. Madam Pomfrey reappeared at once, her brow glistening with sweat as she hurried to the bedside.

“Sorry, dear,” she said quickly, glancing at you as she placed a tray of salves and bandages in front of you. “Would you mind applying this yourself? I need to see to Mr. Weasley straight away.”

You nodded, already used to patching yourself up. “Don’t worry, I’ve got it,” you murmured, dipping a clean rag into the soothing greenish ointment.

Across the room, Snape shot you a brief glance before he tugged the curtain closed around Ron’s bed, shielding the scene from view. You turned your attention back to your arm, ignoring the muffled groans and the low, urgent voices of the professors.

A hush fell over the room as more teachers filed in, McGonagall, Flitwick, even Sprout, their faces pale and tight with worry. You could feel Malfoy’s curious gaze flicking over to you every few seconds, though he tried to hide it behind his handkerchief.

Hermione’s voice cut through the quiet, calm but strained. She said something to McGonagall in a low voice, her eyes dark with concern. The professors exchanged glances, then quietly slipped out of the room, leaving a tense hush behind.

You pressed the cool balm onto your burned skin, feeling the sting fade to a dull throb. Across the room, Malfoy finally dropped his hand from his nose, though blood still dripped sluggishly onto his shirt. His eyes, shadowed and curious, flicked to your arm again.

When the room quiets again, you see Professor Snape rush out, his robe billowing behind him. Everything seems unreal, your brain struggling to process what just happened. A sudden loud laugh breaks the stillness, and you turn to see the blond boy, Draco Malfoy, snickering as Harry is carried into the infirmary, unconscious but not gravely injured.

You decide you’ve seen enough. Grabbing a bottle of medicine and some bandage wraps, you slip away from the chaos. You’re not part of this mess, and you’d rather not get tangled in it. Your friends are probably waiting in the greenhouse, but knowing them, they’ll fuss over every little scratch on your skin. So you turn on your heel and head instead for the abandoned greenhouse you always retreat to when you need a moment alone.

You roll up your sleeve, biting down on the fabric to keep quiet as you dab the medicine onto your reddened, burned skin. It stings like hell, but you manage, your breath coming in short, sharp bursts. When your skin is finally coated in the white powder, you pull out the bandage and try to wrap it around your arm.

Suddenly, the door slides open and you hear footsteps approaching.

“What the-?” A pale hand grabs your wrist, the other snatching the bandage from your grasp. Draco Malfoy stands in front of you, his nose still bleeding, a tissue stuffed in to stem the flow. The white of it is soaked through with crimson, vivid against his pale skin.

He doesn’t look at you as his hands start to work, clumsily wrapping the bandage around your arm. You stare at him for a moment, surprised. 

Wow. He’s really bad at this.

You pull your hand away, raising an eyebrow. “You’re going to wrap me up like a toilet paper mummy before you figure out how to do it properly,” you mutter, mocking him.

He doesn’t let go right away, and you can almost see the flicker of pride in his furrowed brow. Admitting he’s bad at something is probably worse than death for him. Finally, he sighs and releases your wrist.

You say nothing, focusing instead on wrapping the bandage yourself, firm, snug, but not too tight. When it’s finally secured with a neat knot, you glance up at him again. His nose is slightly bruised, swelling already, and you know it’ll look even worse tomorrow.

The air between you is thick with unspoken words. He turns his face away, avoiding your eyes, and you decide to ignore him too. For a moment, you almost wish you could vanish completely, that he’d just walk out and leave you alone. But he doesn’t, and you don’t know why. You don’t want to know.

Still, your mind drifts back to that scene, the memory of his face streaked with crimson. The blood stands out starkly against his pale skin, from the tip of his nose to the corner of his mouth. And it suits him somehow. Not the first time you’ve seen him this way, bruised, bloodied, beautiful. The memory of the time you kissed him and bit him like a rabid animal flares in your mind. The marks you left were your masterpiece.

Ruin Draco Malfoy.

Your eyes flick to his profile. He must feel it, because he turns back to you with those stormy grey eyes, narrowed in irritation. And you don’t know what comes over you, what sudden bravery sparks in your chest, but you reach out and pluck the tissue from his nose.

His eyes widen, startled. He takes a half-step back, but you don’t let him. “Sit down,” you order, pushing him down onto a low log. He groans in protest, glaring at you.

“Don’t speak to me like I’m some Crup,” he sneers, but he sits anyway, holding the fresh patch you thrust into his hands.

You rummage in your bag for the ember stone Lena gave you last birthday. It’s a small, palm-sized stone, smooth and dark as obsidian with a flickering glow deep inside, like frozen starlight when cool, like molten dragon’s breath when warm. You often use it for your bruises, the chill soothing the ache.

You kneel beside Draco, and he looks up at you, suspicious but silent. You’re not sure what you’re doing. Maybe you just like this view: Draco Malfoy, all bruised and miserable, blood dripping from his nose, looking up at you with those eyes he usually narrows to sneer and mock. You like it when men look miserable.

“Use your mouth to breathe, idiot,” you bark at him, your tone harsher than you intended. But he doesn’t protest. He simply obeys, his shallow breaths growing more ragged, fogging in the cold air between you.

You grab his chin, tilting his head gently forward. His skin is icy against your touch, so cold it sends a shiver up your fingertips. Still, you keep your grip steady, using your thumb and index finger to gently pinch the bridge of his nose. Right above his nostrils, pressing down just enough to staunch the bleeding.

You know this trick all too well, learned it the hard way when a nosebleed once clogged up your airway, leaving you gasping, panicked. It took weeks to scrape out the crusted blood, to breathe easy again. And here you are now, applying that same lesson to him. Strange, how life cycles back.

He’s finally still now, his earlier whining stilled to nothing but the faint hiss of his breath. And you realize this is the first time you’ve touched his face like this. Really touched it. His skin is softer than it looks, delicate beneath your fingers despite his sharp edges and colder-than-ice glare. His silver-grey eyes flicker up at you, lashes dark and impossibly long even as they flutter with the pain.

His brow furrows, trying so hard to maintain that infuriating air of icy composure. But there’s something else there, something that flickers through the crack in his defenses, a flash of vulnerability, almost puppyish in its pleading. Fuck. Comparing Draco Malfoy to a puppy? You must be insane.

You want to snap out of it, to shake your head and rid yourself of that thought. But you can’t, because he’s just staring at you, waiting to see what you’ll do next. Your fingers linger, almost reluctant to let go. You can feel the warmth of his breath washing over your hand, seeping through your skin and sending a strange tingle down your spine.

Finally, you pull your hand away from his chin, though it feels like you’re peeling it from stone. You pick up the cold stone, a small, smooth river rock you enchanted for this very purpose and gently press it against the bridge of his nose. His eyes flutter shut at the shock of cold, his breath hitching. You don’t know if it’s from pain or surprise.

“It’s to stop the bleeding,” you murmur, almost to yourself. Your voice is softer now, slipping out in a hush that betrays how much you’re focused on not trembling. “If you don’t want to be all bruised up and swollen tomorrow, you’d better keep cold ice on it. Especially the bridge.”

You’re not even sure he’s listening, he’s just watching you, lips slightly parted, breath brushing your wrist. And that silence, that unbearable, charged silence makes you more nervous than if he were spewing his usual slimy insults.

Because he’s pretty like this, damn him. Too pretty. His lips pressed tight in a thin line, pale skin like marble, those silver eyes bright and watchful. He looks like some ancient statue you could spend hours studying. And you hate that thought, hate the way it makes your heart thrum in your chest. You’re terrified that if he keeps looking at you like that, you’ll do something reckless. Something stupid.

“Stop staring at me,” you mutter finally, your voice breaking the silence like a snapped thread. You let out a small sigh, hoping it’ll ease the tension coiling in your stomach.

“The fuck am I supposed to look at, then?” he snaps, though he doesn’t move an inch from your hand. He’s still as a statue, breath steady and shallow.

“Anywhere but my face. Your eyes are… slimy. Nasty,” you shoot back, trying to cover the way his stare is making you unravel. But of course he hears it, the unsteadiness in your voice.

His lips curl in that trademark smirk, a sly grin that never fails to make you want to join Hermione in punching him square in the nose. “Oh, so you can stare at mine but I can’t stare at yours?” he drawls, his tone dripping with smug amusement.

You don’t bother to answer. You know there’s no winning this and he knows it too, the bastard. Unlike his stupidly perfect face, yours isn’t anything to look at. So you let the silence fall again, neither of you willing to break it. The only sounds are the faint rustle of your breathing and the quiet beat of your heart hammering away in your chest.

For a moment, it’s just the two of you in that charged stillness, his hand resting lightly on the cold stone. And you’re not sure which of you is more dangerous: him with those biting words he hasn’t said, or you with the soft care you’re trying so hard to keep under control.

-to be continued-