The grudging truce born over their shared cauldron did not last. In the days that followed, the space between the Gryffindor and Slytherin tables in the Great Hall felt wider than ever. Gareth was acutely aware of Maya every time she entered the room. He could pick out the sound of her laugh from across the noisy hall, and he hated the way it made him look up. He told himself it was just reconnaissance. He needed to know his rival’s moods, her weaknesses. But when her eyes would occasionally meet his from across the expanse of students, the look they shared was not one of simple animosity. It was complicated, a silent acknowledgment of the perfect lilac potion that still sat on Slughorn’s desk, a testament to their unwilling, undeniable synergy.

The announcement came on a Friday morning, during breakfast. The usual chatter and clatter of cutlery died down as Headmaster Dumbledore stood, his eyes twinkling over the rim of his half-moon spectacles.

“Your attention, please,” his voice echoed, magically amplified, through the hall. “It gives me great pleasure to announce the return of a beloved Hogwarts tradition. This year, we will be hosting the annual Duelling Tournament!”

A wave of excited murmurs swept through the hall. Gareth sat up straighter, his toast forgotten. His eyes instinctively flickered to the Gryffindor table. He saw her, saw the way her head lifted, her focus suddenly sharp and absolute.

“The tournament is open to all students from fourth year and above,” Dumbledore continued, a smile playing on his lips. “It is an opportunity to display not only your courage and magical prowess, but also your discipline and sportsmanship. Sign-ups will be posted in the Entrance Hall immediately following this announcement. May the best witch or wizard win.”

The Headmaster sat down, and the Great Hall erupted. The air buzzed with excited speculation. Gareth felt a cold, clean thrill cut through him. This was it. Potions was a matter of precision and knowledge, but duelling… duelling was about power. It was about instinct, and nerve, and the will to dominate. It was the purest expression of magical ability. His father had been a champion in his day. It was expected. It was his legacy. He would not just compete; he would win. He would remind everyone, and perhaps himself, what it meant to be a Malfoy.

He pushed his chair back, his movements sharp and decisive. He had to be one of the first to sign. As he strode out of the Great Hall, he saw a flash of scarlet and gold out of the corner of his eye. Maya was already on her feet, her expression one of fierce determination. She was moving just as quickly, her own friends calling after her as she headed for the door.

A crowd was already forming around the large parchment that had been tacked to the stone wall in the Entrance Hall. Gareth shouldered his way through a group of Hufflepuffs with an unapologetic murmur. He saw the list, a long roll of blank spaces beneath a heading written in elegant, looping script. A self-inking quill lay tethered to the bottom.

He reached for it, but another hand got there at the exact same moment.

Her fingers brushed against his. The contact was brief, but it sent a shock up his arm, the same unwelcome jolt he’d felt in the dungeons. He looked up. Maya stood before him, her hand hovering over the quill, her dark eyes flashing with a challenge that mirrored his own. Her chest rose and fell with her quick breaths, as if she had run all the way from the Great Hall.

She didn’t need to say a word. He could read it all in her face. This wasn’t just a school competition for her. This was a battlefield. This was her chance to prove that talent and power had nothing to do with bloodlines. It was a direct challenge to everything he was, everything he represented.

He let his hand fall away, giving her the quill with a slight, almost imperceptible nod. It was a gesture of supreme confidence. Go ahead. Write your name. It won’t matter.

She took the quill, her grip firm. Her jaw was set as she wrote Maya Vance in neat, clear letters near the top of the list. The strokes were deliberate, devoid of any flourish. It was the signature of someone with nothing to prove and everything to win.

She placed the quill back in its holder and met his gaze again. The air between them crackled. Then it was his turn. He took the quill, the feather cool against his skin. He signed his name—Gareth Malfoy—directly beneath hers. He wrote with a practiced, elegant script, the final loop of the ‘y’ a sharp, definitive slash. A declaration. He let his eyes linger on their names, one beneath the other. Gryffindor and Slytherin. Muggle-born and Pure-blood. The rivalry, which had found a moment of quiet respect in the dungeons, was now formally declared, inked onto parchment for the entire school to see.

The ink on the parchment was barely dry, but the tournament had already taken root in Maya’s mind. It consumed her thoughts during classes and haunted her dreams at night. Sleep offered no escape, her mind racing with incantations and counter-curses. Finally, after hours of tossing in her dormitory bed, the velvet curtains feeling more like a cage than a comfort, she gave up.

Slipping out of bed, she pulled on her robes over her pajamas and crept out of the Gryffindor common room. The castle was silent and dark, the moonlight slanting through the high windows painting long, ghostly stripes on the stone floors. She didn't have a destination in mind, just a need to walk, to burn off the restless energy thrumming under her skin. She needed to think, to strategize. She knew Gareth Malfoy would be her biggest obstacle. He had the breeding, the training, the pure-blood arrogance that assumed victory was his birthright. She had only her own grit and a desperate, burning need to prove herself.

Her wandering took her to the fifth floor, to a corridor she rarely used. It was here she heard it—a faint, sharp crack, followed by a low whisper. It wasn't the sound of a teacher on patrol or a prefect doing their rounds. It was the distinct sound of spell-work.

Curiosity overriding caution, Maya pressed herself against the cold stone wall and edged toward the corner. She peered around the stone griffin marking the corridor’s turn. The passage ahead was empty and coated in a thick layer of dust, save for one section where the floor was scuffed and marked. At the far end, partially obscured by a suit of armor, was Gareth.

His back was to her. He had shed his outer robes, leaving him in his white school shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His posture was perfect, his feet planted firmly. He was practicing.

"Expulso," he incanted, his voice a low, controlled murmur. A bolt of blue light shot from the tip of his wand and slammed into the far wall. It didn't explode with the loud bang of an amateur casting; it hit with a contained, concussive force that made the stones shudder and sent a puff of dust into the air. He wasn't just throwing spells around. He was controlling them, refining them.

He moved with a fluid grace that she hadn't expected. It was a dance of lethal intent. A flick of his wrist produced a Blinding Hex that flared with a silent, brilliant white light. A sharp slash of his wand sent a Stinging Jinx whizzing through the air to strike the exact same spot his first spell had hit. This was not the casual practice of a student reviewing for an exam. This was training. He was as serious about this as she was. The realization settled in her stomach, a heavy, cold weight.

As if he could feel her eyes on him, he suddenly went still. For a long second, the only sound was the faint echo of his last spell. Then, he turned.

He didn't spin around in surprise. He pivoted on his heel in a smooth, single motion, his wand arm coming up, the tip aimed directly at her heart. His eyes, silver in the dim light, were narrowed and hard. There was no recognition in them at first, only the cold assessment of a threat.

Maya didn't move. She didn't reach for her own wand. She simply stood there, caught in the beam of his undivided attention. The air grew thick, charged with the ozone of spent magic and a tension that was purely their own. His chest rose and fell with his controlled breathing, a fine sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead. He saw it was her. His wand didn't waver.

He was expecting a taunt, a sarcastic remark about being caught working so hard. She offered none. She just watched him, her expression unreadable. She saw the fierce ambition burning in his eyes, the same fire that kept her awake at night. She saw the raw dedication etched into the taut lines of his body. In this dark, forgotten corridor, stripped of their house colors and public personas, they were not Gryffindor and Slytherin. They were just two duelists who wanted the same thing so badly it hurt.

He saw the understanding dawn on her face. He saw that she recognized the drive in him because it was a mirror of her own. The rivalry between them was not a game. It was real, and it ran deeper than house points or blood status.

Slowly, deliberately, he lowered his wand. It wasn't a truce, but it was a concession. An acknowledgment. He gave her a single, sharp nod. It was a gesture that said, I see you, Vance. I know what you are.

Maya held his gaze for a moment longer, then returned the nod. A silent, mutual declaration of respect. Without another look, she turned and walked away, her footsteps silent on the stone floor, leaving him alone in the dust and the moonlight.

The silent acknowledgment in the corridor had changed nothing, and yet it had changed everything. The next afternoon, as Maya walked from the library, she saw him coming down the same corridor. They maintained a wide berth, a silent, mutual agreement to ignore one another. The air between them was a vacuum, devoid of the usual taunts but heavy with the memory of his focused intensity and her silent understanding.

A sudden shout echoed from the far end of the hall, followed by a flash of sickly green light. "Get him!" a voice yelled. Two second-year Slytherins were chasing a Hufflepuff, their wands out. It was a stupid, childish prank in the making.

Instinctively, Maya flattened herself against the wall. Gareth did the same on the opposite side. The Hufflepuff, panicked, fumbled his own wand and a jet of violet light shot from it, ricocheting wildly off a suit of armor. It spiraled through the air directly toward them.

There was no time to think. Gareth grabbed the handle of the nearest door and wrenched it open, diving inside. In the same split second, Maya launched herself through the same opening. They tumbled into the darkness of an unused classroom, landing in a heap of tangled limbs and dusty air.

The door slammed shut behind them. A loud, resonant THUMP vibrated through the wood, followed by a faint, sizzling sound, like water on a hot pan. A sickly violet light seeped under the door for a moment, then vanished.

"Get off me, Vance," Gareth’s voice was a low growl directly beside her ear. His breath was warm against her skin.

Maya scrambled up, brushing dust from her robes. Her hand had been pressed against the hard muscle of his chest. The lingering warmth was an unwelcome sensation. "You’re the one who pulled me in here," she shot back, her voice sharper than she intended.

He was already at the door, twisting the heavy iron handle. It didn't budge. "It's locked."

"Obviously." Maya drew her wand. "Stand back. Alohomora!" The tip of her wand glowed, but the lock remained stubbornly silent. She tried again, putting more force into the incantation. Nothing. The door was sealed tight.

Gareth pushed her aside with an impatient hand on her shoulder. "Amateur charms won't work on that. It was a Sealant Jinx." He pointed his own wand at the door. "Confringo!" A burst of orange light slammed into the wood. The door shuddered but held firm, the wood smoking slightly where the spell had hit. Not even a splinter was out of place.

He cursed under his breath, a low, frustrated sound. He tried another, more powerful spell, a dark curse that Maya didn't recognize. The result was the same. The magic simply dissipated against the door's surface, absorbed without a trace.

"Well," Maya said, crossing her arms. "That was impressive. Any other brilliant ideas?"

He turned to face her, his eyes glittering dangerously in the gloom. The room was small, cluttered with stacks of old, broken desks and forgotten cauldrons. The only light came from a single, grimy window high on the far wall, casting long shadows that made the cramped space feel even smaller. "If you hadn't been in the way," he began, his voice dangerously soft.

"If I hadn't been in the way?" she interrupted, incredulous. "That spell was heading for both of us. Or did you think it would politely swerve around you because you’re a Malfoy?"

He didn't have an answer for that. He just stared at her, his jaw tight. The silence that fell was thick and suffocating, filled with the scent of dust and old parchment and the faint, irritating smell of his expensive cologne. They were trapped. Not just in a room, but in each other’s presence, with no escape. He paced the small, clear space in the center of the room, his long legs eating up the distance in three strides. He was a caged predator, radiating a tense energy that made the air feel thin and hard to breathe. Maya stayed by the door, her back pressed against the unyielding wood, watching him. There was nowhere else to look.

He finally stopped his relentless pacing and ran a hand through his hair, knocking the perfect, pale strands out of place. His gaze went to the single grimy window, high up on the far wall.

"Thinking of flying out?" Maya asked. Her voice was dry, the sarcasm a familiar shield. "I'm afraid you left your broom in your other robes."

He shot her a look over his shoulder, and for a second, the usual annoyance in his silver eyes was replaced by a flicker of something else. "And I suppose you were planning to summon a griffin to carry you to safety, Vance? Gryffindor heroics and all that."

The retort was quick, sharp, and unexpectedly witty. A small, involuntary smile touched Maya's lips before she could suppress it. "It's a better plan than blasting the door with dark curses."

"It got us nowhere, which is exactly where your plan got us," he pointed out, gesturing with his chin toward the stubbornly sealed door. He walked to the window, craning his neck. It was at least fifteen feet up, the glass thick with filth, with no ledges or furniture sturdy enough to hold a person's weight. "No luck."

He turned back, his eyes sweeping the cluttered room. "There has to be another way."

"Or we could wait," Maya suggested, leaning back against the unyielding wood. "Someone will notice we're missing eventually. Probably Professor Flitwick, when we don't show up for Charms."

"I'd rather not spend the next hour in your company, if it's all the same to you," Gareth said coolly. There was no real venom in it. It was just a statement of fact. He began to shift a pile of rickety desks, the wood groaning in protest, searching for a loose stone, a hidden passage—anything.

"The feeling is mutual, Malfoy." She watched him work. The single beam of weak afternoon light illuminated the dust motes his movements stirred up, making them dance around him like tiny, glittering insects. They caught in his pale hair. "You'll ruin your shirt," she said, the observation slipping out before she could stop it.

He paused, looking down at the film of grime now coating his formerly pristine white cuffs. He made a quiet sound of disgust. "Another point in your favor, I suppose. Trapped and sartorially ruined."

Maya actually laughed. It was a short, surprised sound that echoed strangely in the dusty silence. He looked over at her, his expression unreadable, and the sound died in her throat. His stare was so direct, so intense.

"What?" she asked, her smile faltering under his scrutiny.

"Nothing," he said, turning back to his pointless task. "I didn't realize you were capable of making a sound that wasn't a swotty answer or a self-righteous declaration."

"And I didn't realize you were capable of anything beyond sneering and boasting about your bloodline," she shot back instantly.

He stopped moving and turned to face her fully. He leaned back against a stack of desks, crossing his arms over his chest. The posture was casual, but his eyes were serious. "Is that what you think I do?"

The question was genuine, and it threw her. "It's what everyone sees," she said, her voice more subdued than before.

"And you always believe what everyone sees." It wasn't a question. It was a quiet accusation.

"I saw you last night," she said, changing the subject before he could press further. "In the corridor. You're serious about the tournament."

He didn't pretend not to know what she was talking about. He just watched her, his expression guarded, waiting.

"Why?" she asked, the question more blunt than she intended. "You're a Malfoy. You already have everything. Why do you need to win some school duelling trophy?"

The silence stretched, thick and heavy. Maya thought he wouldn't answer, that he would retreat behind his usual wall of aristocratic disdain. Instead, he pushed off the desk and took a single step toward her, closing half the distance between them. The air grew thin again.

"You think having a certain name means you have everything?" he asked, his voice low and devoid of its usual mocking tone. "It just means more is expected. It means you can't fail. Not ever. Winning isn't about the trophy, Vance. It's about not losing."

She stared at him, taken aback by the raw honesty. It was the last thing she had ever expected to hear from him. She understood that feeling perfectly. The desperate, clawing need to succeed, not for the glory, but to stave off the quiet terror of failure. For him, it was the crushing weight of a legacy. For her, it was the constant, nagging pressure to prove that a muggle-born belonged in his world at all.

"I get that," she admitted, her voice barely a whisper.

His silver eyes searched hers, and for the first time, she saw something beyond the arrogance and the rivalry. She saw a flicker of the same pressure, the same relentless drive that lived inside her. The ambition she had recognized in him last night was more than a simple desire to win. It was a profound, desperate need.

He gave a short, humorless laugh. "Of course you do, Vance. Of course you're the one who gets it." He gestured to a relatively clean crate against the far wall. "We might as well sit. It appears we'll be here for a while."