The Rival's Kiss

The rhythmic clatter of the Hogwarts Express was a familiar, soothing sound to Gareth. He sat with his back straight, the plush velvet of the seat a comfortable luxury. His robes, a deep, forest green with silver trim he’d had specially tailored, were immaculate. Outside, the Scottish countryside blurred into a watercolor of greens and grays. He’d secured the compartment for himself, a small assertion of will that had been surprisingly easy. A simple, pointed stare had been enough to send a gaggle of chattering second-years scurrying further down the corridor. Now, he had peace.

He was tracing the crest on his signet ring when the compartment door slid open with a jarring scrape. A girl stood there, her trunk bumping against the doorframe. Her hair was a wild cloud of brown curls, hastily pulled back but already escaping in defiant tendrils around her face. Her robes were stark black, new and stiff, and her eyes—a sharp, intelligent brown—scanned the compartment with an unapologetic intensity.

“Is this seat taken?” she asked, her voice clear and without the slightest hint of deference.

Gareth let his gaze travel from her slightly scuffed shoes up to her determined face. He didn’t recognize her from any of the pure-blood family gatherings. A transfer? Unlikely. A mudblood, then. The thought soured his mood instantly.

“It is now, apparently,” he said, his tone clipped and cold. He made no move to help with her trunk, instead watching as she wrestled it onto the overhead rack with a grunt of effort.

She dusted her hands off and sat down opposite him, her back just as straight as his, her chin held high. She met his disdainful look with one of her own, a flicker of challenge in her eyes. “The rest of the train is full.”

“A pity,” Gareth murmured, turning his attention pointedly back to the window. He could feel her watching him. He could almost hear the whirring of her brain, cataloging him, judging him. It was an irritatingly Gryffindorish quality.

“I’m Maya,” she said, breaking the silence he had so carefully cultivated. It wasn’t an introduction; it was a statement of fact, a claim to her space in his compartment, in this world.

He didn’t grace her with a response, merely angled himself further towards the glass. The silence stretched again, heavier this time, thick with unspoken animosity. He was Gareth Malfoy, and he did not make idle chit-chat with muggle-borns on the train. It was a matter of principle.

Maya, for her part, seemed to take his silence as a victory. A small, knowing smirk touched her lips before she pulled a thick, well-worn book from her bag—Advanced Potion-Making. She opened it, and the crisp sound of the page turning was the only noise in the compartment for the next hour. Gareth found his eyes drifting from the rolling hills to the intense focus on her face, the way her brow furrowed in concentration. It was aggravating. It was… distracting. The air between them crackled with a tension that had nothing to do with the train’s motion, a silent declaration of war before they even knew which banners they would be fighting under.

The Great Hall was an overwhelming spectacle of light and sound. Thousands of candles floated in mid-air below an enchanted ceiling that perfectly mirrored the star-dusted night sky outside. Four long tables, already crowded with students, buzzed with anticipation. Gareth stood among the other first-years, a head taller than most, his posture radiating an unshakeable confidence. He scanned the sea of faces at the Slytherin table, noting the familiar features of children from families his own had associated with for centuries. He belonged there. It was a foregone conclusion.

When his name was called—"Malfoy, Gareth"—a ripple of whispers followed him to the front. He settled onto the three-legged stool with practiced ease, barely registering the frayed brim of the Sorting Hat as it was lowered onto his head. It had barely grazed his hair when a voice, ancient and clear, echoed through the hall.

"SLYTHERIN!"

A roar of approval erupted from the table draped in green and silver. Gareth slid off the stool, a faint, self-satisfied smirk on his lips. He gave a curt nod to Professor McGonagall and strode toward his table, the applause of his new housemates washing over him. He took a seat next to another pure-blood he knew vaguely, ignoring the back-pats and handshakes. His gaze swept over the remaining first-years, a huddle of nervous anticipation. He found her almost immediately. Maya. She stood with her chin up, her expression unreadable as she watched the proceedings.

Names were called, students sorted. A Weasley to Gryffindor, predictable. A Finch-Fletchley to Hufflepuff. Then, "Vance, Maya."

A hush fell over her small section of the group. Gareth watched, a flicker of cruel amusement in his chest, as she walked to the stool. She moved with a purpose that belied any nervousness she might be feeling. She sat, and the Sorting Hat fell over her eyes, obscuring her face completely. For a long moment, there was only silence. Gareth leaned forward slightly. The Hat was taking its time with the mudblood. He could see the fabric twitching, as if in deep conversation. He imagined her pleading with it, trying to will her way into Ravenclaw, the typical house for clever bookworms who didn't belong anywhere else.

Then the Hat bellowed, "GRYFFINDOR!"

The table adorned in scarlet and gold exploded with cheers, louder and more boisterous than the Slytherin welcome had been. Maya pulled the Hat off, her face flushed with victory. A wide, genuine smile broke across her features as she handed it back to the professor. As she turned to join her new house, her eyes swept the Great Hall, a triumphant glint in them.

And then they found his.

Across the vast, candlelit space, their gazes locked. Gareth’s smirk had vanished, replaced by a cool, appraising stare. Her smile didn't falter, but it changed. The warmth vanished, replaced by something sharper, something that mirrored the challenge in his own eyes. It was not a look of hatred, not yet. It was an acknowledgment. A line had been drawn. The silent war declared in the confines of the train compartment now had its banners, its colors, its armies. He was Slytherin. She was Gryffindor. And in that one, charged look, they both understood that this was only the beginning.

The dungeons were as cold and damp as Gareth had expected. The air in the Potions classroom was thick with the lingering scent of bitter herbs and something metallic, a smell that clung to the back of the throat. Stone walls wept with condensation, and the low, arched ceiling made the room feel oppressive. He chose a workstation near the back with another Slytherin, setting his bag down with a definitive thud. The Gryffindors filed in moments later, loud and obnoxiously cheerful, their red-trimmed robes a jarring splash of color in the gloom. He saw Maya among them, her head bent in conversation with a red-haired Weasley. She didn’t look his way.

Professor Slughorn bustled in, his considerable stomach preceding him. He was all smiles and bonhomie, his eyes twinkling as he surveyed his new crop of students. “Welcome, welcome! To the subtle science and exact art of potion-making,” he began, his voice booming slightly in the stone chamber.

Gareth tuned most of it out. He’d read the textbook cover to cover over the summer. He knew the theory. He was here for the practice, to prove that his aptitude was not just theoretical.

“…and to foster a bit of inter-house unity, so prized by our Headmaster,” Slughorn was saying, clapping his hands together. “I shall be assigning you all partners for the term! No, no, don’t groan. A little collaboration is good for the soul! When I call your name, please find your new partner and a new workbench.”

A low murmur of discontent filled the room. Gareth felt a muscle in his jaw tighten. He had no interest in ‘inter-house unity’. He glanced at his Slytherin table-mate, assuming they’d be allowed to remain.

Slughorn began reading from a roll of parchment. “Abbott and Boot… Crabbe and Finnigan…” He droned on, pairing students from different houses with what seemed like gleeful abandon. Gareth waited, his posture rigid.

“Malfoy and Vance.”

The names hung in the damp air. For a moment, Gareth was certain he had misheard. He looked up, his grey eyes locking onto Slughorn, who simply beamed at him before moving on to the next pair. He felt a slow, cold burn of anger start in his chest. Across the room, he saw Maya’s head snap up. Her expression was one of pure, unadulterated disbelief, which quickly hardened into grim resignation.

“Well, off you go, you two!” Slughorn prompted, gesturing towards an empty table in the center of the room.

Moving felt like wading through mud. Gareth pushed himself away from his table, grabbing his bag with a sharp, jerky motion. Maya met him halfway, their paths converging at the designated workstation. The table was smaller than the others, a cramped slab of stone scarred with old knife marks and potion stains. They stood on opposite sides, the heavy iron cauldron between them like a barricade.

“I’ll take this side,” he stated, his voice low and clipped. He placed his bag on the bench, claiming the right half of the table as his own.

Maya said nothing. She simply mirrored his actions, setting her own bag down on the left. The space was tight. When she reached for the box of ingredients on the shelf behind them, her arm brushed against his. Gareth flinched back as if he’d been burned. He could feel the warmth of her skin through the fabric of his sleeve, a fleeting contact that sent an unwelcome jolt through him. He smelled her soap, something clean and simple, like citrus and rain. It was infuriating.

They set up their equipment in a tense, pointed silence. The clink of glass vials and the thud of knives on the wooden cutting board were the only sounds they made. Every movement was precise, economical, a silent contest of efficiency. When their hands brushed again as they both reached for the same silver knife, their fingers tangled for a fraction of a second. Maya pulled her hand back, her knuckles white as she gripped the edge of the table. Gareth’s jaw was set so tight it ached. He could feel the heat rising in his face, a mixture of anger and something else, something he refused to name. They stood side-by-side, staring straight ahead at the blackboard as Slughorn began writing out the instructions for their first potion, the air between them thick enough to cut with one of their shared knives.

The potion was the Draught of Living Death. Gareth felt a cruel smile touch his lips. Slughorn was starting with one of the most complex potions in the sixth-year curriculum. Excellent. He would prove his superiority from the very first lesson.

“I’ll handle the Valerian roots,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. He pulled the cutting board closer to his side of the table.

“Fine,” Maya clipped out. “But you’re slicing them too thick. You’ll bruise the fibers.”

Gareth paused, his knife hovering over the gnarled root. “The instructions say to chop them. It doesn’t specify the thickness.”

“And a good potioneer knows how to interpret instructions,” she shot back in a fierce whisper. “You need to release the soporific oils slowly. Slice them thin. It’s more effective.”

He wanted to argue, to tell her that as a Malfoy, his instincts were inherently superior to those of some muggle-born who’d probably just memorized the textbook. But he couldn’t deny the logic in her words. With a low sound of irritation, he adjusted his grip and began to slice the root into nearly translucent slivers. The precision of his knife work was something he prided himself on; each piece was identical, perfect. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her watching his hands, her expression unreadable.

Their silent battle continued with the Sopophorous bean. The textbook clearly stated to cut it. Gareth reached for the silver knife again, but Maya’s hand shot out, covering the bean. “Don’t,” she said, her voice firm. “You have to crush it with the flat of the blade. It’s the only way to release all the juice.”

“The book—” he started, his voice tight with anger.

“The book is wrong,” she interrupted. “Trust me.”

He stared at her, at the absolute certainty in her dark eyes. He hated it. He hated her for being right, because he knew, deep down, that she was. He had read a footnote about this very thing in a supplementary text. Relinquishing the knife felt like a surrender. He slid it across the table toward her. She didn’t gloat. She simply took the blade, turned it on its side, and pressed down firmly on the shimmering bean. A wealth of silvery liquid, far more than a simple cut would have yielded, pooled on the board.

They fell into a tense, charged rhythm. The space was too small, their proximity unavoidable. When he leaned forward to stir the cauldron—seven times, counter-clockwise—his shoulder pressed against hers. She didn’t pull away, her body held rigid as she focused on measuring powdered root of asphodel. He could feel the warmth of her through their robes, a solid, living presence that was both a distraction and a strange anchor in the bubbling chaos of the potion.

Their bickering had ceased, replaced by a clipped, functional shorthand. “Heat,” he would command, and her hand would already be on the dial. “Infusion of wormwood,” she’d state, and he would pass her the vial without a word. They moved around each other with an efficiency born of necessity, their hands brushing as they reached for ingredients, their bodies twisting to avoid collision in a way that felt less like an argument and more like a dance. He found himself watching the steady, competent movements of her hands, the way she added ingredients with an unerring sense of timing that couldn't be taught from a book.

The potion began to change, shifting from a smooth black to a deep indigo, and finally, to the pale, perfect lilac that signified success. A plume of light violet steam curled up from the surface. It was flawless.

“Oh, my stars!” Slughorn’s voice boomed from behind them, making them both jump. He peered into their cauldron, his eyes wide with delight. “Magnificent! Simply magnificent! A perfect Draught of Living Death on the first attempt! I knew you two would make a brilliant team!” He beamed, oblivious to the rigid tension between them. “Ten points to Slytherin! And ten to Gryffindor!”

He bustled away to inspect a potion that was smoking an alarming shade of green. Gareth and Maya stood over their cauldron, the quiet bubbling of their success filling the silence. He looked from the shimmering lilac liquid to her face. Her cheeks were flushed from the heat of the steam, and a stray curl had escaped her tightly bound hair. She was looking at him, and the open hostility was gone from her eyes. In its place was something else, something that mirrored the grudging acknowledgment he felt taking root in his own chest. He was an arrogant prick, yes, but he was a damn good potioneer. And she… she was more than just an insufferable know-it-all. She was brilliant. And that, Gareth realized with a jolt, was far more dangerous.

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."

Maya’s fingers closed around the cracked leather spine at the exact moment Gareth’s hand landed on top of hers. The book—Advanced Hexes for the Competitive Duelist—sat wedged between two larger tomes, and neither of them let go.

Her pulse stuttered. The restricted section was deserted this late, the only light coming from the green-shaded lamp on Madam Pince’s distant desk. Gareth’s palm was warm, his skin unexpectedly rough against the back of her hand.

“I had it first,” she breathed, tightening her grip.

“Your hand was on the shelf,” he countered, voice low. “Mine was on the book.”

Their eyes locked over the narrow aisle. Dust motes drifted between them, catching the lamplight. Maya could smell the faint cedar scent of his robes, the same one that had lingered in the potions classroom after every lesson.

“It’s due back tomorrow,” she said. “I reserved it yesterday.”

“Funny. So did I.” His thumb shifted, brushing the ridge of her knuckles. The contact was accidental—had to be—but it sent heat skittering up her arm. “Looks like we’re at an impasse, Granger.”

“It’s Gupta,” she snapped, too loud. From across the library came the soft creak of Madam Pince’s chair. They both froze. When no footsteps followed, Maya dropped her voice to a furious whisper. “There’s only one copy.”

“Then we share.” Gareth tugged the book free with his other hand, keeping his right firmly over hers. The weight of it pulled them closer until their sleeves touched—black wool against red flannel. “Unless you’d rather explain to Slughorn why neither of us did the required reading.”

She hated that he was right. Hated more that her hand was still trapped under his, the pressure steady and deliberate. Finally, she let go. The loss of contact left her skin tingling.

They found a table in the furthest corner, hidden behind stacks of Transfiguration journals. Gareth dropped the book between them like a gauntlet. The lamp above cast sharp shadows across his cheekbones, making the faint scar on his jaw more pronounced.

Maya opened to chapter seven: “Offensive Counter-Jinxes in Close Quarters.” The margins were annotated in cramped, spiky handwriting—someone had drawn tiny dueling stick figures in the corners. She angled the page so the light caught the text, but Gareth leaned in at the same moment. Their shoulders bumped.

“Personal space, Malfoy.”

“You’re hogging the diagram.” His breath stirred the hair at her temple. When she didn’t move, he shifted closer—close enough that she could see the silver threading in his tie, the way his lashes cast spiky shadows on his cheeks.

She turned a page too quickly; the paper tore with a soft rip. “Damn it.”

“Careful.” His fingers brushed hers as he reached to smooth the tear. The gesture was gentle, almost tender, and it froze her in place. Their hands rested together on the damaged page, neither pulling away.

The silence stretched. Maya became hyper-aware of every point of contact—their thighs pressed beneath the table, the brush of his sleeve against her arm when he adjusted the book. She could hear her own heartbeat, loud in the hushed quiet.

“You annotated this last year,” she said suddenly, noticing a familiar slanted ‘G’ in the margin.

He didn’t deny it. “You’re just now catching up?”

“I was busy not being an arrogant prat who assumes he’s already mastered the material.” But her voice lacked bite. She was staring at the note he’d scrawled beside a wand-movement diagram: rotate wrist 15° left—more power, less precision. His handwriting was neater than she expected.

Gareth’s knee nudged hers under the table. Once. Twice. The third time felt deliberate. Maya’s breath caught as heat pooled low in her belly.

“Your foot’s on my bag,” she lied, because it wasn’t.

“Is it?” He leaned closer, close enough that she could see the faint freckle just below his left ear. “Maybe you should move yours first.”

She didn’t move her foot. Neither did he.

Instead, Maya turned the page again, slower this time. The chapter heading—“Close-Quarter Disarming: Physical Contact as Advantage”—leapt out at her like a dare. Her cheeks burned. Gareth’s finger traced the first line of text, the nail short and neat, and she found herself tracking the movement instead of reading.

“Useless technique,” he muttered. “Leaves you wide open if your opponent’s stronger.”

“Only if you hesitate,” Maya countered, her voice steadier than she felt. “Speed beats brute force.”

He made a low sound, almost amused. “You saying I’m slow, Gupta?”

“I’m saying you telegraph every move.” She tapped the margin where he’d scribbled a note about footwork. “Like here. You lean left before you cast.”

His eyes narrowed, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “Observant.”

“Occupational hazard.” She shrugged, and the motion brought her shoulder against his chest. He didn’t shift back. The wool of his robe was soft against her bare forearm, the warmth beneath it startling. Maya’s pulse skittered. She could feel the steady thud of his heartbeat through the layers of fabric, and it was faster than it should have been.

Gareth turned the page for her, the paper rustling loud in the quiet. His thumb brushed the inside of her wrist as he did, a deliberate drag of skin on skin. Maya’s breath hitched. She watched his face, searching for smugness, but his expression was unreadable, eyes fixed on the text.

“Section on wand pressure points,” he said, voice rough. “You left-handed?”

“Right.” She flexed her fingers self-consciously. “Why?”

“Different grip. Changes the angle.” He reached over, adjusting her hold on an imaginary wand. His hand closed around hers, warm and steady, guiding her thumb to the base of her fingers. “Like this. Less strain on the wrist.”

The touch was instructional—barely—but Maya’s stomach flipped. His palm lingered against hers a beat too long before pulling back. The space between them felt charged, every small movement amplified. When she shifted, her knee brushed his, and this time neither pretended it was accidental.

The lamp flickered, casting shadows that danced across their joined hands. Maya realized they’d both stopped pretending to read. Gareth’s gaze dropped to her mouth, lingered, then flicked back up. She swallowed.

“You’re breathing faster,” he said quietly.

“So are you.”

Silence. The air felt thick, pressing against her skin. Maya could hear the distant tick of the library clock, the rustle of pages from some far-off corner. Her hand rested beside his on the table, close enough that their pinkies touched. Neither moved away.

She traced the edge of the book’s spine with her thumb, watching the small movement instead of looking at him. “We should probably finish the chapter.”

“We should,” he agreed, but didn’t reach for the page. Instead, his finger brushed hers—once, then again, a slow slide of skin that made her stomach tighten. Maya’s lips parted on a sound she didn’t quite make.

The overhead light flickered again, then steadied. Somewhere, Madam Pince cleared her throat. The spell broke. Maya pulled her hand back, curling it into a fist on her lap. Gareth exhaled through his nose and flipped to the next section, but his knuckles were white where he gripped the edge of the book.

They read in silence after that, shoulders touching, knees aligned beneath the table. Every few lines, their hands would brush as they turned a page, and each time, the contact lingered a fraction longer.

The portrait of the pear had barely stopped swinging when Maya slipped through, stomach growling. The kitchens were warm, copper pots gleaming in the low firelight. She’d come for toast, maybe some pumpkin juice—anything to quiet the buzzing in her head after six straight hours of dueling drills. The house-elves were asleep; only the soft clink of cooling metal disturbed the quiet.

She rounded the corner to the long prep table and stopped.

Gareth stood at the opposite end, sleeves rolled to the elbow, cutting a thick slice from a fresh treacle tart. His dark hair fell across his forehead; the fire caught the faint sheen of sweat at his throat from practice. He hadn’t noticed her yet, and for a moment Maya let herself look. The line of his forearm flexed as he set down the knife. The Slytherin crest on his chest pocket was half-unbuttoned, the green silk beneath showing.

He lifted the slice, took a bite, eyes closing for a second of pure relief. When he opened them, she was still standing there.

Neither spoke. Maya crossed to the table, lifted a second plate. The tart was still warm; golden syrup clung to the blade. She served herself an identical wedge, slid onto the bench opposite him. Their knees almost touched under the table.

He chewed slowly, watching her. “Couldn’t sleep?”

“Hungry.” She forked a corner, let the sweetness flood her tongue. “You?”

“Same.” His voice was rough from disuse. He took another bite, licked a trace of syrup from the corner of his mouth. Maya’s gaze followed the movement before she caught herself.

They ate in silence, the scrape of forks the only sound. The treacle was heavy, comforting. When she finished, Maya rested her elbows on the table, chin in her hands. Gareth pushed his empty plate aside and leaned forward, forearms braced.

“That last combination you used today,” he said. “The feint into the tripping jinx. Smart.”

She lifted one shoulder. “You nearly had me with the shield reversal. My wrist’s still numb.” She rotated it, the joint aching.

He reached across without asking, fingers circling her wrist, thumb pressing into the tendon. The touch was clinical—at first. Then his hand stilled, thumb stroking once along the sensitive skin beneath her palm. Maya’s breath caught.

“Better?” he asked.

She nodded, not trusting her voice. The kitchen fire popped; sparks drifted up the chimney. Gareth’s thumb moved again, tracing the faint blue vein. She could feel her pulse under his touch, fast and unsteady.

“Your form’s cleaner than mine,” he admitted quietly. “I rely on power. You’re precise.”

“Precision doesn’t help when someone’s blasting the platform out from under you.” She smiled, small and tired. “I watched your last match. You don’t hesitate.”

He looked down at their joined hands. “I used to. Before.”

Before the tournament, before the rivalry, before whatever this was. Maya understood. She turned her wrist in his grip until their fingers aligned, palm to palm. The heat of him soaked into her skin.

“I hate that we’re good at this,” she said.

“Dueling?”

“Wanting to win.” She swallowed. “Wanting—” She stopped, cheeks warming.

Gareth’s fingers tightened. “Yeah,” he said. “Me too.”

The space between them had shrunk. She wasn’t sure who moved first—maybe both. His knee brushed hers again, stayed there. Maya could smell the treacle on his breath, the faint scent of cedar from his robes. Her heart beat so loudly she was certain he heard it.

He reached with his free hand, pushed a stray curl behind her ear. The pad of his thumb lingered at her temple, traced the shell of her ear. Maya’s eyelids fluttered.

“Maya,” he said, low.

She leaned in, just enough that their foreheads almost touched. “This is a terrible idea.”

“Probably.” His thumb brushed her cheekbone. “Still here.”

She exhaled, shaky. “So am I.”

Gareth’s hand was still cupping her cheek when he spoke again. “My father’s already picked my N.E.W.T. schedule. Ancient Runes, Arithmancy, Advanced Potions. No electives.” His thumb stopped moving. “Said anything less than seven O’s brings shame to the family crest.”

Maya’s stomach twisted. “That’s insane.”

He gave a short, humorless laugh. “He sent a howler last week reminding me the Selwyn line hasn’t lost a tournament in three generations.” His fingers dropped to the table, tracing a pattern in spilled sugar. “If I lose to a muggle-born, he’ll consider it treason.”

The words hung between them. Maya felt the familiar burn of inadequacy rise in her throat. “My mum thinks Hogwarts is some fancy boarding school. She doesn’t know I’m fighting for my life in here.” She picked at a loose thread on her sleeve. “Last summer she asked why I couldn’t just take normal classes like her friend’s kid at Eton.”

Gareth’s head snapped up. “You told her?”

“About the dueling? No.” Maya’s voice cracked. “About any of it. How do you explain to someone who still calls it ‘stick waving’ that I’m practicing hexes that could kill me if I screw up?” She met his eyes. “Sometimes I think the Sorting Hat made a mistake. Like maybe I’m not brave enough to be here.”

“You’re the bravest person I know,” he said quietly. “You walked into Slytherin territory to practice. You faced down half the school calling you mudblood last year and still outscored me in Charms.” His hand found hers again. “My bravery’s inherited. Yours is earned.”

The fire had burned lower, casting long shadows across his face. Maya could see the exhaustion in the set of his shoulders, the way his dark hair stuck to his forehead. “What happens if you win?” she asked.

“Then I get to choose my own path. Maybe curse-breaking. Maybe teaching.” His thumb stroked her knuckles. “What about you?”

“I want to work in magical law. Prove we belong here. Not just survive, but thrive.” She squeezed his fingers. “But tonight, I just want to eat treacle tart and pretend the world isn’t watching.”

They shifted closer on the bench until their thighs pressed together. Gareth’s head dropped to rest against her temple. She could feel the steady rhythm of his breathing, the way his pulse matched hers.

“My mother keeps sending me articles about ‘appropriate company’,” he murmured. “Pure-blood girls from old families. None of them would understand why I’m here at three AM with sugar on my chin.”

Maya reached up, wiped a sticky spot from his jaw with her thumb. “Your chin’s safe with me.”

He turned his face into her palm, lips brushing her wrist. The touch was feather-light but sent electricity shooting up her arm. When he spoke again, his breath was warm against her skin. “I’m tired of carrying their expectations. Tired of pretending I don’t care who wins tomorrow.”

“So don’t pretend,” Maya whispered. “We both know what we want.”

“What do you want?” His voice was rough.

She looked at their joined hands, at the way his fingers threaded perfectly between hers. “This. Right now. Just us.”

Gareth’s other arm came around her waist, pulling her flush against his side. She tucked her head under his chin, feeling the steady thump of his heart against her cheek. They stayed like that as the fire died to embers, the empty plates between them, the weight of their houses and histories pressing down but not quite touching them here in the warm quiet of the kitchens.