The grudging truce born in the dungeons did not extend to the Great Hall. For the last six years, Gareth had actively avoided looking toward the Gryffindor table, keeping his attention fixed on his fellow Slytherins. He told himself it was because he couldn’t stand the sight of her, sitting there amidst her loud, boorish housemates. But if he were honest, it was because the memory of standing beside her was constantly too distinct, even after six years of proximity. The scent of citrus, the heat of her arm against his, the unnerving competence in her dark eyes—it was a distraction he couldn’t afford. He was a Malfoy. He did not get distracted by muggle-borns, no matter how infuriatingly adept they were at brewing.

The tension broke during breakfast on Friday. Dumbledore rose from his seat at the head table, his voice magically amplified to fill the vast hall, silencing the chatter of hundreds of students.

“Ahem. Your attention, please,” the Headmaster began, his eyes twinkling. “It gives me great pleasure to announce the return of a beloved Hogwarts tradition. This year, we will be hosting the annual Hogwarts Duelling Tournament!”

A wave of excited murmurs swept through the hall. Gareth’s head snapped up, his breakfast forgotten. His fork clattered against his plate. This was it. This was the true test. Potions was a science, an art form, but duelling… duelling was about power. It was about instinct, nerve, and the will to dominate. It was the purest expression of magical strength.

“The tournament is open to all students from fourth year and above,” Dumbledore continued. “A sign-up sheet will be posted in the Entrance Hall. The first round will commence in two weeks’ time. May the most skilled witch or wizard win!”

As Dumbledore sat down, the hall erupted. Gareth felt a cold, sharp thrill cut through him. He could feel the eyes of his housemates on him. They expected him to enter. They expected him to win. It was his birthright. He would dismantle his opponents with cold, elegant precision, reminding everyone of the power inherent in his bloodline. He pushed his chair back, his movements sharp and decisive.

Across the hall, Maya felt a similar surge, but hers was a white-hot fire. She had spent her life proving herself, working twice as hard to master concepts that pure-bloods took for granted. She was not just a bookworm. She was not just ‘bright for a muggle-born’. She had power thrumming under her skin, a fierce, creative magic that was tired of being confined to essays and exams. The Duelling Tournament was a stage, and she intended to command it. She would show them all—the sneering Slytherins, the condescending pure-bloods, even the well-meaning Gryffindors who praised her diligence but underestimated her fire.

She stood, ignoring the excited chatter of her friends. Her gaze scanned the hall, sweeping past the other tables until it landed on the Slytherins. He was already on his feet, his silver-blond hair catching the light from the enchanted ceiling. For a heartbeat, their eyes met across the cavernous space. The air between them seemed to hum, charged with the same electrifying ambition. There was no animosity in the look, not this time. It was something clearer, sharper. It was a challenge.

Without a word, Gareth turned and strode out of the Great Hall, his black robes billowing behind him. A moment later, Maya followed.

The sign-up sheet was already tacked to the stone wall beside the main staircase, a long roll of fresh parchment with a quill and inkpot floating beside it. A small crowd was already gathering, but they parted instinctively as Gareth approached. He took the quill, the feather cool against his fingers, and wrote his name in a clean, sharp script. Gareth Malfoy. The letters were a declaration.

He felt a presence at his shoulder and knew, without turning, who it was. The scent of citrus and soap reached him again, a faint but unmistakable trace. He stepped back from the parchment, turning slowly.

Maya stood there, her chin high, her dark eyes fixed on the sheet. She didn't look at him. She simply took the quill from the air where he had left it. Her own signature was bold and decisive, the ink a stark black against the cream of the parchment. Maya Vance. Her name sat just below his, an immediate and direct answer to his challenge.

She finally lifted her gaze to meet his. The crowd around them seemed to fade away, the noise of the Entrance Hall reduced to a dull hum. There was only the space between them, thick with unspoken promises of hexes and shields, of a rivalry that had just found its perfect arena. He gave a slow, deliberate nod, a silent acknowledgment of the battle to come. She answered with the barest tilt of her head, her expression one of fierce, unyielding resolve. The fight was on.

The next week was a blur of frantic energy. Maya spent every spare moment in the library, her nose buried in books on duelling theory and defensive magic. She practiced wand movements until her wrist ached, whispering incantations in empty classrooms between lessons. Sleep became a luxury she couldn't afford; her mind was a constant whirl of strategy, a chess match of hexes and counter-curses played out against a faceless opponent who, in her mind's eye, always had silver-blond hair and a condescending smirk.

One night, long after the Gryffindor common room had fallen silent, she gave up on trying to sleep. The need to practice, to do something, was a physical itch under her skin. Throwing her robes on over her pajamas, she crept out from behind the Fat Lady's portrait, her wand clutched in her hand. The castle was quiet, the corridors cast in long, deep shadows broken by shafts of moonlight. She intended to find an unused classroom, but an unfamiliar restlessness pulled her toward the third floor, a section of the castle she rarely visited.

It was there she heard it—a sharp crack that echoed in the stone passage, followed by the hiss of a spell dissipating against a wall. It wasn't the sound of a simple disarming charm. It was something faster, meaner. Her curiosity overriding her caution, Maya moved silently toward the sound, her soft-soled slippers making no noise on the flagstones.

She found him at the end of a long, narrow corridor, a stretch of hallway flanked by dusty suits of armor. Gareth. He was illuminated by the stark white light of the moon pouring through a massive arched window. He wasn't just practicing; he was training with a frightening intensity. His body moved with a fluid, deadly grace that was nothing like the stiff posture he affected in class. A flick of his wrist, sharp and economical, sent a bolt of purple light slamming into the stone wall, leaving a blackened scorch mark. He didn’t speak a single word. It was all non-verbal, a display of control she knew was years beyond their curriculum.

Maya shrank back into the darkness of a doorway, her heart pounding. This wasn't the arrogant, sneering boy from Potions. This was someone else entirely. She watched as he cast a leg-locker curse, then a full body-bind, his movements precise, his concentration absolute. There was a desperation in his focus, a ferocious need to perfect every single motion. He was pushing himself to the very edge of his abilities. She recognized the look on his face, the hard set of his jaw, the sheer, unadulterated ambition burning in his eyes. It was the same fire she felt in her own gut, the same relentless drive that kept her awake at night.

He must have felt her gaze. He stopped mid-motion, his arm frozen in the air. For a second, he remained perfectly still, listening to the silence of the castle. Then he spun around, his wand leveled directly at the shadows where she stood. His eyes, pale grey in the moonlight, were cold and lethal.

"Who's there?" His voice was low, cutting through the quiet.

Maya knew she couldn't stay hidden. Taking a slow breath, she stepped out into the corridor, her hands held open and away from her body to show she meant no threat. She hadn’t even brought her wand.

His eyes narrowed when he saw it was her. His entire body went rigid, his wand arm tight with suspicion. She expected the usual sneer, the biting insult. Spying on me, Vance? Trying to steal my moves? But the words never came.

They simply stood there, twenty feet of stone floor separating them, the silence stretching into a tangible thing. He was breathing hard from the exertion, his chest rising and falling beneath his dark shirt. She could see the sheen of sweat on his forehead. In the stark moonlight, stripped of their school robes and their public personas, they were just two people, awake in the dead of night, consumed by the same all-encompassing goal.

He was seeing it too. She could tell by the way the aggressive line of his shoulders softened almost imperceptibly. He saw the exhaustion under her eyes, the same sleepless intensity that he surely saw in his own reflection. He saw a rival. Not a mudblood, not a Gryffindor know-it-all, but a genuine threat. An equal.

The unspoken truth of it hung between them, more powerful than any hex he could cast. They were the same. This burning need to win, to prove themselves, it was a language they both understood perfectly, without needing to speak a word.

Maya gave a slow, deliberate nod, a gesture of pure acknowledgment. I see you.

His wand lowered a fraction of an inch. He didn't nod back, but the piercing hostility in his gaze faded, replaced by something more complex, something guarded and grudging. After another long, silent moment, Maya turned and walked away, the sound of her own footsteps unnaturally loud in the corridor. She didn't look back, but she could feel his eyes on her until she rounded the corner, the image of his solitary, moonlit practice seared into her mind.

The encounter left an odd residue in its wake. Their bickering in Potions class lessened, replaced by a tense, hyper-aware silence. They worked with an unnerving efficiency, their hands moving in sync to chop ingredients and stir cauldrons, their shoulders occasionally brushing with an effect like a static shock. The unspoken acknowledgment in the moonlit corridor had changed the rules of their rivalry, though neither of them knew what the new rules were.

It was two days later, as they were leaving Defense Against the Dark Arts, that their paths collided again. Maya was arguing with a fellow Gryffindor about the correct application of a shield charm, her hands gesturing emphatically as she walked. Gareth was a few paces ahead, walking alone as he often did, his posture rigid.

“It’s about intent, not just the incantation!” Maya insisted, taking a step backward for emphasis.

At that exact moment, two second-year Hufflepuffs who had been hiding in an alcove chose to spring their trap. A thin, shimmering thread had been strung across the corridor, intended for a group of older Slytherins who had been tormenting them. A tiny, enchanted bell tinkled as Maya’s foot snagged the tripwire.

A split second of chaos erupted. A jet of thick, goopy pink substance shot from a wand tip propped on a stack of books. Simultaneously, the heavy oak door of a long-forgotten classroom next to them flew open. Gareth, turning at the sound of the bell, was directly in the path of the open door. He sidestepped instinctively, his reflexes honed by hours of duelling practice, and collided squarely with Maya, who was stumbling backward from the tripwire.

The momentum sent them both staggering through the open doorway. Before either of them could regain their footing, the door slammed shut with a deafening BOOM that echoed like a thunderclap. A heavy, metallic clank followed it, the sound of a lock, magically and irrevocably, sliding into place.

They were plunged into near-total darkness. The only light was a single, dusty spear of afternoon sun cutting through a high, grimy window. It illuminated a blizzard of disturbed dust motes. The air was thick with the smell of decay and old parchment.

For a moment, there was only the sound of their breathing, harsh and loud in the enclosed space. Maya was pressed against Gareth’s chest, his hands having shot out to steady her, his fingers gripping her upper arms tightly. She could feel the hard muscle beneath his robes, the surprising warmth of his body. Her own hands were flat against his stomach, and she could feel the tension in his abdomen.

He let go of her as if her skin had burned him, taking a hasty step back and nearly tripping over a broken stool. "What in Salazar's name was that?" he demanded, his voice sharp with anger.

"Me?" Maya shot back, her own irritation flaring as she brushed dust from her robes. "You're the one who ran into me! Did you set this up?"

"Don't be a fool, Vance," he snapped, his silhouette a stiff, furious line against the dim light. "Why on earth would I want to be locked in a filthy broom cupboard with you?"

The insult was automatic, but it lacked its usual conviction. They both fell silent, the absurdity of the situation sinking in. They could hear the faint sound of panicked giggling and then the patter of running feet fading down the corridor. A stupid prank gone wrong.

Gareth moved to the door first, his hand closing around the cold, iron handle. He pulled. It didn’t budge. He rattled it fiercely, the sound jarring in the quiet room. Nothing. "It's sealed."

"Let me try," Maya said, pushing past him. The space was so cramped her shoulder brushed against his arm. She ignored the jolt that went through her and pointed her wand at the keyhole. "Alohomora!"

A faint blue spark fizzled and died. There wasn't even a click.

Gareth made a sound of impatient disgust. "Amateur. Move." He nudged her aside, his own wand tip glowing faintly. He muttered a series of complex unlocking charms, his voice a low, frustrated murmur. Each spell dissolved harmlessly against the ancient wood. Finally, he lowered his wand, striking the door with the side of his fist in a rare display of temper. "It's no use. It's been magically reinforced. We're trapped."

The finality of his words hung in the dusty air between them. Trapped. The room was barely larger than a storage closet, filled with leaning towers of old desks, broken quills, and forgotten, cobweb-draped artifacts. The floor space was minimal, forcing them to stand uncomfortably close. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. The anger had evaporated, leaving behind a tense, awkward stillness. They were utterly alone, locked away from the rest of the castle, with nothing but the dust, the shadows, and each other.

“Well,” Maya said into the gloom, her voice startlingly clear. “This is a dignified turn of events.”

A beat of silence passed. She expected another sharp retort, but instead, the corner of Gareth’s mouth curved into a faint, humorless smile. It was a strange, unfamiliar sight on his face. “At least the company is so stimulating.”

The sarcasm was there, but it was dry, weary, not pointedly cruel. It was the kind of comment she might have made herself. A small, surprised laugh escaped her before she could stop it. “I’m sure you’d rather be trapped with a Blast-Ended Skrewt. Probably has better conversation.”

“Undoubtedly,” he agreed, his pale eyes finding hers in the gloom. He leaned his shoulder against the door, crossing his arms over his chest. The posture was defensive, but his anger seemed to have been replaced by a grudging resignation. “We’ll have to wait for a professor to do the rounds. Could be hours.”

“Wonderful,” Maya muttered. The single beam of light was beginning to fade as the sun sank lower, casting long, distorted shadows that made the junk-filled room feel even smaller. There was nowhere to sit except the dusty floor. With a sigh, she slid down the wall opposite him, drawing her knees up to her chest.

Gareth watched her for a moment before mirroring the action, settling against the door. The space was so narrow that their feet were only a few inches apart. She could smell the clean, sharp scent of his soap underneath the layers of dust and decay. It was an intimate detail that felt jarringly out of place.

They sat in silence for what felt like an eternity, the only sound the faint creaking of the old castle around them.

“Why were you practicing so late the other night?” The question left her mouth before she’d fully decided to ask it. It was too direct, too personal. She immediately braced for him to shut her down.

He didn’t answer right away. He stared at the floor between them, his long fingers tracing patterns in the thick dust on the floorboards. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, devoid of its usual arrogance. “The same reason you were out of bed wandering the corridors, I imagine. Because second best isn’t an option.”

The simple, honest admission hung between them. It wasn't about her, or Gryffindor, or their rivalry. It was a statement of fact about himself.

“My family,” he continued, his voice hardening slightly, “doesn’t produce runners-up. There is an expectation of… excellence.” He said the word with a bitter twist, as if it tasted foul. “To be a Malfoy is to be seen as perfect. Anything less is a failure.”

Maya thought of her own parents, so proud and baffled by their magical daughter. The pressure she felt was entirely her own, a desperate need to prove she belonged in this world that was still so new to her. “I have to be twice as good,” she heard herself say, the words quiet in the small space. “To prove I’m not a mistake. That I deserve to be here as much as anyone else.”

He looked up, and for the first time, she saw something in his eyes that wasn’t disdain or competitive fire. It was a flicker of comprehension. He understood. He, the pure-blood prince of Slytherin, understood the weight of her Muggle-born insecurity.

“A ridiculous notion,” he said, his tone flat. “Your grasp of non-verbal spell-casting is… adequate. Better than most of the dunderheads in our year.”

It was the most grudging, backhanded compliment she had ever received, and yet it sent a strange warmth spreading through her chest. It was an acknowledgment from the one person whose opinion she had, against all logic, started to care about.

The last of the sunlight vanished from the high window, plunging them into near-complete darkness. They were just two silhouettes now, two disembodied voices in the dark, bound by a stupid prank and an ambition that was as much a part of them as their own blood. The silence returned, but it was different now. It wasn't empty or hostile. It was filled with the things they had just admitted, a shared secret that settled in the space between them, changing everything.