The Rival's Pact

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 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.

His grudging praise hung in the air, more substantial than the dust motes that had danced in the final sliver of sunlight. The darkness that had fallen wasn't just an absence of light; it was a presence, pressing in on them, muffling the outside world and amplifying every small sound within the room. The faint rasp of her sleeve against the stone wall as she shifted. The soft exhale of his breath.

“My parents are dentists,” Maya said, the words coming out before she could think better of them. The confession felt small and mundane after his talk of legacy and perfection. “They have no concept of this world. When I got my Hogwarts letter, they thought it was a very elaborate prank. They’re proud, of course, but they’re… scared. I think they worry I’ll forget them, or that this world will change me into someone they don’t recognize.” She hugged her knees tighter. “Sometimes I worry about that, too.”

Gareth was silent for a long moment. She couldn’t see his expression at all now, only a vague, pale shape where his face was. She expected a sneer, a comment about the absurdity of Muggles.

“They should be scared,” he said instead, his voice a low murmur that seemed to vibrate in the tiny space. “This world… it changes everyone. It’s designed to. It sorts you, ranks you, tells you who to hate and who to align with before you even know yourself.” There was no arrogance in his tone now, only a profound weariness that sounded ancient. “My father had my entire life planned out before I was born. The right house, the right friends, the right marks. The right wife.” He stopped, a sharp intake of breath cutting the sentence short, as if he’d revealed more than he’d intended.

The air crackled with the admission. The right wife. It was a detail so personal, so far beyond the scope of their schoolyard rivalry, that Maya felt like an intruder for having heard it. She felt a sudden, sharp pang of something that was dangerously close to sympathy. Here he was, Gareth Malfoy, whose life she had imagined was one of effortless privilege, and he was just as trapped as she was, albeit in a gilded cage.

He shifted his weight, and the toe of his shoe brushed against her ankle. The contact was fleeting, accidental, but it sent a hot jolt straight up her leg. She flinched, pulling her feet back instinctively. In the blackness, her sudden movement seemed to amplify the tension.

“Sorry,” he muttered. His voice was rougher now.

“It’s fine,” she whispered. “There’s no room.”

There was no room at all. She was intensely aware of him, of his body just a few feet from hers. She could practically feel the heat of him across the small distance. She could picture the way his silver-blond hair fell across his forehead, the sharp line of his jaw, the cool grey of his eyes. The image was so clear in her mind it was as if he were illuminated by a bright light. The silence stretched again, but this time it was thick with a different kind of energy. It wasn’t awkwardness or hostility. It was awareness.

“Well,” Maya said, her voice a little too loud in an attempt to break the spell. “This has been a deeply therapeutic experience. Who needs a school counsellor when you have a dusty, locked closet?”

A low sound came from his direction. It took her a second to identify it as a quiet, genuine laugh. It was a startlingly pleasant sound. “Don’t let Slughorn hear you say that,” Gareth replied, a hint of his old dryness returning. “He’d start charging for the privilege.”

The shared joke was a release valve. The charged tension eased, replaced by the simple, shared misery of their situation. They were just two students, stuck and bored.

“I’m going to go mad if we just sit here in the dark,” Maya announced, pushing herself to her feet. Her legs were stiff. “There has to be something in here besides dust and despair.”

She took a tentative step forward, her hands outstretched, and immediately bumped into something hard and wooden. A desk. Her fingers grazed over a splintered surface, then found a small, cold brass knob. A drawer. An idea, foolish and reckless, began to form in her mind. It was better than sitting in the dark, thinking about things she shouldn’t be thinking about.

“What are you doing?” Gareth’s voice was sharp from the darkness, laced with suspicion.

“Exploring,” she shot back, her fingers closing around the small brass knob. She pulled. It was locked tight. “Give me a hand. Unless you’d rather count the cobwebs.”

She heard him move, a rustle of expensive fabric against the floor. He was beside her before she could register it, his presence a sudden, solid warmth at her shoulder. The clean scent of his soap was stronger now, mixed with something else, something uniquely him. She held her breath.

“Move,” he murmured, his voice low and close to her ear. A shiver traced its way down her spine. She shifted aside, giving him space. There was a soft click, the sound of a simple unlocking charm, and the drawer slid open with a protesting groan.

“Show off,” she muttered, but there was no heat in it.

He didn't respond. Instead, a small, brilliant ball of white light bloomed from his palm, hovering over the open drawer. It wasn’t from his wand; the light simply emanated from his hand, steady and silent. Maya stared, momentarily forgetting their purpose. It was a simple Lumos, but the casual, wandless control was anything but.

The light illuminated the contents of the drawer: a tarnished silver locket, a desiccated newt, several quills with frayed ends, and tucked in the back, a small, worn leather pouch. Gareth reached past her, his arm brushing against hers, and pulled it out. He loosened the drawstring and emptied the contents onto the dusty desktop.

Carved wooden figures, small and detailed, tumbled out. A wizard’s chess set.

“Well,” Gareth said, a flicker of interest in his voice. He nudged a snarling black knight with his finger. “It’s better than talking about our feelings.”

A challenge. She felt the familiar spark of competition rise within her. “You’re on, Malfoy,” she said, pulling a white pawn from the pile. “Don’t expect me to go easy on you.”

He gave a short, humourless laugh. “I would be disappointed if you did.”

They set up the pieces on the dusty surface of the desk, the small orb of light he’d conjured casting their moving hands in sharp relief. They had to lean in close, their heads nearly touching as they arranged the tiny, aggressive figures. The game began in a tense, focused silence. His moves were precise, calculated, and utterly ruthless. His black queen, a vicious-looking piece with a cruel sneer carved into her face, swept across the board and smashed her pawn to splinters.

“A bit aggressive, don’t you think?” Maya commented, sliding her bishop into a threatening position.

“It’s a game of strategy, not sentiment,” he replied, not looking up from the board. “A concept Gryffindors seem to struggle with.”

Her knight, a particularly brutish piece, leaped over a pawn and violently unseated his rook, dragging it from the board. “And Slytherins struggle with the concept of courage. Always hiding behind your defences.”

He looked up then, and the light from his palm caught the silver in his eyes. A ghost of a smirk played on his lips. “My defences seem to be holding up rather well.”

They continued like that for what felt like an hour, trading pieces and insults. The pile of shattered wooden soldiers grew on either side of the desk. But as the time wore on, the sharp edges of their rivalry began to dull. The insults lost their venom, becoming more like a familiar rhythm. The intense focus required by the game slowly gave way to an easier camaraderie.

When her castle bludgeoned his knight, he didn’t offer a cutting retort, but simply sighed. “I should have seen that coming. You’re surprisingly devious with your rooks.”

“I’ve had a good teacher in duplicity,” she said, gesturing vaguely in his direction with a small smile.

He actually chuckled, a low, unexpected sound. “Touché.”

He had her cornered, his queen and a bishop bearing down on her king. It was a clever trap, one she hadn’t anticipated. Instead of feeling the sting of defeat, she just felt a grudging admiration. She looked from the board to his face. He was watching her, his expression unreadable in the soft magical light. The game, their rivalry, the locked room—it all seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of them, huddled together in the dark.

“A stalemate, I think,” she said softly, nudging her king into the one safe square left, a move that offered no advantage but forestalled her demise. It trapped his pieces as much as it trapped hers.

Gareth stared at the board for a long moment, then slowly nodded, his gaze lifting to meet hers. “A stalemate,” he agreed. His voice was quiet, stripped of all its earlier sarcasm. He didn’t extinguish the light. He just held it there, steady between them, illuminating the deadlocked game that was a perfect reflection of themselves.

The orb of light flickered, and in its wavering glow, the shadows in the room seemed to deepen and stretch. A profound chill began to seep through the stone walls, a damp cold that had nothing to do with magic and everything to do with the late hour. The castle was settling into its deep, nightly silence, the distant sounds of life completely gone. It was just them and the dust and the cold.

Maya shivered, rubbing her arms. The movement seemed loud in the stillness. The stalemate on the board between them felt final, a conclusion to one part of the night. But the night wasn't over. Gareth didn’t extinguish the light in his palm. He just sat there, his gaze fixed on her, the soft light hollowing out the space under his cheekbones. The animosity was gone, the rivalry forgotten. He just looked… tired. And young.

The silence stretched, no longer a challenge but a shared space. It was his earlier confession that echoed in her mind. The right wife. It was a future he seemed to be walking towards with a grim sense of duty. She thought of her own future, a vast, terrifying unknown she was desperate to fill with purpose. They were opposites in circumstance, but maybe not in spirit.

“Gareth,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. He blinked slowly, as if her voice had pulled him back from a great distance. “What do you actually want? If your father wasn't a factor, if no one was watching. What would you choose?”

His expression hardened instantly. The open, weary look vanished, replaced by a guarded mask. His jaw tightened, and for a second, she thought he would throw an insult at her, something sharp and cruel to push her away. He looked away from her, towards the dark corners of the room where his light didn't reach. The muscles in his neck were rigid.

“That’s a foolish question,” he said, his voice clipped and cold. But it lacked its usual conviction. It was a flimsy shield, and she knew it.

“Is it?” she pressed gently, refusing to be deterred. “We’ve talked about what we’re afraid of. I’m afraid I don’t belong here. You’re afraid of… what? Being trapped?”

He let out a harsh, short breath that wasn't a laugh. He finally turned his head back, and his grey eyes were dark, swirling with something she couldn’t name. The magical light in his hand wavered again, casting his face in a stark, unforgiving glow.

“I’m afraid of being nothing,” he said, the words so low she barely caught them. The admission hung in the cold air, raw and exposed. “I’m afraid that if you strip away the name, the money, the heritage… there won’t be anything left. Just mediocrity. That all this pressure, all this expectation, is for someone who is completely and utterly ordinary.”

He spoke with a quiet, venomous self-loathing that stunned her into silence. This wasn't about being trapped by his family's expectations. This was a deeper, more personal terror. The fear that he was an imposter in his own life.

“My whole life,” he continued, his voice flat, devoid of emotion, “I’ve been told what a Malfoy is. Powerful. Influential. Exceptional. We don’t just exist, we reign. But what if I’m not? What if I peak here, at Hogwarts? A decent duellist, a good Potions student. What if that’s all I ever am? Another forgotten name on a dusty trophy. Another portrait in a long hall of men who were actually great. The thought of it… it’s worse than death. It’s oblivion.”

He finally extinguished the light. His palm closed into a fist, and the room was plunged back into absolute blackness. The sudden darkness was a shock, stealing her breath. It felt like he was hiding, shielding himself now that he had laid his deepest fear bare. She could hear his breathing, a little too quick, a little too rough, in the oppressive silence. He had never said those words aloud to anyone. She knew it with a certainty that settled deep in her bones. And he had said them to her.

She didn’t offer him pity. The darkness was a strange comfort, a cloak for the truth he had just offered her. She could feel the weight of his words in the small space between them, heavy and real. He had given her his greatest weakness, a secret he had likely never even admitted to himself before this moment. And in the oppressive blackness of the unused classroom, she understood. His fear of mediocrity was just the other side of her fear of not belonging. Both were terrors of not being enough.

The silence was absolute for a long moment, broken only by the sound of his breathing, which was still too sharp. She didn’t move, didn’t reach for him. She just let the confession settle.

“Thank you,” she finally whispered into the void. “For telling me.”

His reply was a ragged exhale. Not of relief, but of sheer exhaustion.

The cold, which had been a minor annoyance, was now becoming a genuine problem. It sank into her bones, making her teeth chatter. A violent shiver wracked her body, and she couldn't suppress the small sound of discomfort that escaped her.

In the darkness, she heard a soft rustle of fabric. A moment later, a tiny, faint light, no bigger than a snitch, appeared in the space where his hand had been. It was weaker this time, trembling slightly, as if it took a great deal of effort to maintain. His face was pale in its glow, his eyes shadowed with fatigue.

“We need to find something,” he said, his voice low and rough. “Or we’ll be frozen solid by morning.”

He stood, his movements stiff, and began to pace the small clear area of the room. Maya got up and started searching on the other side. They moved in a shared, silent purpose. She ran her hands over dusty shelves, finding nothing but crumbling books and empty glass jars. He was methodically opening and closing the doors of a tall, narrow wardrobe. It yielded only moth-eaten robes and a smell of decay.

Finally, near the back wall, almost hidden behind a stack of broken desks, was a large, low trunk bound with iron straps. It wasn’t locked. Gareth lifted the heavy lid, the hinges groaning in protest. A thick cloud of dust billowed out, making them both cough.

Inside, folded in a neat but compressed square, was a massive, heavy woven hanging. It depicted a faded battle between wizards and goblins, its colours muted by a century of darkness. It was thick, made of heavy wool, and smelled of dust and time.

“This will have to do,” he said, his voice flat. He reached in and, with a grunt of effort, pulled the heavy fabric from the trunk. He shook it out, another cloud of dust filling the air around them.

He laid it on the clearest patch of floor, spreading it out like a thick, makeshift bed. Then he looked at her, a question in his tired eyes. There was a line here, a boundary they had never even considered approaching, and they were about to cross it without a word.

He lay down first, on his side, his back to her. It was both an invitation and a concession, a way of offering the space without having to face her. Maya hesitated for only a second before lying down behind him, her body carefully separated from his by a few inches of cold air. She reached up and pulled the heavy, scratchy fabric over them both, tucking it around their shoulders.

The enclosure was immediate, trapping their shared body heat. But the space was small. Inevitably, her knees brushed against the back of his. She could feel the solid line of his spine through their robes. The air she breathed was filled with the scent of him—soap and something uniquely his, clean and sharp—mingled with the ancient dust of the hanging. She lay perfectly still, her heart hammering against her

ribs, and for a terrifying, suspended moment, she thought he could feel it too. She held her breath, waiting for him to pull away, to recoil from the accidental intimacy. Instead, his body seemed to relax into the shared warmth, a barely perceptible softening of the rigid line of his back. The tension slowly drained out of him, replaced by the heavy, even rhythm of sleep. Against all odds, surrounded by cold stone and a century of dust, Maya drifted off, lulled by the steady beat of his breathing just inches from her own.

A sudden, piercing squeak of alarm jolted her awake.

Light, bright and intrusive, flooded her eyes. She flinched, throwing an arm over her face. A tiny, whiskered man was staring down at them, his eyes wide as saucers behind his spectacles. Professor Flitwick.

“Good heavens!” he chirped, his voice a mixture of shock and profound bewilderment.

The reality of the situation crashed down on Maya with the force of a physical blow. She was tangled in a dusty tapestry with Gareth Malfoy. His back was pressed against her front, her arm was draped over his side, and the heat radiating from his body was the only reason she wasn’t frozen. She scrambled backwards so fast she hit her head against the stone floor, a dull thud echoing in the sudden, horrified silence.

Gareth was awake instantly, moving with a fluid grace that was infuriating even now. He sat up, pushing his hair out of his eyes, his face a perfect, unreadable mask. He took in the sight of Professor Flitwick, the open trunk, and Maya sprawled on the floor, and a muscle in his jaw tightened.

“Professor,” he said, his voice smooth as glass, betraying none of the exhaustion or vulnerability from the night before. “We seem to have found ourselves in a predicament.”

Flitwick simply pointed a trembling finger towards the door, which now stood wide open. “The castle has been in an uproar. Miss Vance, Mr. Malfoy, I suggest you both return to your common rooms. Immediately.”

The walk back was a gauntlet of shame. The castle was awake now, students milling in the corridors on their way to the Great Hall for breakfast. They saw them. A pair of seventh-year Hufflepuffs stopped dead, their mouths falling open. A gaggle of Ravenclaw girls began whispering furiously behind their hands as they passed. Maya and Gareth walked on opposite sides of the wide corridor, a chasm of stone between them, but it did nothing to stop the stares. Every glance felt like a physical touch, an accusation. She could feel the story writing itself in the minds of everyone who saw them: the Gryffindor mudblood and the Slytherin heir, emerging together from a locked room in the early morning, looking dishevelled and exhausted.

The speculation was a poison, and it spread faster than Fiendfyre. By the time Maya reached the portrait of the Fat Lady, the whispers had become a roar that she could almost physically hear. The moment she stepped into the Gryffindor common room, she was surrounded.

“Maya! Where have you been?” It was her friend, Sarah, her face pinched with worry and something else… suspicion. “We were about to get a professor. People are saying… they’re saying you were with Malfoy.”

The last word was uttered like a curse. The knot of Gryffindors around her stared, their expressions ranging from disbelief to outright disgust.

“It was a prank,” Maya said, her voice sounding weak and defensive even to her own ears. “Someone locked us in.”

“Locked you in all night?” another boy, a chaser on the Quidditch team, scoffed. “With him?”

The implication was clear and ugly. She was either a traitor or a slut. There was no other explanation in their minds. The warmth and camaraderie of her own house felt suddenly cold and conditional.

She pushed through them and fled to her dormitory, the whispers following her up the stairs. She changed her robes, her hands shaking, the memory of Gareth’s quiet confession feeling like a dream from another lifetime. When she descended to the Great Hall, the noise level visibly dipped as she entered. She could feel hundreds of eyes on her. Across the hall, she saw him. Gareth was seated at the Slytherin table, his posture ramrod straight, his face carved from ice. Pansy Parkinson was leaning into him, her expression venomous as she undoubtedly interrogated him. His grey eyes lifted, catching hers from across the expanse. The look they exchanged was fraught with a new, shared panic. They were isolated, surrounded by their own armies who now viewed them as the enemy.

The unspoken agreement passed between them in that single, desperate glance. They had to fix this. They had to restore the natural order of things.

He stood up. A hush fell over the Slytherin table. He began walking, not towards the exit, but directly towards her. Towards the Gryffindor table. A collective gasp rippled through the Hall. He stopped a few feet from where she sat, his shadow falling over her.

His voice was loud, laced with a familiar, cutting sneer that sliced through the silence. “Don’t get any ideas, Vance,” he spat, the word a calculated insult. “Last night was the most tedious, insufferable experience of my life. If I ever have to spend more than five minutes in your presence again, I’ll consider it a personal failure.”

The sting was real, a sharp jab to her heart, but she understood the necessity of it. This was a performance for the masses. She rose to her feet, her chair scraping loudly against the stone. She met his cold glare with one of her own, channeling every ounce of frustration and fear into manufactured rage.

“The feeling is mutual, Malfoy,” she shot back, her voice ringing with conviction. “I’d rather be locked in a room with the Whomping Willow. At least it has a more pleasant personality. Now get away from me before you stink up this entire side of the hall with your pure-blood arrogance.”

He let out a short, derisive laugh. “Don’t flatter yourself. No one wants to be near a filthy Mudblood anyway.”

The slur hit the air and hung there, ugly and potent. The Gryffindors around her bristled, but the tension in the hall began to dissipate, replaced by a low murmur of approval from the Slytherin side. The world was righting itself. The rivalry was back in place.

“Go back to your dungeon, Malfoy,” she said, her voice dripping with disdain.

He gave her one last look of utter contempt before turning on his heel and striding back to his table, where he was greeted with smirks and approving nods. Maya sank back into her seat, her body trembling. The show was over. The whispers had quieted. But as she stared down at her untouched plate, she felt a profound and aching hollowness. They had saved themselves from the rumors, but in doing so, they had been forced to publicly destroy the fragile, unspoken truth that had been born between them in the dark.

The dungeons felt colder than usual that afternoon. As Maya descended the stone steps towards the Potions classroom, she could feel the chill seeping through her robes, a damp cold that had nothing to do with the weather. It was the residue of the morning’s confrontation. She had played her part, thrown his insults back in his face, but the acid of his final word still burned in her memory. Mudblood. He had wielded it like a weapon, and she had let him, because they both knew it was the only way.

He was already at their table when she arrived, his back to the door, his shoulders set in a rigid line. He didn't turn as she slid onto the stool beside him. The space between them was electric, humming with everything that had happened and everything they couldn’t say. The other students filed in, casting curious glances their way, but their public feud in the Great Hall seemed to have satisfied the school’s need for drama. The whispers died down.

“Today,” Slughorn began, his voice booming cheerfully, “we will be brewing the Draught of Peace! A notoriously tricky concoction, so you’ll need to work in perfect harmony with your partner. The instructions are on the board. Begin!”

Perfect harmony. Maya nearly laughed. She turned to the ingredients table, but Gareth was already there, his movements swift and economical. He returned with a tray, setting it down between them with a deliberate clatter.

“Try not to melt the cauldron this time, Vance,” he said, his voice carrying just enough for the Slytherins at the next table to hear. “I’m sure your Gryffindor enthusiasm is difficult to contain, but this potion requires a delicate touch.”

“Don’t worry, Malfoy,” she retorted, not missing a beat as she began crushing moonstone with a pestle. “I’ll be sure to handle all the delicate parts. You just focus on stirring. It seems to be the one thing you can do without the help of your father’s influence.”

A few of his housemates snickered. He shot her a look of pure irritation, but as she glanced up, she saw it. Just for a second, the corner of his mouth quirked upwards in a smirk so fleeting she almost thought she’d imagined it. It was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by a mask of aristocratic disdain.

They fell into a rhythm, a silent, efficient dance they had perfected over the past months. Their bickering became a low, steady murmur, a soundtrack to their work that kept up appearances. He needed powdered unicorn horn; she pushed the jar towards him without being asked. She reached for the hellebore just as he was about to slice it, and their hands brushed.

The contact was brief, barely a whisper of skin against skin, but a jolt went through her, sharp and sudden. It was nothing. It was an accident. But then his fingers curled slightly, a faint pressure against hers, before he pulled away. She kept her eyes fixed on the mortar, her heart beginning to beat a little too fast. Her own body was betraying her, responding to a touch that was supposed to mean nothing.

The potion needed to simmer, and she leaned forward to check the colour, her hair falling over her shoulder. He moved behind her, his body a solid wall of heat at her back. He was so close she could feel the warmth radiating from his chest through the fabric of her robes.

“It needs to be a turquoise shimmer, not a murky blue,” he murmured, his voice low, pitched only for her to hear. His breath was warm against the shell of her ear, sending a shiver down her spine that had nothing to do with the dungeon’s chill. She could smell the clean, sharp scent of his soap. He wasn’t looking at the cauldron. She knew, without turning, that he was looking at her.

“I know what I’m doing,” she whispered back, her voice tight.

“I know you do,” he said, and the words were soft, devoid of any malice. They were a simple statement of fact. An admission.

He leaned away, and the sudden loss of his heat left her feeling cold. She straightened up, her cheeks flushed, and risked a glance at him. He was watching her, his grey eyes intense. The public sneer was gone, and in its place was the boy from the dark classroom, the one who was afraid of mediocrity, the one whose breathing had lulled her to sleep. A slow, knowing smile touched his lips, a private acknowledgment that this was all a game, and she was his only teammate.

She felt a reluctant smile pull at her own mouth in response. They were partners in this charade, bound by a secret that was more intimate than any rumor their classmates could conjure. He gave a slight nod, a silent confirmation, before his expression hardened again as Pansy Parkinson looked their way. The performance was back on, but the space between them had changed forever. It was no longer a battleground, but a stage for a play only they understood.

The Duelling Tournament began two weeks later. The Great Hall had been transformed, the long house tables vanished and replaced with a single, raised platform in the center of the room. The air was thick with excitement and the crackle of nervous energy. Maya sat wedged between two acquatinances in the Gryffindor stands, but her attention was fixed on the opposite side of the hall, where a sea of green and silver watched with predatory stillness.

The first few matches were a blur of clumsy hexes and mismatched opponents. Then, the announcer called his name. “Gareth Malfoy of Slytherin versus Malik Forstrom of Hufflepuff.”

A polite cheer went up for Malik, but a confident, almost arrogant roar erupted from the Slytherin section. Gareth strode onto the platform, his back straight, his movements fluid and assured. He wore his ambition like a second set of robes. He bowed, a curt, formal dip of his head that was more of a challenge than a courtesy.

As the duel began, Maya leaned forward, her elbows on her knees. She saw him in a way she never had before. His spell-work was viciously efficient. There were no wasted gestures, no grandstanding. His wrist snapped, a flick of motion so economical it was almost invisible, sending a stunning spell directly at Malik's chest. The Hufflepuff barely managed to erect a shield charm in time. Gareth didn’t pause; he moved, circling, his grey eyes narrowed in intense concentration. A leg-locker jinx followed, then a disarming charm. Each spell was precise, perfectly aimed, relentless.

This wasn't just arrogance. This was desperation. The desperate, clawing need to be more than just his name, a fear he had laid bare for her in the dark. Every perfectly executed spell was a testament to the hours he must spend practicing, pushing himself. He wasn’t just trying to win; he was trying to prove he was worthy, to silence the voice in his head that whispered of mediocrity. He disarmed Malik with a final, powerful Expelliarmus, sending the Hufflepuff’s wand clattering across the platform. The match was over in less than a minute.

The Slytherins screamed their approval. Gareth gave the crowd a brief, cool nod, his face an impassive mask. But as he turned to leave the platform, his eyes swept the stands and, for a fraction of a second, they met hers. There was no smirk, no triumph. Just a flicker of something raw and questioning before he disappeared back into the throng of his housemates.

An hour later, her own name was called. “Maya Vance of Gryffindor versus Flora Carrow of Slytherin.”

Ron clapped her on the back. “Go on, Maya! Show her what a Gryffindor can do!”

She walked towards the platform, her heart hammering against her ribs. The jeers from the Slytherin section were loud, but she blocked them out. As she stepped into the center of the hall, she could feel his gaze on her, a physical weight from across the crowded room. She knew he was watching her with that same new, critical eye. He wasn’t just seeing the Mudblood rival. He was seeing the girl who was terrified of not belonging, the girl whose ambition burned just as fiercely as his own.

She faced Flora Carrow, whose sneer was a poor imitation of Gareth’s. The duel began. Maya was not as ruthlessly aggressive as he had been. Her style was different. It was clever, adaptive. She used a bat-bogey hex that sent Flora shrieking and stumbling, then followed it with a tickling charm that made the Slytherin girl’s shield waiver. She anticipated, she deflected, she used her opponent’s momentum against her. It was a calculated, intelligent victory. She ended the duel with a simple but perfectly timed disarming spell.

The Gryffindor stands erupted. Amid the roar of her own house, she looked for him. He was standing near the back of the Slytherin section, leaning against a stone pillar, arms crossed over his chest. He wasn’t cheering or jeering. He was just watching her, his expression unreadable. As their eyes met, he gave a single, almost imperceptible nod. It wasn’t praise. It was acknowledgment. Recognition. He had seen her drive, her hunger to prove herself, and he understood it. In that silent, shared moment, the animosity of the crowd and the rivalry of their houses melted away, leaving only the two of them, equals standing on opposite sides of a battlefield they had only just begun to navigate together.

Later that night, sleep was an impossibility. The adrenaline from the duel still sang in her veins, a high-pitched thrumming beneath her skin. The Gryffindor common room was still buzzing with celebration, but the noise felt grating, distant. She needed quiet. She needed air.

Slipping out from behind the Fat Lady’s portrait, Maya moved through the silent corridors of the castle. The moonlight slanted through the high arched windows, casting long, distorted shadows on the stone floor. She walked without a destination, her mind replaying her match, Flora Carrow’s wand skittering across the platform. And then, unbidden, her mind replayed his. The brutal efficiency. The cold focus in his eyes. The way he had looked at her across the hall. Acknowledgment.

She rounded a corner into a narrow, unused passage on the fourth floor and stopped dead. A figure stood half-hidden in the deep shadow of a tapestry depicting goblin wars, so still she almost hadn't seen him.

Gareth.

Her heart leaped into her throat. He stepped out of the darkness, his silver-blond hair catching the faint moonlight. They stood twenty feet apart, the silence stretching between them, thick and heavy. The air crackled with the same tension as the moments before a duel began. She expected an insult, a sneer, some cutting remark about her being out after curfew.

Instead, his voice was quiet, low, carrying easily in the stillness. "Impressive spell-work."

The words hung in the air, simple and unadorned. It wasn't a compliment so much as a statement of fact, delivered with the same quiet intensity he’d shown in the locked classroom. All the fight went out of her, replaced by a strange, fluttering warmth in her chest.

A small, genuine smile touched her lips before she could stop it. "You too," she replied, her voice barely a whisper.

He didn't leave. He didn’t mock her smile. He just watched her, his grey eyes searching her face in the dim light. Then he took a step forward, and another. He stopped just an arm’s length away, close enough that she could see the dark ring around his irises, close enough to smell the cold night air clinging to his robes.

"The bat-bogey hex," he said, his mouth twitching with the ghost of a smile. "Crude, but effective. Very Gryffindor."

"Your disarming charm was nearly a severing charm," she countered, her own voice gaining a bit of strength. "Vicious. Very Slytherin."

"I wasn't trying to be gentle," he murmured, his gaze dropping to her mouth. The air between them grew thin, charged. "I was trying to win."

"So was I."

He closed the remaining space between them in a single, silent step. He was so close now she had to tilt her head back to look at him. He lifted a hand, and she flinched, expecting him to push her away. Instead, his fingers brushed against her jaw, his thumb stroking the curve of her cheekbone. His touch was hesitant, yet impossibly gentle.

"Malfoy," she breathed, a warning that had no conviction.

"Gareth," he corrected, his voice rough. And then his head descended and his lips were on hers.

It wasn't a hard or demanding kiss. It was soft, searching, a question. His lips were cool and firm, moving against hers with a tentative pressure. For a heartbeat, she was frozen, her mind blank with shock. Then a fire ignited deep in her belly, a rushing heat that spread through her limbs and made her knees feel weak. She let out a soft sound and her lips parted, answering his question.

The sound broke his restraint. His other hand came up to cup the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her hair as he tilted her head back, deepening the kiss. His tongue swept into her mouth, hot and sure, and she met it with her own. The taste of him was clean, of mint and something uniquely his. It was no longer a question. It was an answer, a confession. All the unspoken tension from Potions class, all the charged glances and secret smiles, all the animosity and grudging respect poured into the kiss.

He walked her backward until her back hit the cold, unforgiving stone of the corridor wall. The shock of the cold against her shoulder blades made her gasp against his mouth. He used the opportunity to press his body fully against hers, his hips slotting against her own. He was hard and lean, all muscle and bone. She could feel the thick ridge of his erection pressing against her stomach through the layers of their robes and trousers, a direct, undeniable statement of his desire. A thrill, sharp and illicit, shot through her.

Her hands, which had been pressed flat against his chest, slid upward, curling into the fabric of his robes, then higher, into the soft hair at the nape of his neck. She pulled him closer, wanting more. His mouth left hers to travel down her jaw, his lips and teeth tracing a hot path along the sensitive skin of her throat. She arched into him, her head falling back against the stone, giving him better access. A low groan vibrated in his chest, and his hand slid from her hair, down her back, settling on the curve of her backside. He squeezed, pulling her hips tighter against his, and she whimpered at the friction, the delicious pressure.

His hand moved again, sliding around her waist and under the hem of her sweater. His fingers, cold at first, found the bare skin of her stomach. The contact was electric. She sucked in a breath as his palm flattened against her, his thumb stroking just beneath the band of her bra. He moved higher, his hand covering her breast, his thumb brushing over the nipple through the thin cotton. It beaded instantly, a tight point of pleasure. He broke the kiss, both of them breathing heavily, their foreheads resting against each other. His grey eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, reflecting the sliver of moonlight from the window. The world had narrowed to this corridor, to the feel of his body against hers, his hand on her breast, his ragged breath mingling with her own.

The sound of a distant, echoing footstep down the hall shattered the moment. They sprang apart as if electrocuted, a chasm of cold air rushing between them. Gareth took a half-step back, his hand falling from her breast, his face a mask of alarm that quickly hardened into his familiar, guarded expression. He looked past her, down the dark corridor, listening. Her heart was a frantic drum against her ribs, her skin tingling where his hand had been. The footsteps faded, moving away from them, but the spell was irrevocably broken.

He looked back at her, his grey eyes turbulent. For a moment, she thought he would say something—apologize, or sneer, or demand to know what that was. He did none of those things. He gave her one last, inscrutable look, a look that held the heat of the last few minutes and the cold reality of their situation, then turned without a word and melted back into the shadows from which he had emerged. She was left alone, her back pressed against the cold stone, her body thrumming with an unfulfilled, aching need.

The days that followed were a special kind of hell. The whispers about them being found in the locked classroom had not died down; they had mutated, grown more lurid with each retelling. In the Gryffindor common room, she was subjected to a constant barrage of teasing from Ron and the Weasley twins, who found the entire situation hilarious. Hermione, on the other hand, kept giving her worried, questioning looks, which were almost worse. Maya found herself snapping at everyone, retreating into a prickly silence that only seemed to confirm their suspicions. She felt cornered, exposed. The memory of Gareth’s kiss, of his body pressed against hers in the corridor, was a secret fire she had to constantly conceal. It was a memory she replayed every night in the privacy of her four-poster bed, her own hand tracing the path his had taken, her cheeks burning in the darkness.

She needed to escape. The boisterous warmth of the Gryffindor tower felt suffocating tonight. After feigning a headache, she slipped out of the common room and began to climb. She passed the library, the Charms corridor, and the spiraling staircase to the Divination classroom, heading for the one place she knew would be empty and silent: the Astronomy Tower.

The air grew colder as she ascended the final, tight spiral staircase. When she pushed open the heavy door at the top, a blast of crisp night air hit her face, chasing away the stuffy heat of the castle. The view was breathtaking. The sky was a vast expanse of black velvet, punctured by the brilliant, cold light of a million stars. The grounds of Hogwarts were spread out below, a dark, sleeping landscape. For a moment, there was only the sound of the wind whistling around the battlements, and she felt the tension in her shoulders begin to ease.

Then she saw him.

He was on the far side of the parapet, leaning over a wide roll of parchment that was weighted down at the corners with stones. A brass telescope stood beside him, aimed at the heavens. He hadn't heard her. His head was bent in concentration, a quill clutched in his hand as he made a delicate notation on the chart. The wind ruffled his pale hair, and the starlight cast his sharp features in silver and shadow. He looked completely absorbed, a solitary figure against the endless night sky. It was a startlingly peaceful image, so different from the aggressive duellist or the tense boy in the corridor.

Her foot scuffed against the stone floor, and the small sound was loud in the silence. His head snapped up. His eyes, silver in the starlight, widened in surprise when he saw her. A flicker of something unguarded crossed his face—the memory of their last meeting, raw and immediate—before his expression settled into a familiar, neutral mask. He straightened up slowly, his posture wary.

The silence stretched between them, filled with the whistling wind and everything left unsaid in the corridor. She clutched her arms, suddenly feeling the cold more acutely.

"Vance," he said finally. His voice was low, devoid of its usual mocking tone. It was just a statement of her presence.

"Malfoy," she replied, her own voice tight. "I didn't… I thought I'd be alone."

"So did I." He gestured vaguely with his quill towards the parchment. "Astronomy homework. Slughorn is offering extra credit for a detailed chart of the Cepheus constellation." Of course he was. Always seeking an edge, an extra point. The ambition she now recognized so well.

"I was just escaping," she admitted, walking slowly toward the opposite railing, putting a safe distance between them. "The common room is… loud."

He gave a short, humorless laugh. "Tell me about it. I think Pansy Parkinson has managed to invent three new, entirely fictional things we did in that classroom. She's getting creative."

An unwilling smile touched her lips. "Ron Weasley is convinced you were trying to recruit me into the dark arts."

His mouth twitched. "Ambitious of him." He looked from her to his star chart, then back again. The wariness in his eyes softened into something else, a quiet resignation. He wasn't going to mock her. He wasn't going to leave. He seemed to understand, without her having to say another word, that she was seeking the same refuge he was. He dipped his quill back into the inkpot on the ledge. "Well," he said, his gaze returning to his parchment. "The sky is big enough for both of us, I suppose."

She leaned against the cold stone of the battlements, the wind whipping strands of her hair across her face. The quiet felt good, but it was still a shared quiet, thick with the memory of his hands on her skin. She needed a different topic, a safer one.

"I have Mulciber in the quarter-finals," she said, the words carried away by the wind.

Gareth paused, his quill hovering over the parchment. He looked over at her, his expression unreadable. "Mulciber," he repeated, the name tasting like something unpleasant in his mouth. "He's all brute force. No finesse."

"I know," she said. "I saw his first match. He basically just batters his way through his opponent's shields."

"That's his only move," Gareth confirmed, turning slightly to face her more fully. He leaned back against the parapet, crossing his arms. The posture was casual, but his eyes were sharp, analytical. "He'll open with a series of low-power stinging hexes to test your defenses, then he’ll try to overwhelm you with a Bludgeoning Hex the moment you try to counter. He's predictable."

She was surprised by the frankness of his advice. He was telling her exactly how to beat a fellow Slytherin. "So I should just keep my shield up?"

"No," he said immediately. "His whole strategy depends on you being defensive. He wants you to hide behind a Protego so he can hammer at it until it breaks. You have to go on the offensive. Immediately." He took a step away from his chart, moving into the open space between them. "His casting speed is slow on anything complex. Use that. Don't give him a moment to think. A Leg-Locker Curse, followed by a Tickling Charm, then a Disarming Spell. Keep him moving, keep him reacting. He can't attack if he's too busy trying not to fall over while laughing his head off."

A small smile played on her lips as she imagined it. It was a classic Gryffindor strategy, really—bold and a little bit ridiculous. And it was exactly the kind of thing she would never have thought of on her own. She was too focused on power, on meeting force with force. "That's… actually very good advice."

"I know," he said, without a trace of arrogance. It was just a fact. He gestured with his chin. "I'm fighting Macmillan."

She nodded, impressed that he knew. "Ernie Macmillan. He's a Hufflepuff."

"His shield work is impeccable," Maya said, her mind already shifting to his duel. "I watched him against Anthony Goldstein. Goldstein couldn't land a single spell."

"He's a wall," Gareth agreed, a note of frustration in his voice. "All defense. It's boring to watch and infuriating to fight."

"He has a tell, though," she said, finding herself moving closer, drawn into the problem. She stopped a few feet from him, the starlight catching the silver in his eyes. "Right before he casts Protego, he plants his back foot. It's a tiny movement, but it's there every time. He's bracing himself."

Gareth’s focus sharpened. He was listening intently, absorbing every word.

"So don't aim for his shield," she continued, her voice gaining confidence. "Aim for his feet. While he's setting up his perfect defense, cast a tripping jinx. Or an Impediment Jinx. He'll be so focused on his upper body, on blocking a direct assault, he'll leave his legs completely exposed. Once he's on the ground, his defensive advantage is gone."

He stared at her for a long moment, a slow, genuine smile spreading across his face. It transformed him, erasing the last of the aristocratic coldness and leaving behind something warm and unguarded. "Vance," he said, his voice low with something that sounded like admiration. "That's devious."

"I've been watching," she admitted, a flush of pleasure warming her cheeks.

They stood there for a moment, the chasm between Gryffindor and Slytherin, between rival and… whatever he was now, shrinking to nothing. It was replaced by the charged space between two people who understood each other on a fundamental level. The ambition, the drive, the obsession with being the best—it wasn't a point of conflict between them anymore. It was their common language. He gestured back towards his star chart, and she walked over, standing beside him at the parapet. His parchment was a beautiful, intricate web of lines and notations, the constellations rendered with a precise, steady hand. But they weren't looking at the stars anymore. They were looking at each other, seeing a rival, an ally, and something more, all at once.

He cleared his throat, the sound rough in the quiet, and his gaze dropped back to the parchment. His finger, long and pale, traced the faint lines connecting a group of stars. "This is Cepheus," he murmured, his voice low. "The king."

Maya looked down at the chart. His handwriting was elegant and precise, the lines he’d drawn sharp and confident. "The one Slughorn wanted."

"Yes." A strange, quiet note entered his tone. "My mother used to show me this constellation when I was a child. We had an observatory at the Manor. She said Cepheus was a reminder that power and legacy are burdens as much as they are gifts. That a king is bound to his kingdom, whether he wants to be or not." He let out a short, breathy laugh that held no humor. "I think she was trying to manage my expectations."

The confession hung in the cold air between them, a fragile, unexpected thing. She pictured a younger Gareth, small and serious, looking through a telescope while his mother spoke of duty and burdens. It was a glimpse behind the curtain of the Malfoy name, a look at the boy who had been forged by that immense pressure. It made the ache of her own insecurities seem less isolating.

"My parents don't know any of the constellations," she said softly, her eyes on the distant, glittering sky. "Not the magical ones, anyway. I think my dad can point out the Big Dipper, but that's about it."

Gareth turned his head, his silver eyes studying her profile in the starlight. He didn't speak, just waited, giving her the space to continue.

"When I got my Hogwarts letter," she began, the memory still sharp and strange, "they were… stunned. And proud. So proud. But they were also scared." She hugged her arms tighter around herself, the wind feeling suddenly colder. "My mum went out and bought every book she could find on stage magic. She thought maybe if she understood sleight of hand, she could understand what I was doing." She smiled, a sad, fond expression. "My dad just kept asking if I was sure I was safe. They try so hard, but they don't get it. Not really. How could they? To them, magic is something from stories. For me to be a part of that world… it's like their daughter moved to the moon."

She finally looked at him, expecting to see pity or, worse, a flicker of that pure-blood disdain. Instead, his expression was one of quiet, intense focus. He seemed to be truly listening, truly seeing the chasm that had opened up in her life.

"They're afraid of what they can't understand," he said, and it wasn't an accusation. It was a simple, empathetic statement. "And they're afraid of losing you to it."

"Yes," she whispered, the word a small puff of white in the air. "That's exactly it."

He understood. He, who had been born into the very heart of the world that bewildered her parents, understood the specific loneliness of it. They stood in silence for a long moment, no longer rivals, not quite friends, but two people sharing a profound and private truth under the vast, indifferent sky. The ambition and the duels and the school gossip all fell away, leaving only the two of them on top of the silent castle. The space between them felt charged with this new, fragile intimacy. It was too much, too fast. She felt a sudden, desperate need for the noise and safety of her common room.

"I should go," she said, her voice barely audible. She took a half-step back, turning away from him and the unnerving understanding in his eyes. "It's getting late."

As she made to turn away, his hand shot out, his fingers closing around her arm just above the elbow.

The touch was a jolt, a sudden, sharp spike of heat that traveled straight through the wool of her robes and into her skin. It stopped her instantly. She froze, her back still half-turned to him, every thought in her head scattering like startled birds. His grip wasn't rough or demanding; it was firm, definite. An anchor in the cold, swirling wind. She could feel the distinct pressure of each of his long fingers, the warmth of his palm against her.

Slowly, as if moving through water, she turned her head to look at him.

His expression mirrored her own shock. His silver eyes were wide, his lips slightly parted, as if he hadn't meant to reach for her at all, as if his arm had moved of its own accord. A silent, desperate question flickered in their depths, a plea for her not to go, and it held her more securely than his hand ever could.

The world seemed to fall silent. The rustle of the wind, the distant hum of the castle—it all faded away, leaving only the frantic, unsteady beat of her own heart pounding in her ears. The space between them, which moments ago had been filled with fragile confessions, was now humming with a different kind of energy. It was electric, a palpable force that made the air feel thick and hard to breathe.

His gaze dropped to where his hand was still wrapped around her arm, then lifted back to her face. His thumb moved, a slow, tentative stroke against the soft skin on the inside of her arm. The small, almost unconscious caress sent a shiver racing across her skin. It was the most deliberate, most intimate touch she had ever felt.

This was Malfoy. The name echoed in her mind, a frantic warning. Her rival. The person she was supposed to loathe. But the boy in front of her wasn't that person. This was Gareth. The boy who charted stars and spoke of the burdens of a king. The boy who had looked at her own fractured world and hadn't seen something broken, but something familiar.

His eyes, which had been locked on hers with a searching intensity, slowly lowered to her mouth.

The shift was unmistakable. It was a clear declaration of intent, and she felt it like a physical touch, a wave of heat that washed over her from head to toe. Her lips parted on a sharp, silent intake of breath. She didn't move, didn't pull away. She couldn't.

He took a single, slow step forward, closing the remaining distance between them. Now she had to tilt her head up to look at him properly. She could feel the warmth radiating from his chest, smell the faint, clean scent of parchment and cold night air that clung to his robes. He was so close she could see the individual silver threads in his irises, the way the starlight caught in the dark lashes framing them.

"Maya," he breathed, and the sound of her name on his lips was a revelation. It wasn't the clipped, formal "Vance" he used in Potions or the sneering way he’d said it in the past. It was a rough, low whisper, full of a raw, aching vulnerability that resonated deep inside her.

She didn't answer. She couldn't. Every nerve in her body was alight, hyper-aware of his proximity, of the unyielding warmth of his hand on her arm, of the magnetic pull of his gaze. The rivalry, the school, the entire world outside this small circle of starlight ceased to exist. There was only him, and her, and the charged, breathless silence that hung between them, promising to shatter into a thousand pieces at the slightest movement.